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narrowed his eyes at his mother. “You knew they were coming, didn’t you?”
    “After that?” She nodded at the article displayed in front of Louis. “Of course I did. They can’t let something like that slip by unnoticed. At least they were nice enough not to show up at six in the morning.”
    “They’re not going to find anything, are they?” Louis said.
    “Of course not,” his mother replied with a quick eye-roll. Then her chocolate-brown eyes sharpened. She carefully pronounced her every next word as she would when helping him learn a difficult lesson for school. “They’re not going to find anything because your father never took any bribes.”
    Louis frowned. “Right.”
    His mother’s eyes didn’t let him go yet. “They will not find anything because that would hurt the reputation of the Saint-Blancat family, not to mention the reputation of the city of Toulouse. How many people think of corruption as soon as you say the name Bordeaux because of that idiot Alain Juppé? Toulouse will not have that same stamp.” The core of steel that made up his mother’s backbone was on clear display. This woman was not bowed down by the death of her husband; she would keep fighting for the causes dear to her.
    Louis nodded.
    After a few more seconds of scrutiny, his mother appeared satisfied and grabbed the newspaper. She opened it to the crossword puzzles and sat down to work.
    Through the window, Louis saw the door to number fifteen open up and the voluminous hair of Madame Sutra appear. Her heavily painted eyebrows drew down to a deep V on her forehead when she saw the police cars. “I’ll go out and say hello to Madame Sutra.”
    When he reached the old lady, she was banging her closed umbrella on the tire of the closest car. “ Bande de racaille ,” she croaked in her smoker’s voice.
    Louis smiled. Racaille was the word President Sarkozy used to describe the youngsters revolting against the police in 2006, which had brought him such bad press. Louis couldn’t help but love his neighbor for using the expression on the police for parking on her curb.
    “It’s the police,” he yelled to Madame Sutra. “I’m sure they’ll leave soon.” He offered his arm to the old lady. “Can I perhaps walk around the cars with you?” He had learned years ago that offering to buy her cigarettes was not a good idea. She considered this outing her daily exercise—and given her advanced age despite being a chain smoker, there might be some truth to that.
    Madame Sutra squinted at the offending police car, then at Louis. She appeared to recognize him. A pinching of her lips, which was her equivalent of smiling, accompanied a nod. “Yes, thank you, young Louis. That sounds lovely.” She grabbed his arm with a strong hand and leaned heavily on him to get down from the curb. Then she advanced with tiny shuffling steps along the two cars and again used Louis’s assistance to get back up on the sidewalk. After a few rattling coughs, she let go of Louis. “I’m glad you’re back, young Louis. The city needs you. Start with getting rid of the cars on the sidewalks.”
    Shaking his head, Louis watched a moment longer as she shuffled away toward the tobacco store, then ambled back to his parents’ house. His mother’s now, he mentally corrected.
    He was as annoyed by the police parked in front of his house as Madame Sutra, though not for the same reason. Perhaps he should do as she suggested and make sure the cars were no longer there when she came back.
    He ran up the steps and in through the front door.
    ***
    The bald police officer was in the parents’ bedroom going through Pierre Saint-Blancat’s bedside table. Louis couldn’t even imagine what the officer was hoping to find in there. Did he think the mayor used proof of bribes as night-time reading material?
    Louis took one step into the room. This was his parents’ turf. He hadn’t been in here since he was about ten, when he still wanted to sleep the last