Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo-the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madeline’s face. His lips formed a whispered word.

“What did he say?” asked Richard.

“ La belle. Beautiful woman,” said Mme Broussard. “You see? He does remember.”

The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment.

“We’ve read his report,” said Beryl. “The one he filed twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did he truly believe that?”

Again, Mme Broussard translated.

Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition.

His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide?

Slowly Broussard shook his head.

Jordan asked, “Does he understand the question?”

“Of course he does!” snapped Mme Broussard. “I told you, he understands everything.”

The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo.

“Is he trying to point at something?” asked Beryl.

“Just a corner of the picture,” said Richard. “A view of empty floor.”

Broussard’s whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort to speak. His wife leaned forward again, straining to make out his words. She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”

“What did he say?” asked Beryl.

“ Serviette. It is a napkin or a towel. I do not understand.” She snatched up a hand towel from the sink and held it up to her husband. “Serviette de toilette?”

He shook his head and angrily batted away the towel.

“I do not know what he means,” Mme Broussard said with a sigh.

“Maybe I do,” said Richard. He bent close to Broussard. “Porte documents?” he asked.

Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded.

“That’s what he was trying to say,” said Richard. “ Serviette porte documents. A briefcase.”

“Briefcase?” echoed Beryl. “Do you think he means the one with the classified file?”

Richard frowned at Broussard. The man was exhausted, his face a sickly gray against the white linen.

Mme Broussard took one look at her husband and moved in to shield him from Richard. “No further questions, Mr. Wolf! Look at him! He is drained-he cannot tell you more. Please, you must leave.”

She hurried them out of the room and into the hallway. A nun glided past, carrying a tray of medicines. At the end of the hall, a woman in a wheelchair was singing lullabies to herself in French.

“Mme Broussard,” said Beryl, “we have more questions, but your husband can’t answer them. There was another detective’s name on that report-an Etienne Giguere. How can we get in touch with him?”

“Etienne?” Mme Broussard looked at her in surprise. “You mean you do not know?”

“Know what?”

“He was killed nineteen years ago. Hit by a car while crossing the street.” Sadly she shook her head. “They did not find the driver.”

Beryl caught Jordan ’s startled look; she saw in his eyes the same dismay she felt.

“One last question,” said Jordan. “When did your husband have his stroke?”

“1974.”

“Also nineteen years ago?”

Mme Broussard nodded. “Such a tragedy for the department! First, my husband’s stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne.” Sighing, she turned back to her husband’s room. “But that is life, I suppose. And there is nothing we can do to change it…”

Back outside again, the three of them stood for a moment in the sunshine, trying to shake off the gloom of that depressing building.

“A hit and run?” said Jordan. “The driver never caught? I have a bad feeling about this.”

Beryl glanced up at the archway. “Maison de Convalescence,” she murmured sarcastically. “Hardly a place to recover. More like a place to die.” Shivering, she turned to the car. “Please, let’s just get out of here.”

They drove north, to the Seine. Once again, the blue Peugeot followed them, but none of them paid it much attention; the French agent had become a fact of life-almost a reassuring one.

Suddenly Jordan said, “Hold on, Wolf. Let me off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. In fact, right about here would be fine.”

Richard pulled over to the curb. “Why here?”

“We just passed a café-”

“Oh, Jordan,” groaned Beryl, “you’re not hungry already, are you?”

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” said Jordan, climbing out of the car. “Unless you two care to join me?”

“So we can watch you eat? Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

Jordan gave his sister an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder and closed the car door. “I’ll catch a taxi back. See you later.” With a wave, he turned and strolled down the boulevard, his blond hair gleaming in the sunshine.

“Back to the hotel?” asked Richard softly.

She looked at him and thought, It’s always there shimmering between us-the attraction. The temptation. I look in his eyes, and suddenly I remember how safe it feels to be in his arms. How easy it would be to believe in him. And that’s where the danger lies.

“No,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Not yet.”

“Then where to?”

“Take me to Pigalle. Rue Myrha.”

He paused. “Are you certain you want to go there?”

She nodded and stared down at the file in her lap. “I want to see the place where they died.”

Café Hugo. Yes, this was the place, thought Jordan, gazing around at the crowded outdoor tables, the checkered tablecloths, the army of waiters ferrying espresso and cappuccino. Twenty years ago, Bernard had visited this very café. Had sat drinking coffee. And then he had paid the bill and left, to meet his death in a building in Pigalle. All this Jordan had learned from the police interview with the waiter. But it happened a long time ago, thought Jordan. The man had probably moved on to other jobs. Still, it was worth a shot.

To his surprise, he discovered that Mario Cassini was still employed as a waiter. Well into his forties now, his hair a salt-and-pepper gray, his face creased with the lines of twenty years of smiles, Mario nodded and said, “Yes, yes. Of course I remember. The police, they come to talk to me three, four times. And each time I tell them the same thing. M. Tavistock, he comes for café au lait, every morning. Sometimes, madame is with him. Ah, beautiful!”

“But she wasn’t with him on that particular day?”

Mario shook his head. “He comes alone. Sits at that table there.” He pointed to an empty table near the sidewalk, red-checked cloth fluttering in the breeze. “He waits a long time for madame. ”

“And she didn’t come?”

“No. Then she calls. Tells him to meet her at another place. In Pigalle. I take the message and give it to M. Tavistock.”

“She spoke to you? On the telephone?”

“ Oui. I write down address, give to him.”

“That would be the address in Pigalle?”

Mario nodded.

“My father-M. Tavistock-did he seem at all upset that day? Angry?”

“Not angry. He seems-how do you say?-worried. He does not understand why madame goes to Pigalle. He pays for his coffee, then he leaves. Later I read in the newspaper that he is dead. Ah, horrible! The police, they are asking for information. So I call, tell them what I know.” Mario shook his head at the tragedy of it all. At the loss of such a lovely woman as Mme Tavistock and such a generous man as her husband.