The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery (16 page)

“I’m sorry about the way I portrayed you in that article, Mademoiselle Diatta,” she said. “Like everybody else, I found your tale to be too outlandish to be credible, so that’s what I wrote.”

Alima crossed her arms under her impressive breasts. “That’s not what I’m upset about, you ignorant Catholic. If you don’t believe me, don’t put what I said in the stupid article. But that’s not what you did, was it?” She stepped closer to Catherine so they stood only a pace apart. “You put it all in there, but then said it was all rubbish and that I was most likely drunk or high so it was all a hallucination.” A hurt look on her face, she turned to Louis. “If my friends or family ever figure out I’m the one she wrote about, they might punish me or not want to see me again. Muslims aren’t allowed to drink alcohol, you know.”

Louis’s mouth drew into a thin line. He glanced at Catherine long enough for Catherine to see the accusation in his eyes, then focused on Alima. “Yes, I do know that. In fact, my best friend is a Muslim. His name is Mouad Bensaïd. He’s been with the Socialist Party for a long time. Perhaps you know him?”

Alima relaxed a little. “I think I see who you’re talking about.”

Catherine searched her mind for a way to make up for her mistake. “What if we buy you dinner, Mademoiselle Diatta? We could find a nice restaurant and chat over a delicious meal.”

The reaction was the opposite of what Catherine was hoping for. The woman started yelling. “You think I don’t have money to pay for my own food? I probably make twice as much money as you, writing stupid articles for a stupid newspaper.”

Catherine refrained from commenting on the repeated use of “stupid.” Especially since the prostitute was most likely right. At thirty euros for ten minutes and no taxes paid, she would make more in a night than Catherine did in a week. It was almost enough to make her reconsider her career choice. Well, no. Not really.

Louis again came to the rescue. “I’m sure that’s not what she meant,” he said to the woman in calming tones. It contrasted with the volume Alima had been using and was efficient in defusing the situation.

Catherine thought the man really was his father’s son; charm and charisma must be in his blood.

Louis gave Alima a crooked smile. “In any case, I couldn’t afford it. A whole night at a hundred and eighty euros an hour—plus the food!—would ruin me.”

Alima conceded a small smile.

Catherine decided to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the night.

Louis looked at his watch. “We’ve already taken up ten minutes of your time. I only ask for ten more minutes, then I’ll pay you sixty euros and we’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

Alima stared at him, clearly debating whether or not to go along with the deal.

“Please, Alima.” Louis made puppy eyes at the prostitute. If that look was part of his arsenal, no wonder he’d never needed to buy the services of the likes of Alima. “I only want to figure out who killed my father. To get justice and to stop him from killing anyone else.”

With a small jolt, Alima said, “Your father?” Then, after looking at him for a second, “Oh, right. You came back for the funeral.
Toutes mes condoléances
.”

She did read the papers, and had good manners offering her condolences. Catherine shifted her weight to her right foot wishing for a place to sit down.

“Thank you,” Louis said. “Do we have a deal?”

Alima looked at Catherine with narrowed eyes, but relented when she turned back to Louis. “All right.” She raised her index in the air. “But I don’t want money.” Pointing at Catherine, but looking at Louis, she said, “I want an article.”

Catherine opened her mouth to object, but closed it when Louis gave her a pointed stare. Fine. Let him manage it. But she was
not
writing an article to apologize for the previous one.

Louis turned all his attention to Alima. “What type of article are we talking about here?”

Alima set her jaw and explained. “Over the last year, since your father moved back into the Capitole, the working conditions for us girls has gotten worse and worse. He’s kicked us out of the more profitable neighborhoods and sent the police after us to drive the point home. We’ve had to find new clients in new, more dangerous locations. And nobody cares.” She locked her gaze on Catherine. “I want an article about this, but written in a way that’s good for us, not explaining how good it was of the mayor to get rid of us.”

The woman had a point. Catherine wasn’t in charge of the political articles until very recently, so hadn’t thought of the second point of view on that issue. She’d only heard the mayor congratulate himself on cleaning up the streets of Toulouse.

Louis took the attack on his father with great calm. In fact, his frown could mean he wasn’t quite happy with how his father had managed that situation. To Alima, he said, “That’s a great point, Mademoiselle.” Then he turned to Catherine. “What do you think? Is it a fair deal?”

Catherine nodded. “I can write that article. But please be warned that I’m not on the best of terms with my boss right now, so I can’t guarantee the article will actually go into print.”

Louis clearly wondered what she had done to piss off her boss—she was
not
about to tell him the joke she’d made about his father’s death!—but only said, “That sounds good to me. Alima?”

“Fine,” Alima replied. “So what are these questions of yours?”

Louis looked to Catherine, apparently at a loss now that the deal was made.

Praying she wouldn’t put her foot in her mouth again, Catherine said, “Is there anything about what you saw that night that you didn’t tell me the last time?”

Alima shook her head. “I told you all the horrible details about that woman. I saw them, touched her, she turned into a skeleton, and then I called the police.”

Louis spoke up. “There was nobody else around? I’m a little surprised that at two in the morning, place du Capitole was deserted.”

Alima shrugged. “There were some people going through when I passed the place fifteen minutes earlier, but that second time, I was all alone. A man came along just a minute after me, but the woman was already dust then.”

Catherine drew in a quick breath. “You went though there fifteen minutes earlier?”

“Yes.” Alima nodded. “I was going home for a quick shower before returning to work.”

Catherine prodded further. “And what did you see that first time through?”

“Well, there were no dead bodies.” Alima arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

Catherine couldn’t care less if the woman thought she asked stupid questions—she was the journalist here. “Who were the other people you saw? You said you weren’t alone?”

Alima rolled her eyes and sighed, but gave the question some thought. “There were two couples in their late twenties, probably going home from a party. They came out of rue Saint Rome and moved toward Saint-Sernin.” She cocked her head. “Then there was an SDF,” she used the acronym for
Sans Domicile Fixe
, the French way of referring to homeless people, “dragging something down the Galerue from rue des Lois, or somewhere over there.”

“What was he dragging?” Louis asked.

“I don’t know.” Alima moved hands to indicate something chest-high. “Some sort of giant box. I figured it was a cage for his dog or something. It was covered with a blanket.”

Catherine and Louis shared a look. What kind of homeless man would even have a cage for his dog?

“The dog wasn’t in the cage?” Louis asked.

“No, he was running circles around his master and that big box thing, barking all the way.”

“And you didn’t see him when you came out the second time?” Catherine said.

Alima shook her head.

“How big was that box?” Louis’s brow drew together so far it looked like he had a single thick brow. “Big enough to house the scene of the two dead bodies?”

Alima drew in a short breath. Her answer was a whisper. “Yes.”

Louis slapped his hand on his thigh. “We need to talk to that SDF.” Catherine could tell he tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but didn’t succeed by a long shot. “Do you know who he is? Could you identify him if we show you pictures?”

“I don’t know him, no. We don’t exactly run in the same circles.” There was no sting to Alima’s words now. “But I should be able to recognize him. Try to get a picture of the dog, too.”

“All right.” Louis slapped a hand on his thigh. “Thank you so much for your help, Alima.” They did
la bise
. “We’ll be back with pictures.
Bonne soirée.
” Have a good night.

Catherine and Louis took their leave and walked down rue Gutenberg. “I’ll accompany you home,” Louis said to Catherine when they were out of earshot of Alima. “It’s getting late.”

“Sure, if you want,” Catherine replied. “I live about two minutes down the next street.” She was already fantasizing about kicking her shoes off and taking a long bath.

When they turned the corner of Catherine’s street, she said, “So now what? We take pictures of all the homeless men in Toulouse?”

“Yep. Should be fun.”

Nineteen

“The OM don’t stand a chance. We’re going to kick their asses so hard they won’t need to get a return flight to Marseille.” Mouad’s eyes gleamed brighter than the setting sun as he threw his arms out, then hugged himself as if warming up to play in the upcoming soccer match himself.

Louis smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. They were on their way to the Stadium from Mouad’s apartment to watch the Toulouse Football Club versus Olympique de Marseille. “Aren’t you being a tad optimistic?” Louis asked. “The OM is one of the best teams in the league, and let’s be realistic, the TFC isn’t.”

Mouad raised a finger in the air. “Ah! But you’re forgetting the stats. The TFC may lose a lot of matches, but they usually win against the big teams. Must work well under pressure or something.”

Louis pondered this while looking down on the Garonne. They were on the Saint Michel Bridge leading to the unoriginally named Stadium which was housed on an island in the middle of the river. Though the match didn’t start for another forty-five minutes, there were dozens of people walking in the same direction. Wouldn’t do to be late for such a high-stake game.

Louis realized Mouad was right. The TFC did tend to win against big teams like Lyon or Marseille. Against the smaller teams who battled to stay out of the bottom of the ranking, it was another deal altogether. Going to those matches was setting yourself up for a miserable evening.

Louis spotted a shiny new building along the river that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been home. “What’s that?” He elbowed his friend and pointed.

Mouad leaned over to get a good look. “That’s the rowing club’s new club house. You wouldn’t believe how proud they are of that thing.”

Well, it looked great, so why shouldn’t they be proud? As Louis watched, two rowers arrived at the dock from a trip down the river. They got out and put both oars on shore before lifting their skiffs out of the water. It was quite the balancing feat.

Louis cocked his head as he studied the second rower. There was something familiar about him, but Louis couldn’t figure out who it was.

Fifteen minutes later, Louis was talking with an acquaintance from university while Mouad retrieved their tickets. The line was already fifty meters long—they had been right to show up so early. As he laughed at his old classmate’s anecdote from work, Louis spotted a familiar figure making its way across the Stadium’s parking lot.

It was the rower from earlier, and now that he was closer, Louis realized why he hadn’t recognized who it was. This was no man, but a very big, muscular woman. Her name was Marie-Pierre Ezes and she had worked with Louis’s father since his very beginning at the Capitole.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Louis said to his friend. “I see someone over there that I should say hi to.”

“Sure, no problem. You have a great game. Hope I’ll see you around more often.”

“Absolutely,” Louis replied.

He made his way toward Marie-Pierre. When he was close enough to be heard, he shouted out to her.

Once she recognized Louis, she stopped and beamed a smile at him. “Louis. How nice to see you again.” Marie-Pierre hadn’t changed much beyond a few extra lines around the eyes and mouth. She still looked as if she could single-handedly defend Toulouse from an invasion. Half a head taller than Louis, her shoulders were broad and muscular. As long as Louis had known her, she had been a rower. She’d even qualified for a World Championship in her youth. From the look of the muscles bulging under her shirt now, she still worked out regularly. She had added bright red highlights to her light-brown hair, which brought some softness to an otherwise angular and stern face.

Louis pointed at the Stadium behind him. “I’m going to the game in a few minutes, but I thought I should at least say hello.”

“That’s sweet of you, Louis. How are you finding Toulouse? Has it changed much from the last time you were home?”

Smiling, Louis nodded toward the Stadium. “You’re fixing up on one of the most important buildings in the city. I’m not complaining.”

Marie-Pierre tittered in her girly voice. “So is this what you’re up to these days? Going to soccer matches?”

“That and hanging out with the city’s homeless.” Louis gave a crooked smile.

“SDFs?” Marie-Pierre frowned. “Whatever for?”

Louis shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s a bit of a goose chase, really. I talked to the woman who found Papa’s body and she told me she’d seen an SDF on the Capitole only fifteen minutes earlier. I’ve been trying to find the man.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Not so great.” With half a smile to make light of his long but unproductive day, Louis summed up. “I was chased away by dogs twice, robbed of my three baguettes once, and was probably very close to getting myself killed when the girlfriend of one of the men asked me to marry her.”

Marie-Pierre chuckled, then turned to greet Mouad approaching with their tickets. “Monsieur Bensaïd.”

“Madame Ezes,” Mouad replied. They shook hands.