Private Paris (Private 10)

“And putting her in harm’s way,” Hoskins agreed.

Incredulous, I said, “So you’re not going to use this?”

Fromme said, “We’ll pass the photograph along, and your thoughts on it, but I highly doubt this will become a focus of the investigation unless some other evidence comes forward to support it.”

“Like what?” Louis demanded.

“Another picture would help,” Hoskins said. “And it would be better if she was caught climbing off the bus somewhere. But again, there are not many public security cameras in France.”

“Someone should check all the cameras around Sevran, at least,” I said.

“We’ll recommend that as well,” the magistrate said, and picked up his glass of wine again.

“That’s it?” I said.

“For us,” Hoskins said. “I’m going home and sleeping for as long as I can.”

“You’re making a mistake,” I said.

“We don’t make the laws,” Fromme said. “We just enforce them.”

I was still furious when we were a block away, and I noticed Louis lagging behind me and limping hard.

“Have you had that knee checked?” I asked.

“It will pass,” Louis said. “It always does.”

“Go get it checked. That’s an order. You’re no good to me like this.”

He looked ready to argue, but then nodded. “I have an old friend, Megan, who specializes in knees.”

“Go see Megan,” I said. “Or at least go somewhere where you can get it elevated and on ice.”

“It does feel like shit,” Louis said.

“Get a taxi. I’m going for a walk.”

“How can I contact you?”

“I’ll buy a phone and text you the number,” I said, and left him there.

Chapter 93

I WANDERED OUT of the Batignolles neighborhood and headed south toward the river. The sun had broken through the clouds and it had gotten quite warm—easily in the high seventies. Coming upon a phone store a few blocks later, I bought a disposable Samsung and texted Louis the number. I also asked him to send me the picture. It appeared almost immediately, along with the news that Megan, his doctor friend, was going to see him at once.

“Good news,” I texted back. “Keep me posted.”

Given the violent events of the prior night, a surprising number of Parisians were out walking or jogging along the Seine. I didn’t know if they were defying AB-16 or just ignoring the group and its threat.

Twenty minutes later, I stopped across the river from the Eiffel Tower. Calling up the picture, I looked at the woman and wondered if she and AB-16 wanted to topple the Eiffel Tower and all the great monuments of Paris. It had been Hitler’s plan once. Were they really out to obliterate French culture like that? Were they really out to see Paris burning?

Those questions put me in a foul mood and I walked on, thinking that I needed to eat. The Plaza was a few blocks away, and there were several cafés from which to choose. But before I decided, the phone I’d just bought rang.

“Louis?” I answered.

“Louis told me to call, Jack,” Michele Herbert said. “I hope that was okay.”

“More than okay,” I said, feeling tension drain from my shoulders. “Would you like to have lunch?”