“Maxime says you’ve been hassling him ever since he announced that he was going into politics. Why have you been dragging up all the old files about his father? You know as well as I do that Maxime is clean, and he can’t be held responsible for his father’s actions.”

“Where do you think the money for Maxime to set up his eco-construction company and his start-up incubator came from? Where did he get the money to finance his campaign? With the dirty money that Francis made back in the eighties. The rot set in right from the start, my friend.”

“So, because of who his father was, Maxime has no right to do anything?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

“What I’ve always hated about guys like you, Stéphane, is your intransigence, the moralistic, Grand Inquisitor pose. The Committee of Public Safety as run by Robespierre.”

“What I’ve always hated about guys like you, Thomas, is your ability to dismiss anything you find unsettling, your gift of never blaming yourself for anything.”

Pianelli’s tone was increasingly disparaging. I could have told him to go fuck himself, but I needed his help. I beat a tactical retreat.

“We can talk about that some other time.”

“I can’t understand why you’d want to defend Francis.”

“Because I knew him better than you did. In the meantime, if you want to know more about his death, I can give you a tip.”

“You’re really good at changing the subject.”

“Do you know a reporter at the Nouvel Observateur named Angélique Guibal?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Apparently, she had access to the police file. From what I’ve read, Francis dragged himself through a pool of blood and tried to write the name of his killer on the window.”

“Oh yeah, I read that article—bullshit Paris journalism.”

“That’s right—I’m so glad that, in the era of fake news, we’ve still got Nice-Matin to uphold the honor of the profession.”

“You can laugh, but there’s some truth in that.”

“Couldn’t you call up Angélique Guibal and pump her for information?”

“You really think journalists go around sharing stories with each other? I suppose you’re friends with every writer in Paris?”

“If you’re so much better than all the Parisian journalists, then prove it, Stéphane. Get your hands on that police file.”

He paused for a second and then allowed my trap to spring shut.

“Of course we’re better than the Parisians,” he fumed. “Fine, I’ll get your fucking police file for you.”

5.

I got up to get a coffee from the vending machine on the far side of the room. Next to the machine was a door that allowed people to go out and stretch their legs in the courtyard. I wandered out and walked as far as the school’s “historic” red-brick Gothic buildings.