flashed a big smile. “Then how about a trace through traffic division? The patrol cars in Bois de Boulogne, little things, the usual.”
“Usual?” He snorted. “If you weren’t taller than me now, I’d take you on my lap, like I used to, and tickle behind your knees.”
She’d loved that. “And give me the hiccups.”
“Like I said, you don’t want much, do you?” A sigh. “I’ll put the alert out to my boys on patrol.”
“How long will it take, Thesset?”
“To find the car?” He shrugged. “Two minutes, two hours, two days. Depends.”
The murderer could have abandoned the car. But casting a wide net, a maxim on the force, would find it sooner or later. Regular patrols cruised the neighboring Bois de Boulogne, a stretch of forest double the size of New York’s Central Park. The big lung of Paris, locals called it, a park honeycombed with roads, horse trails, the Longchamp racing course, and also Brazilian transvestites offering their services on the fringes, a frequent issue with the consular staff of the numerous embassies dotting the 16th arrondissement. YOU PLAY, YOU PAY, headlined a recent scandal sheet over a transvestite’s blackmail demand, complete with compromising photos. Immediately hushed up while the junior consul was packed off to his home country.
She wished her shoulders weren’t aching with fatigue. And that she could provoke Thesset into revealing some details about “the Lyon circus.”
“Morbier promised he’d return tonight,” she said, hating to lie.
“Don’t count on it,” he said. “Between you and me, Mademoiselle Aimée, who knows. It’s three branches all jockeying for credit. A mess.”
“Anything to do with the news on the radio?”
“ Salauds killed a flic . And you know what that means.”
A priority. All forces would be centered on a policeman’s killing.
“Morbier’s a Commissaire Divisionnaire now; Lyon’s not his turf.”
“It’s not for me to say.” Thesset’s eyes suddenly seemed shuttered. He was holding something back. Impatient, she tapped her nails on the police blotter and noticed a chip on her newly lacquered pinkie.
Thesset’s jaw tightened. Papers rustled from behind the partition, a filing-cabinet drawer shut. She shivered in the cold unheated reception area at the scuffed wood counter.
“Aaah. But on the radio.” She thought for a moment trying to draw him out. “Those roadblocks? Bon, what can you tell me?”
“Every branch’s salivating to get the flic -killer, that’s all I know.” Thesset pounded his fist on the counter. “The flic ’s wife’s eight months pregnant. Poor thing.”
Sad. No doubt the flics were seeking vengeance. With all forces concentrating on the murder of one of their own, she realized, Xavierre’s murderer could slip under their radar.
Through the open door in the rear office, she saw a blue-uniformed flic pull a fax from the printer. “Thesset, look at this.”
“I’ll ring you later,” she said. “ Et merci, Thesset.”
Aimée snapped her bag shut. Thesset disappeared into the office. She paused behind the divider, her ear to the smudged glass, and overheard “damned ETA terrorists … acting up again.”
Then the door closed.
* * *
ETA, THE B ASQUE Nationalists. Xavierre was Basque. Was there a connection? Had that worried Morbier?
The street lay quiet, apart from water rushing in the gutter. Typical of the staid quartier : not even a café open. But a perfect quartier for terrorists to hide in, in a tony residential district where everyone minded their own business. And never a taxi when you needed one, she thought, scanning the empty street. She shouldered her bag, her only companions a streetlight and the low, distant moan of a cat in heat.
Around the corner, a lone taxi paused at the intersection. Thank god. She caught it before the light changed.
“Île Saint-Louis, s’il vous plaît ,” she said, giving her address, and popped her last two Doliprane
“Usual?” He snorted. “If you weren’t taller than me now, I’d take you on my lap, like I used to, and tickle behind your knees.”
She’d loved that. “And give me the hiccups.”
“Like I said, you don’t want much, do you?” A sigh. “I’ll put the alert out to my boys on patrol.”
“How long will it take, Thesset?”
“To find the car?” He shrugged. “Two minutes, two hours, two days. Depends.”
The murderer could have abandoned the car. But casting a wide net, a maxim on the force, would find it sooner or later. Regular patrols cruised the neighboring Bois de Boulogne, a stretch of forest double the size of New York’s Central Park. The big lung of Paris, locals called it, a park honeycombed with roads, horse trails, the Longchamp racing course, and also Brazilian transvestites offering their services on the fringes, a frequent issue with the consular staff of the numerous embassies dotting the 16th arrondissement. YOU PLAY, YOU PAY, headlined a recent scandal sheet over a transvestite’s blackmail demand, complete with compromising photos. Immediately hushed up while the junior consul was packed off to his home country.
She wished her shoulders weren’t aching with fatigue. And that she could provoke Thesset into revealing some details about “the Lyon circus.”
“Morbier promised he’d return tonight,” she said, hating to lie.
“Don’t count on it,” he said. “Between you and me, Mademoiselle Aimée, who knows. It’s three branches all jockeying for credit. A mess.”
“Anything to do with the news on the radio?”
“ Salauds killed a flic . And you know what that means.”
A priority. All forces would be centered on a policeman’s killing.
“Morbier’s a Commissaire Divisionnaire now; Lyon’s not his turf.”
“It’s not for me to say.” Thesset’s eyes suddenly seemed shuttered. He was holding something back. Impatient, she tapped her nails on the police blotter and noticed a chip on her newly lacquered pinkie.
Thesset’s jaw tightened. Papers rustled from behind the partition, a filing-cabinet drawer shut. She shivered in the cold unheated reception area at the scuffed wood counter.
“Aaah. But on the radio.” She thought for a moment trying to draw him out. “Those roadblocks? Bon, what can you tell me?”
“Every branch’s salivating to get the flic -killer, that’s all I know.” Thesset pounded his fist on the counter. “The flic ’s wife’s eight months pregnant. Poor thing.”
Sad. No doubt the flics were seeking vengeance. With all forces concentrating on the murder of one of their own, she realized, Xavierre’s murderer could slip under their radar.
Through the open door in the rear office, she saw a blue-uniformed flic pull a fax from the printer. “Thesset, look at this.”
“I’ll ring you later,” she said. “ Et merci, Thesset.”
Aimée snapped her bag shut. Thesset disappeared into the office. She paused behind the divider, her ear to the smudged glass, and overheard “damned ETA terrorists … acting up again.”
Then the door closed.
* * *
ETA, THE B ASQUE Nationalists. Xavierre was Basque. Was there a connection? Had that worried Morbier?
The street lay quiet, apart from water rushing in the gutter. Typical of the staid quartier : not even a café open. But a perfect quartier for terrorists to hide in, in a tony residential district where everyone minded their own business. And never a taxi when you needed one, she thought, scanning the empty street. She shouldered her bag, her only companions a streetlight and the low, distant moan of a cat in heat.
Around the corner, a lone taxi paused at the intersection. Thank god. She caught it before the light changed.
“Île Saint-Louis, s’il vous plaît ,” she said, giving her address, and popped her last two Doliprane
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