Free Murder on the Champ de Mars by Cara Black Page B

“Perhaps a wad of francs to an orderly to disconnect the alarm? Maybe even to bring the patient out to the ambulance alley?”
    “I personally vouch for the three orderlies on duty last night.” Marie’s small eyes narrowed. “One of my husband’scousins; the other two have worked here ten, fifteen years and will retire when we close.”
    Alors
, Aimée thought: if it wasn’t a paid-off hospital employee, then a keen observer.
    Behind Marie’s head a hospital directory was pasted on the wall by a list labeled USEFUL NUMBERS . That gave her an idea.
    “Here’s my card,” said Aimée.
    Professional courtesy demanded that Marie give hers in return. Didn’t it? Marie made no move.
    “May I have your card in case I need to reach you?”
    “
Désolée
, I’m all out.”
    Liar. One was stuck above her head on the corkboard.
    “Consult the
flics
if you have any further questions,” Marie said, an arch tone in her voice. She showed Aimée to the hall, closing the office door behind them. “I’ve got a meeting.”
    So far she’d gotten little: Naftali overhearing Drina’s shouting about birds, and Nicu needing to know the truth; Lana’s recollection of a black car with tinted windows.
    Aimée followed several paces behind Marie until she entered a ward; as soon as she did, Aimée backtracked down the hallway and slipped back into the office, praying the woman wouldn’t return. Standing behind the door for cover, Aimée took Marie’s card from the corkboard and consulted the wall directory, then on the desk phone dialed 09, the extension for Admissions.
    “I’m Marie Fourcy, calling from Doctor Estienne’s Ward C station. We’re unable to locate a patient’s records. Drina Constantin. Can you give me her contact information?”
    “You’ve got the files,” the admissions clerk said.
    Great. “Her chart’s missing, that’s the problem.”
    “Your problem. We processed the patient yesterday upon admission and sent the records down to you at … eighteen hundred hours.”
    She had to get something. Thought back to Nicu pulling out the market work permit. “
Bon
, what’s the patient’s address?”
    “Address? You should have it.”
    “But of course you’ve kept a copy in Admissions,
non
?”
    A sigh. “When the messenger comes I’ll send it …”
    “Merci beaucoup,”
Aimée interrupted. Noises came from the hall. The rubber wheels of a trolley, approaching voices—
merde!
Couldn’t the woman just hurry up and cooperate? “But the
flics
in the hallway want her address.”
    “This is their second request.” Her voice rose in irritation. “I’ve got to process pending admissions, I told them.”
    Aimée heard footsteps outside the door. “
Bon
, just give me an address so I can keep them happy.”
    “Attendez,”
she said. “There’s a pile here to go through.”
    The footsteps came closer.
    “
Voilà
. Thirty-nine Boulevard des Invalides.”
    “Merci.”
    “What are you doing here?” asked a nurse.
    Aimée hung up the phone as noiselessly as she could and turned around. Managed a shrug. “Stupid me, I left my sunglasses on the doctor’s desk.”
    A moment later she’d escaped into the corridor, not looking back.
    W ITH AN IDEA forming in her mind, she headed to the service rooms she’d noticed. The laundry steam seeped through a wall vent. She followed the ramp through swinging doors labeled LAVERIE and UNIFORM PICKUP .
    Inside she saw lockers and canvas carts heaped with soiled sheets. Detergent and stale coffee smells wafted from a table in the corner with a
cafetière
on it. She could hear loud voices from the changing room for male staff.
    Aimée reached for a staff newsletter on the table by the coffee stains.
“Excusez-moi,”
she called into the locker area. “I’mwith Department of Requisition checking on stock. Reports have reached us about thefts in staff locker rooms and in the laundry.”
    “Tell me about it,” said a man who stuck his head out. “Lost my