All the Devils Are Here(81)

“Feet on the ground it is,” said Daniel as they put on their coats and grabbed umbrellas.

Once outside, Daniel looked this way and that before deciding.

“You know where I’d like to go? Rue des Rosiers. Haven’t been there in years.”

“Perfect. I haven’t been for a while either. Did I tell you—”

“That you proposed to Mom there? A few times, yes. You climbed the wall into some private garden and popped the question. Didn’t Stephen suggest that place after you said you wanted to propose in front of The Gates of Hell?”

“Yes. Though I’m not sure he suggested trespassing.”

“Bet he did.”

It felt relaxed, for the first time in a long time. Like the Daniel he always knew was there but hidden behind a wall Armand couldn’t scale, though God knew he’d tried.

This was the Daniel everyone else met. Cheerful, warm, unguarded. Happy.

Armand wasn’t fooled. He was still on the outside, but it was nice, wonderful really, to occasionally be given a glimpse into Daniel’s garden. Before being banished again.

They walked and chatted about the children. About Paris. About home. Armand brought him up to speed on their friends and neighbors in Three Pines.

They were silent for a few minutes. The rain had slackened to drizzle and now seemed to have stopped. They lowered their umbrellas just as they reached rue des Rosiers.

It was the heart of the historic Jewish Quarter of Paris. There was a synagogue, a Hebrew bookstore, delis, and falafel joints. And among the bustle were plaques commemorating the Shoah.

“Hey, Dad, look. It’s still here. We have to get one.”

He’d spotted the bright blue front of La Droguerie. Going to the window, Daniel was thrilled to see that Omar was still making his famous crêpes.

He knew exactly what he wanted, and a few minutes later father and son resumed their walk. Daniel with a Nutella-and-banana crêpe, and Armand with a beurre sucré.

“I don’t know why I haven’t brought Roslyn and the girls here,” said Daniel as he took a huge bite of crêpe. “I guess I forgot.”

This was the closest father and son had been to normalcy in years, but Armand knew that was about to change.

But … did he really have to shatter this calm?

Maybe they could just keep walking and chatting. And leave it at that. Did it really matter what Daniel did, or did not, know about Alexander Plessner?

But yes. It mattered. And Armand knew if he didn’t do this, Fontaine would. And it would be worse, much worse, for Daniel.

Bells began to ring, calling the faithful to worship. They sounded from every church on every street, filling the air with music both joyful and haunting. Ordinary and magical.

“There’s something I need to ask,” Armand began. Keeping his voice steady, neutral. “You knew Alexander Plessner, didn’t you.”

Daniel kept walking as though he hadn’t heard.

“I’m on your side, Daniel. But you have to tell me.”

Now Daniel stopped and turned. “So that’s why you’re here. Not because you want to spend time with your son, but to question a suspect.”

“Daniel—”

“No, no. Have it your way. But why even ask? Sounds like you already know.”

“What I don’t know is why you didn’t say anything. You can tell me. I’m your father.”

“You’re a cop. That’s why you’re asking, isn’t it? Don’t try to say you’re asking only because you’re my father.”

“Only your father?” said Armand, struggling now to keep his own voice calm. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

“That’s bullshit. It’s never mattered. Not enough. You’re a cop first and a father way far down the list.”

The streets were crowded now with people brushing by and bumping by, and others staring. At the two versions of the same man, thirty years apart, arguing.

Armand looked around. Putting his half-eaten crêpe in a bin, he said, “Come in here.”

They were at the entrance to a garden. The very one he and Reine-Marie had trespassed in when he proposed. It was now open to the public, with one proviso. On the gate hung a sign.

En cas de tempête, ce jardin sera fermé.

In the event of a storm, this garden will be closed.

Well, thought Armand, hold on to your hats.

Grudgingly, Daniel followed his father, recognizing that there was no avoiding it now. The tidal wave that had been moving toward father and son for decades was upon them.

As he stepped forward, Daniel wondered if his father had any idea what was about to happen.

Reine-Marie looked at the stacks of dossiers on the long table in the reading room of the Paris archives.

The head of the Archives nationales, Allida Lenoir, put the last stack down, then sat across from her.

They were alone in the great room. The sun was barely making its way through the huge high windows. The lamps on their table were the only source of light.

In her early sixties, Madame Lenoir was a legend in the world of archives. She was tiny, and solidly built.

Her wife was the head of the Bibliothèque nationale. When the two started their relationship thirty years earlier, it was deemed inappropriate. Not because, they were assured, both had uteruses, but because it was a conflict.