I heaved a sigh. “What old scores, Stéphane? Are we back to your conspiracy theory about money laundering and the Mafia? Just think about it, for fuck’s sake. Even if Francis was working for the Mafia—and I don’t believe it for a minute—why would they bump him off?”

“Maybe he tried to double-cross the guys in Calabria.”

“Why? Francis was seventy-four and he was rich as Croesus.”

“For guys like that, you can never be too rich.”

“The whole idea is ridiculous. It just doesn’t make sense. So, did he try to write the killer’s name in blood?”

“No, the journalist from the Nouvel Obs admitted she made that bit up to give the story some drama. But he did phone someone just before he died.”

“Do we know who?”

“Yes—your mother.”

I looked at him, deadpan, mentally trying to defuse the bomb he had just set. “I suppose it’s logical. After all, they were neighbors and our families have always been close.”

He nodded, but I could see what he was thinking: You keep telling yourself that, my friend, but don’t think I’m going to fall for it.

“Do we know whether she picked up?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” he said and drained his drink. “Come on, Ernesto,” he called, going over to fetch his son. “Let’s go home. You’ve got soccer practice tomorrow.”

4.

I glanced around the room. Maxime was still surrounded by his admirers. At the far end of the terrace there was another bar, decorated to look like it belonged in a sleazy dive, that was serving shots of vodka.

I ordered a vodka shot (mint) and then another (lemon). It was irresponsible, but after all, I didn’t have a son to take home or to soccer practice in the morning, and besides, I have always hated alcohol-free beer and I was probably just a couple of days away from a life in prison.

I had to track down my mother. Why had she run off? Was she afraid that I’d discover the truth? Or was she afraid she might suffer the same fate as Francis?

I ordered a third shot (cherry), convinced that I might think more clearly while intoxicated. There was often a moment of lucidity along the path to drunkenness, a moment when ideas collided and when, before chaos set in, there might be a glimmer of understanding. My mother had taken my rental car, which was equipped with GPS. Maybe I could call the rental company and claim someone had stolen the car and ask for the location? It sounded plausible, but it was Saturday night, so it would be tricky.