Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,14
familiar whistling of his old kettle in the background. How many times had she heard it in his kitchen as a child? The little girl inside her ached to question him about her mother’s past, how Volodya might have known her. To throw away caution and endanger their rocky new reconciliation.
“The old Russian says he knew my—”
A woman’s voice—“Coffee’s ready”—interrupted her in the background.
She almost dropped her phone. Morbier with a woman? Only a few months after his lady friend Xavierre’s death? “Did you get lucky last night, Morbier?”
He hung up.
Tactless again. She should be happy for him. Not let it jar her.
This conversation had done little to further Saj’s cause. Yet despite Morbier’s usual gruffness, she’d learned he had a new girlfriend, and that the Serb had probably worked for hire. That wouldn’t help much with Saj’s defense.
She speed-dialed her pathologist friend Serge’s extension at the morgue. Voice mail. Frustrated, she left a detailed message asking for his assistance. Saj needed her help right now.
She scouted for something clean to wear in her armoire, settled on a Lurex metallic T-shirt under a ribbed oversize black cashmere cardigan, threw it on over leggings and ankle boots, and added her flea market Hermès scarf. At the porcelain sink in her bathroom, she scrubbed her face with a new bar of black clay soap guaranteed to ward off wrinkles, rimmed her eyes with kohl and smudged the lids, then accentuated them with mascara. She shoved the laptop in her leather bag and grabbed her agnès b. leather coat. With Miles Davis in tow, she hurried down the deep grooved steps of the marble staircase into the puddled courtyard. Patches of azure among the clouds promised a respite from the rain. She deposited Miles Davis with Madame Cachou, her concierge. From the courtyard’s garage, once the carriage house, she walked her scooter across the cobbles. A jump on the kick-start pedal and her Vespa roared onto the quai.
“SAJ DE ROSNAY? He’s in stable condition. No visitors,” said the nurse at the criminal ward of Hôtel-Dieu. The ward, which was guarded by police, smelled of antiseptic and despair. What if the flics pressed manslaughter charges? Saj needed to keep his mouth shut. Not say anything the flics would use against him.
“So I’ll leave a message.” She glanced around the reception area. The scuffed green walls, the grilled metal gate. “It’s urgent.”
“Much as I’d like to help.…” The nurse glanced at the blue-uniformed police by the doors. Shrugged. “We’re not allowed.”
Panic flamed in her gut. “Nora still working nights?” She hoped she could leave a message for her friend.
“Nora switched to the day shift.”
A spark of hope. “We’re friends. Any chance you could let her know I’m here?”
“Not a good time.” The nurse gave a harried glance down the green-tiled corridor.
The phone rang at reception. Aimée hated to press her, but she had to get somewhere. “Desolée, I know you’re busy, but when’s Nora’s break?”
The nurse expelled air. “Who knows? The X-ray technicians went on strike. We’re run off our feet.” She hurried off to answer a doctor’s call from the corridor.
Great. The season of grèves. Spring must be coming.
She recognized the flic near the elevator from Morbier’s team a few years back. A quick glance at his name badge—Delisle—and she rustled up her courage, determined to give it her best shot.
“Officer Delisle?”
He was olive skinned, dark-haired, and muscular. He snapped his notebook shut, favoring his left wrist, which was covered with a brace. Irritation and indifference suffused his expression. “The public’s not allowed here, Mademoiselle. Follow the signs to the patient wards, if you don’t mind.”
“But we met a while ago. I’m Aimée, Commissaire Morbier’s goddaughter.” She gestured to his brace. “Carpal tunnel? Awful, I know the feeling.”
A snort of laughter. “I wish. Scuffle on the ward this morning.”
She wondered at that, and at why, as a seasoned officer, he was on a rookie posting at the criminal ward. Demoted? Injury? “Inmate patients, you mean?”
He rocked back on his thick-soled shoes. “Big eyes. Now I remember you. How’s Commissaire Morbier?”
Too much gray in his hair and a shuffle to his gait, but she kept that back. “Mismatched socks and a brain like a laser, as usual.”
Delisle smiled. His upright stance relaxed—he’d thawed. She’d said the right thing for once.
He shot her a meaningful glance. “You’re not allowed here, you know. I need to escort you out.”
What else could she try to get him to bend the rules? She could go with the truth and