Free Murder on the Champ de Mars by Cara Black

into some flimsy barracks at Montreuil-Bellay, in the Loire Valley,” he said. “Me too—I got caught in Nantes along with a bunch of Republican Spaniards escaping Franco, white Russians and
clochards.”
    She squeezed Naftali’s hand. Hoped this led somewhere.
    “They branded us asocial types, misfits, and administered the camp under a 1940
décret
signed by the last president of the Troisième République,” he said. “The Nazis could have taken notes: electrified barbed wire, no heat or sanitation. The camp was stuck in a field, no trees. Nothing but dirt and mud in the winter.”
    “That’s how you picked up some Romany, Naftali?” she said, gently trying to steer him back on track.
    “I had to keep my mind active,” he said. “Or I’d give up.”
    “So what did you hear? Can you tell me about last night, Naftali? Could you understand?”
    “
Les manouches
live in the moment. Incredible people.” Naftali sighed and shook his head. “They sang. They shared food,the little they had. I’ll never forget that. Or their loyalty. Only a quarter survived the extermination camps the Germans sent them to.
Les manouches
call it
Porajmos
—the devouring. But who even talks about them? It’s always about us Jews.”
    A male nurse approached. “Naftali, time for your tête-à-tête with Doctor Sonia.”
    Naftali smiled, his mood broken. “
Zut!
But what do I have to complain about, eh? My doctor’s blonde, thirty-two, legs like Bardot.
    “But what did you hear last night, Naftali?”
    “Ah, the bird flies into the house.”
    Riddles, the man spoke in riddles. But she had to keep prodding if he’d heard Drina last night.
    “
Mais
didn’t you say you heard the woman screaming in Romany? What was she saying?”
    He shrugged his frail shoulders. “At first I thought I’d dreamed hearing that, but I don’t sleep much.”
    The nurse leaned over, listening as he tucked Naftali’s blanket into the wheelchair.
    “Can you remember anything you heard, Naftali?”
    “Scratch a
manouche
and you’ll find superstition,” he said, patting her hand, then letting it go. A deeper sigh. “When the crows in the field circled close,
les manouches
shooed them away, yelling to scare off the spirits. To them, a bird flying into the house brought death.”
    How did that make sense? Naftali’s attention caught on the scudding clouds overhead as the nurse bent to release the wheelchair brake.
    “Naftali, please try to remember,” she said, touching his thin, blue-veined wrist. “A
manouche
woman was abducted from Ward C last night. I think you heard her. It’s important.”
    “You mean a kidnapping?” He raised his shrunken left shoulder and leaned on the chair’s armrest. “She was screamingabout the birds, and that the boy needs to know … what was it? The … 
non
, that’s it … the boy Nicu needs to know the truth.”
    “C ONFIDENTIALITY PRECLUDES MY discussing a patient or their treatment,” said a young doctor. A different one.
    Aimée set down her oversized Jackie O sunglasses on the desk in his office in the hospital. “But the patient’s missing, Doctor. She was pulled off a hemodialysis machine. Every hour is crucial.”
    He checked his files. “I don’t see her chart.”
    This wasn’t working. She’d try another way in—stretch the truth. “Drina Constantin’s grief-stricken son, Nicu, hired me to find his mother.”
    “Hired you?”
    She slipped her Leduc Detective card over the desk, which was piled high with reports. “Abductions and kidnapping are my forte.” She paused. “Have you seen him this morning?”
    “No visitors allowed in the morning, Mademoiselle.”
    Where was Nicu? What could she say next?
    “You wouldn’t want your hospital’s negligence pointed out, its credentials called into question.”
    He snorted. “You’re threatening the Laennec, a hospital that’s closing next year, Mademoiselle—” He looked at the card. “—Leduc? Confer with the police in