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Authors: Cara Black
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back, pulling his frayed fur coat tighter and shuffling away.
He anticipated snow. The chill air sliced his lungs as he breathed. Just as it had that other January—under another cloud-frosted sky—when he’d quit school.
Old Madame Tulette’s son ran the silversmith’s courtyard atelier and gave him odd jobs. He worked when he wanted. The years went by;
les Chinois
moved in and took over the building. The pain went to his legs, the women he slept with didn’t invite him home as often, and he ended up on the streets. Not that he minded a bottle of wine under a roof of stars in the summer, or the shelters in winter, like during the war. But nowadays his joints ached. His perfect spot on the alley steps—layered with cardboard, newspapers, and blankets—was ruined.
“Clodo? Got wax in your ears? Can’t you hear me, Clodo?”
The blue-uniformed
flic
shook his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw last night.”
“You kicked me out, remember?”
“We took you to a warm shelter. Let’s talk at the café. Try to remember, eh? You must have heard something, seen a Chinese girl. Help me, won’t you?”
Help him, and get wrapped in plastic?
Like the other one?
Clodo lifted his bag and joined the
flic
at the zinc counter. “Order me a
café crème
. I need the WC.”
And by the WC, he slipped out the back exit.
Saturday, 9 A.M.
D OWN IN THE passage, Aimée fought the urge to light a cigarette. The pack of crumpled Gauloises lay, like a talisman, in the bottom of her bag. Just knowing its proximity reassured her, gave her the power to choose to smoke or not. She inhaled the crisp, cold air and exhaled, her breath like smoke.
She hit René’s number on her cell phone. “The bags aren’t the only faux things in the shop, René,” Aimée said, unfurling her scarf. “The Wus aren’t the Wus.”
René cleared his throat. “Try making sense, Aimée.”
“Visualize the new Monsieur Wu I met: middle-aged, shorter, speaks good French, with an attitude.”
“New?”
She recounted what happened in the luggage shop. “Smelled bad, René. He’d prepared.”
“And you bought it?”
She rooted for her gloves. “Hard to dispute after he showed me his business license, permit and ledger showing he’s owned the shop since 1995.”
“But he could have hidden the real Wus. Maybe he waited until after you left. Hurt them.”
“I checked everywhere,” she said. “There was nothing in back, just storage. So I took his fingerprints. My contact in the crime-scene unit will run the prints to find out his real identity.”
Silence.
“
Alors
, what if he’s the real deal?” she said. “For argument’s sake, René, suppose the Wus we met are as faux as my leopard coat?”
Pause.
“I’ll get back to you when I find something on Ching Wao.”
He hung up.
A taxi idled on rue Beaubourg and she hailed it.
“FNAC at Bastille,” she said to the driver.
He hit the meter. “Shopping in those crowds?”
“Just the ticket window, five minutes. Then 36 Quai des Orfèvres.”
A IMÉE HATED WAITING in the dark bowels of the prefecture by the crime-scene unit. Its bunker-like underground atmosphere was reinforced by narrow corridors, dim lighting, and serious uniformed law enforcement rushing in and out, carrying on hushed conversations under oppressively low ceilings.
Beside her, a glass case displayed the history of French criminology techniques. Notably those of Alphonse Bertillon, a police officer and biometrics researcher who—according to the placard in the case—created anthropometry, the identification system using photos and physical measurements to identify criminals. He was the first person in the world to use fingerprints to solve a crime—right here, in 1902, in the small, glassed laboratory, so the sign boasted. She’d researched Bertillon in a premed course and realized today they’d call him a racial profiler.
“Aimée, I’m fitting you in.” Benoit, sporting Levi’s
He anticipated snow. The chill air sliced his lungs as he breathed. Just as it had that other January—under another cloud-frosted sky—when he’d quit school.
Old Madame Tulette’s son ran the silversmith’s courtyard atelier and gave him odd jobs. He worked when he wanted. The years went by;
les Chinois
moved in and took over the building. The pain went to his legs, the women he slept with didn’t invite him home as often, and he ended up on the streets. Not that he minded a bottle of wine under a roof of stars in the summer, or the shelters in winter, like during the war. But nowadays his joints ached. His perfect spot on the alley steps—layered with cardboard, newspapers, and blankets—was ruined.
“Clodo? Got wax in your ears? Can’t you hear me, Clodo?”
The blue-uniformed
flic
shook his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what you saw last night.”
“You kicked me out, remember?”
“We took you to a warm shelter. Let’s talk at the café. Try to remember, eh? You must have heard something, seen a Chinese girl. Help me, won’t you?”
Help him, and get wrapped in plastic?
Like the other one?
Clodo lifted his bag and joined the
flic
at the zinc counter. “Order me a
café crème
. I need the WC.”
And by the WC, he slipped out the back exit.
Saturday, 9 A.M.
D OWN IN THE passage, Aimée fought the urge to light a cigarette. The pack of crumpled Gauloises lay, like a talisman, in the bottom of her bag. Just knowing its proximity reassured her, gave her the power to choose to smoke or not. She inhaled the crisp, cold air and exhaled, her breath like smoke.
She hit René’s number on her cell phone. “The bags aren’t the only faux things in the shop, René,” Aimée said, unfurling her scarf. “The Wus aren’t the Wus.”
René cleared his throat. “Try making sense, Aimée.”
“Visualize the new Monsieur Wu I met: middle-aged, shorter, speaks good French, with an attitude.”
“New?”
She recounted what happened in the luggage shop. “Smelled bad, René. He’d prepared.”
“And you bought it?”
She rooted for her gloves. “Hard to dispute after he showed me his business license, permit and ledger showing he’s owned the shop since 1995.”
“But he could have hidden the real Wus. Maybe he waited until after you left. Hurt them.”
“I checked everywhere,” she said. “There was nothing in back, just storage. So I took his fingerprints. My contact in the crime-scene unit will run the prints to find out his real identity.”
Silence.
“
Alors
, what if he’s the real deal?” she said. “For argument’s sake, René, suppose the Wus we met are as faux as my leopard coat?”
Pause.
“I’ll get back to you when I find something on Ching Wao.”
He hung up.
A taxi idled on rue Beaubourg and she hailed it.
“FNAC at Bastille,” she said to the driver.
He hit the meter. “Shopping in those crowds?”
“Just the ticket window, five minutes. Then 36 Quai des Orfèvres.”
A IMÉE HATED WAITING in the dark bowels of the prefecture by the crime-scene unit. Its bunker-like underground atmosphere was reinforced by narrow corridors, dim lighting, and serious uniformed law enforcement rushing in and out, carrying on hushed conversations under oppressively low ceilings.
Beside her, a glass case displayed the history of French criminology techniques. Notably those of Alphonse Bertillon, a police officer and biometrics researcher who—according to the placard in the case—created anthropometry, the identification system using photos and physical measurements to identify criminals. He was the first person in the world to use fingerprints to solve a crime—right here, in 1902, in the small, glassed laboratory, so the sign boasted. She’d researched Bertillon in a premed course and realized today they’d call him a racial profiler.
“Aimée, I’m fitting you in.” Benoit, sporting Levi’s
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