Murder in Bel-Air

by Cara Black

  Next, she punched in Morbier’s number.

  “Allô, who’s this?” he said.

  “By Crocodile, did you mean Jean-Christophe?”

  “Leduc? Whose number is this? You all right?”

  “He’s not.”

  Pause. “Alive?”

  “For now. You’d better alert whoever you trust to get over to the Bercy wine-depot warehouses.” Wavelets lapped, whisper-like, against the quai. “Later, you’re going to tell me about your undercover job. You owe me, Morbier.”

  She hung up.

  Looked down at the third-to-last number called on Jean-Christophe’s speed dial. Hit call.

  “All taken care of, Jean-Christophe?” answered a familiar voice.

  So the spider was in on this, too.

  Saturday, 1 a.m.

  “Almost taken care of, Delorme,” she said. “But call me disappointed.”

  A nanosecond elapsed. A clearing of the throat before he responded. “Why, mademoiselle?”

  He was quick, the spider.

  “Jean-Christophe will turn himself in, if he plays it smart. That’s after he recovers consciousness, if he gets to the hospital in time. Admits he was behind this”—she took a deep breath—“and made a mess of things.”

  A long silence.

  “Ah, Aimée, he’s spoiled, like all the sons of great men. Now he’s failed. Tant pis. We were only doing what was needed to ensure a stable country.”

  “Deadly toxic gas isn’t what I call stability.”

  Not in General Mgwanga’s hands, or those of GBH or Jean-Christophe, the Crocodile. It was a weapon. Power.

  “Remember my offer? You have a skill set I admire, Aimée. I’m open to negotiation,” said Delorme. “Your grandfather was.”

  Was it true? Her lip trembled.

  “I found everything myself,” she said. “No help from you.”

  “Keep the money,” he said. “We’ll work it out. There’s a post in my office perfect for someone with your skills.”

  The spider certainly knew how to survive.

  “Work it out?” She thought for a moment. “You’ll be getting a call, Delorme. Give the caller all the details of what happened; answer everything they ask you. Then, if I hear back from them, we’ll do business.”

  “Bien sûr. Good to know that you, like your grandfather, understand how things work.”

  She hung up.

  She didn’t think so.

  She punched in Martine’s number next.

  “Oui?”

  “It’s Aimée.”

  “Lost your phone?”

  And her bag, and everything in it.

  “Is Chloé okay?” Aimée asked.

  “Fine. She loved my pesto linguine. Honestly, you’ve got to expand her palate.”

  Relief flooded her. “Listen, write this down. I’ll give you a phone number, and you have to do exactly as I tell you, okay? Please.”

  “So mysterious. Why? Aren’t you coming home? I’ve got extra bowls of linguine.”

  “Please, make this call first. Record the conversation. Then you’ll know what to do.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You like a scoop, don’t you?”

  “Hold on.” Scuffling noises. “Okay.”

  “See if you can get your friend at the Africa desk of Agence France-Presse on the line beforehand, too. He’ll owe you big-time. Ready?”

  Saturday, 1:30 a.m.

  Jean-Christophe’s Mercedes responded with a powerful velvet purr as she accelerated, gliding along the quai. She could get used to this. Maybe René could, too.

  “Where are you, René?” she asked when he picked up his phone.

  “Aimée? I could ask you the same thing. I’ve been calling. What happened? We pulled up at the store, and—”

  “Long story. Tell me where you are. I’ll pick you up.”

  René and Saj sat outside a crowded bar on rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine. She honked. Blinked the headlights until she had René’s attention.

  She powered down the window as he approached the car. “Care for a lift?”

  “Nice ride. Government plates, too. You going to tell us about it?”

  “Get in.”

  “I parked the Renault—”

  “Leave it. Desolée, this isn’t a classique Mercedes, but I hope you’ll like it better than that Renault.”

  René blinked. “A Mercedes E-Class?”

  “For you, René, the best or nothing.”

  “Now you’re stealing cars?” His voice cracked.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s go have some linguine.”

  She took off down rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine as soon as Saj had shut the door. He pulled a clump of sage from his Madras bag and lit it. “I feel like we could use a cleansing here. A purification.”

  For once, she agreed.

  Saturday, Noon

  The darkness moved and woke her. There was something wet all over her face. She shuddered. Was she back in the furnace?

  Trapped?

  A bright light hit her eyes. She sat up in terror.

  Chloé had crawled on top of her, drooling mouth and all. Martine had opened the curtains on to the garden. Aimée hugged a sweet-smelling Chloé, smothered her with kisses, and fell back in relief.

  Newspapers were spread across the duvet. Martine pointed to a steaming demitasse of espresso by the bed. “Might want to fortify yourself.”

  “Merci.” She reached for the espresso, her eyes catching on the headline in a special edition of Libération: ministry denies links to côte d’ivoire scandal. Under it: american reconnaissance planes recover chemical weapons cache allegedly involving former president’s son. Big, juicy articles with Delorme’s and Jean-Christophe’s names front and center.

  “Brilliant, Martine.” Aimée grinned. “So Delorme admitted it?”

  “Pas du tout. Denied everything.” Martine grinned back. “But with your info, my article raises enough allegations, hints at deep corruption, blah, blah, blah, et cetera, that the rumor mill’s predicting he’ll retire to avoid serious and embarrassing charges.”

  Another day at the office. Case closed. And yet, poor Germaine. Aimée sighed and pushed the thought aside.

  “Sydney called and I said you’d call back,” said Martine.

  Finally.

  “You’re late,” Martine said. “René’s waiting downstairs to give you a ride. In a nice car, for once.”

  “A ride where?”

  “The biggest weekend tech conference this side of the Seine. Remember?”

  Another one?

  “Seems you’re the keynote speaker this afternoon.”

  Merde. She hadn’t prepared. What would she wear?

  “Oh, and someone is here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Quite awkward. Too much testosterone.”

  She could hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. Gianni and Melac.

  What was he still doing there? It was just supposed to be a quick pickup, a day with his daughter.

  The door opened, bringing a woody fragrance of roses followed by Melac’s musky scent.

  Melac swooped up a gurgling Chloé and sat down by Aimée on the bed. His brow furrowed in concern above those grey-blue eyes so much like his daughter’s. Martine snatched the roses off the bed before Chloé could fist the petals into her mouth.

  “Are you all right, Aimée?” said Melac.

  “Ask me after I finish this espresso.” She yawned and reached for a robe that was lying on the pillow. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded hurt. Rare for Melac.

  “It got complicated. Look, I did try . . .”

  Melac leaned closer. His hand gripping her shoulder. That w
arm hand.

  “You put Chloé in danger, disappeared.” His voice lowered, as if he was struggling with anger. Or was it something else? “You’re just like your mother.”

  Not this again. “This happened because of my mother. And I’m sorry; I never meant Chloé to be involved. That’s why we’re hiding at Martine’s.”

  “I’m her father.”

  Then act like one, she almost said. But she was running late. It wasn’t the time to be hard on him or to fight. Chloé’s diaper smelled less than fragrant.

  Martine stood back at the door, wiggling her finger with the diamond ring and pointing to Melac. Taking a last sip of espresso, Aimée glanced down at Melac’s other hand. The hand stroking Chloé’s cheek.

  “You need to decide, Aimée,” Melac was saying, his right hand still resting on her shoulder.

  Then it registered. No rose-gold serpent ring on his fourth finger.

  “About us,” he said.

  She choked on her espresso. “Raising Chloé, you mean?”

  “Us as a family. Us, as in you and me.”

  Her jaw dropped. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would jump out of her chest.For a moment, all she wanted was for his arms to enfold her, to get lost in his smell.

  But he’d stood, Chloé on his hip, and walked to the door by Martine. “Think about it, Aimée.”

  Gone. He was good at that. The master of quick exits. Returns, not so much.

  Aimée jumped out of bed. Grabbed a silk blouse from a hanger in Martine’s armoire.

  “Where did that come from?” Aimée said. “You think he’s changed?”

  Martine shrugged. “You’re asking me?”

  “What do I do, Martine?”

  Martine pointed to her heart. “Ask this.”

  Acknowledgments

  A big two-decades-long thanks to the booksellers at independent bookstores who have supported Aimée and this series. To the libraries and savvy librarians across the country, thank you. In writing this story, I owe so many for sharing their expertise, their help, and their generosity. Above and beyond to indefatigable Terri Haddix MD, Senior Forensic Pathologist Technical Director Forensic Analytical Crime Lab; Elise Munoz; Carla Chemouni-Bach; Cathy Etile; toujours Anne-Françoise; Madame Gerbault, for showing me her Bel-Air and hospitality again and again; Isabelle and Andi Wajda; Benoît Pastisson, historian; Commissaire Rocher, chef du SAIP, head of the tenth district investigation unit in Paris; Commandant Department de Police Judiciare Michel Villefaux. Immense gratitude to Raymond Debelle, former investigator for the UN Security Council Sanctions Committee on the Cote d’Ivoire; Nicolas Sebire of UNICEF; idea man Arnaud Baleste; former Brigade Criminelle Marie Pierre at la Cours de cassation; Jean-Claude Mulés, former Brigade Criminelle; always Docteur Christian de Briere, expert agréé par la Cour de cassation; Naftali Skrobek et Lidia; Gilles Thomas; and Gilles Fouqué. Big mercis to Aurelie; Ingrid; Jean Satzer, my alpha and beta; Libby Fischer Hellmann, cohort in crime; Katie Herman; James N. Frey, the plotmeister; dear Katherine Fausset and the Curtis Brown team; my Soho family who make this all come together: Rachel; Amara; Janine; Rudy; Paul; Bronwen, our amazing publisher; and my patient, brilliant editor, Juliet. Nothing would happen without Jun or my son, Tate.