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“Months ago,” the major replied. “Just to see if I could do it. But it’s there, and it will work.”
Doubtful, Amé said, “But the curfew.”
“You’ll be long gone before curfew,” he assured her.
“What about afterward?” Haja asked.
“I’ve removed everything identifiable.”
For a moment, both women were hesitant.
“Haven’t we done enough?” Amé asked. “Hasn’t a tipping point been reached already with the riots and gunfights last night?”
“Do you want to risk them containing things?”
Haja stewed for a beat. “Where do you want it to happen?”
The major thought about his assignment, and then said, “Sevran.”
Chapter 79
8th Arrondissement
3:45 p.m.
WAKING UP AFTER a solid five hours of rest, I realized I was becoming a creature of the night in Paris. The television was on in the outer room, and after showering and shaving, I found Louis drinking coffee in there.
“Predicted it, didn’t I?” he said, gesturing at the screen. “Martial law.”
“No kidding,” I said, moving around behind him.
“They’re putting army units in the eastern suburbs. Curfew at eleven.”
The screen split then to show Laurent Alexandre, who was talking about the various designers he’d gotten to agree to put their work on at the upcoming Millie Fleurs memorial in defiance of AB-16, but I didn’t have a chance to hear the names because my cell phone rang.
I saw the caller ID, smiled, and answered.
“Michele Herbert,” I said. “How are you?”
“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Jack,” said the artist and graffiti expert in a teasing tone.
“I’ve just been a little busy the past few days.”
“Make nothing of it, but I might have something for you on that tag.”
I put her on speaker so Louis could listen. Herbert explained that she’d been receiving hundreds of photographs of the AB-16 tag from all around Paris. She’d been comparing them to the one up on the cupola at the Institut de France, and found that only one in ten tags matched the one on the cupola. The rest were copies, even the ones at the crime scenes.
“They didn’t use paint at Millie Fleurs’s,” Louis said. “It was done in fabric.”
Herbert said, “I hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s true,” I said. “Saw it myself.”
“Well, that doesn’t fit, but I don’t suppose it matters,” she replied. “Anyway, an old student of mine who is also obsessed with graffiti art examined the ones that were definitely done by the cupola tagger, and he agreed that the technique reminded him of Zee Pac-Man’s work.”
“The tagger murdered before Christmas?” I asked.
“Correct,” she said. “Which is what he found intriguing.”
