Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

“What happened to the RAD gang?”

“Most of them testified against their former comrades and received fairly mild sentences.”

“What about …?”

“Some did time in Frésnes. Most are free by now, I imagine.”

Aimée paused. Jutta Hald’s visit—the timing of it—right after her release, was significant. She took a deep breath. “Was my mother one of them?”

Morbier’s fork stopped midair. He didn’t look at her.

“I asked you a question, Morbier,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Some things in life should stay buried,” he said.

Her appetite disappeared. “I just want to know if she’s alive.”

“Rumors circulated,” he said.

“What kind of rumors?”

“A moucharde , a stoolie,” he said. “That she played both sides.”

“A stoolie?” She gripped the table edge. Hard. “For who?”

“The Sorbonne riots in ’68 threw everyone into turmoil,” he said. “Crazy times.”

“What do you mean?”

“She put her nose into places it didn’t belong.”

Morbier got the waitress’s attention and pointed to his empty glass.

“I asked your father once, but he avoided the topic.”

“But …”

“ C’est fini , Leduc,” Morbier said.

Aimée’s heart sank.

Her father had refused to discuss it with her, too. The whole family had.

She didn’t know what to think or how to figure out what her mother had or hadn’t done.

“You knew my mother, didn’t you, Morbier?”

He shrugged. “Not well.”

“What was she like?” Sadly, she realized she’d used the past tense.

“A handful. Like you,” he said.

The lunchtime rush had subsided. Shouts and horns sounded from the street.

Here she was sitting with a man who knew her mother and father, but wouldn’t talk about them. Why couldn’t he cooperate?

“Jutta Hald’s gone,” Morbier said after a long pause. “Those radicals have a death wish, always did.” He swirled the wine, sniffed his glass. “Take my advice, eh—move on.”

Aimée remembered that the only good thing to do with advice, as Oscar Wilde pointed out, was to pass it on to someone else.

She managed a thin smile. “I’ll try.”

“ Tiens , say it like you mean it, Leduc,” Morbier said.

“Just make one inquiry about Jutta Hald, that’s all I ask.”

Morbier leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. His thick salt-and-pepper head of hair could use a wash, Aimée thought. He looked like he’d been up all night.

“You’re well acquainted with the French legal system, Leduc.”

“But there’s a lot I don’t know.”

“There’s a rule stating that for 150 years no one can look at a prisoner’s dossier,” he said. His thick eyebrows crinkled, tenting his eyes. “Just to be clear, that’s 150 years from date of birth. I can’t find out anything about your mother, even if I wanted to.”

“But, Morbier, if you’re working a case and need the info …”

“My hands are tied,” he said. “This is to protect the prisoner.”

She tried to hide her disappointment.

If she couldn’t see the file on her mother, the trail ended.

“Any idea how to get around this rule?” she asked.

Morbier shrugged, a typical Gallic shrug. “You’re friends with higher-ups. Complain to the ministry.”

At least two ministers in the Ministry of Interior weren’t happy with her after the incidents in Belleville, although Martine, the sister-in-law of one, remained her best friend.

She thought about Frésnes, the old brick prison on the out-skirts of Paris where Jutta had been held. Unheated and the worst in the system. She remembered something. “No cell holds just two,” she said. “They usually cram in three or four prisoners…say Jutta and my mother—”

“Wasn’t that years ago?” Morbier interrupted.

She nodded. The words caught in her throat. She made herself go on, leaning forward, her eyes locked on Morbier’s. “But Jutta was just released, it should be easy to find out whom she roomed with.”

Morbier frowned. “Her last cell mate might not be the same person.”

“True.” Morbier had a point. “But if Jutta was excited about getting out, she could have talked to a cell mate about the past, discussed her plans. She told me she came straight from prison to my apartment.”

She knew Frésnes also held the CNO, the Centre National d’Observation, for prisoners who required physical and psychiatric evaluations when up for parole. Or those under surveillance for undesirable behavior.

The CNO assessments could take up to six weeks. All the prisoners hated them, but several times in their prison life they had to endure them. Some more often than others. Prisoners in this transit loop were much easier to track down than others in the penal system.

“Morbier, do me a favor,” she said. “Discover who shared Jutta’s cell in Frésnes before her release. Maybe she can help me to find out about my mother.”

“You’re chasing pipe dreams, Leduc.” Morbier expelled a quick breath. “Wasting your time.”

From the table behind them, several patrons sat smoking and drinking espresso. Such a perfect end to a meal! She could almost taste the tobacco, feel the jolt in her lungs. Instead of turning around and begging for a cigarette, she popped some Nicorette gum and forced herself to continue.

“A lot of retired flics sit on the parole board,” she said, chewing fast. “Can’t you make a phone call or two?”

“Favors cost,” he said. “If I start nosing around Frésnes, they expect their backs scratched. On my turf.”

Now she was stroking his fur the right way. He always wanted a favor in return and would bargain until he got it. Being his goddaughter gave her no exemption.

“But you do it so well, Morbier,” she said, “and you always come out on top.”

Morbier reached into his pocket, found an empty packet of cigarettes, and crumpled the cellophane on the table. He reached again, pulling out a half-full packet.

“You quit, remember?”

He nodded, threw the packet on the table, and picked up another toothpick. A glimmer of a smile passed over his face.

“Include yourself, Leduc,” he said. “At payback time.”

Morbier ran true to form. Nothing came free.

“I’ll make some calls, but no promises,” he said, hitching up his suspenders.

He’d lost weight. A lot.

“You’ve slimmed down,” she said. “Gone for your annual checkup, Morbier?”

“I’ll ignore the last part and take that as a compliment.”

She doubted but asked anyway. “On a diet?”

“Grapefruit, seaweed, and raisin capsules!” he said. “Drains the toxins, fatty lipids, eliminates cellulite buildup.”

Morbier … talking about cellulite?

“You might try it,” he said.

She’d struggled with the zipper in her leather skirt that morning.

“My new concierge, Madame Guegnon, told me. She buys them in bulk at the Carrefour.”

Before she could recover he stood up. “I must get the train tickets; I’m taking Marc to Brittany for les vacances .”

A doting grandfather? Morbier certainly was full of surprises.

Guilt flooded her. Morbier’s daughter, Samia, a young half-Algerian prostitute, had been killed by the underground before Aimée could protect her. The image of Samia’s eyes open to the rain in the Belleville alley, the red bullet hole in her peach-colored twinset, flashed before her.

Marc, her honey-faced son, attended Catholic boarding school and had made his first Communion under the proud eyes of his grandfather, Morbier.

Her face reddened. Determined, she pushed her guilt aside. “I’ll keep my cell phone on,” she said. “You know the number.”