Murder on the Left Bank

by Cara Black

  She’d map out the little she knew. Things stood out if you put them down, her father always said.

  The white dry-erase board was taken up by their project status updates, so she unrolled the butcher paper. Tacked up a sheet and got her markers out.

  Karine

  Background Cambodian, age and address unknown.

  Date with Marcus—location unknown.

  Marcus Gilet (nephew of Éric Besson)

  Found in rue Watt in the thirteenth

  Lived in the thirteenth above Besson’s office on Blvd. Arago.

  After a moment’s thought, she added:

  Léo Solomon

  Gobelins accountant

  Address unknown

  Léo had been the one who’d started this, the one who’d worked for the Hand.

  She pulled out a detailed street map of the thirteenth arrondissement and tacked it below. With her marker, she drew X’s on the following locations: Éric Besson’s office, the last ping from Marcus’s phone, the tunnel in rue Watt where his body was found, and Gobelins, the tapestry factory where Léo Solomon had worked.

  As strong as Éric’s belief was that Marcus’s murder was connected to the notebook, there was no proof.

  Neither Marcus’s wallet nor his phone had been recovered.

  The handful of numbers the cell company had identified on Marcus’s call record belonged to Éric, a tutor, and a cinema. Hadn’t this kid had a life?

  How had he arranged a date with Karine? Old-fashioned notes and letters? Smoke signals?

  Or he’d had a burner phone for his private life. Aimée had at his age. Well, back then it had been a pager.

  If such a phone had existed, the flics had found no trace of it. Too bad. Aimée could have called in a favor with her connection at France Télécom. Maybe she could have found Karine that way.

  She rubbed her eyes, tired from staring at her screen all afternoon. She needed to get out, breathe the air, and walk the cobbles—plus she had a burning desire to see the spot where Marcus’s phone had last been pinged.

  The last place he was seen alive? Maybe the girl had been seen, too?

  If you didn’t visit the crime location, it wouldn’t be real to you, her father used to say. Go smell it, breathe it, until you get the feel of the place. Know it, and you’ll have a better shot at knowing your victim.

  She’d go on her way home. First, though, one last cross-check: she’d try to figure out if any of the 260 Asian females lived or had lived in the towers. The family might have moved, but it gave her a starting point.

  It took longer than she’d hoped—there were four different addresses to check. Of the four women who lived in the towers, only one’s name began with a K—a Kalianne. Aimée ran a name search; Kalianne came from the Khmer word meaning “little darling.” A counterpart to the French Karine?

  If Aimée were to call on the phone, it might panic the girl’s family. Better to go in person.

  But she needed more.

  Benoît, the hunk she’d been seeing, taught Asian studies at the Sorbonne—almost as convenient as the fact that he lived across the courtyard from her. She liked Benoît’s company as much as his cooking and his amazing skill under the duvet. But his phone went to voice mail; he and his sister, whose baby daughter, Gabrielle, shared childcare with Chloé, must still be away on their parents’ anniversary trip. Merde. Aimée left a message.

  With only an hour before Babette was off duty for the night, Aimée had to get moving.

  Maxence took off his headphones as she grabbed her jean jacket and scarf. “I’m coding until René returns,” he said.

  Merde again. Why hadn’t René returned her call?

  “Anything else you need?” He grinned. “Always ready for a mission.”

  “Maybe you can see what you can learn about this older mec Léo Solomon.” She copied down his details quickly for Maxence. “I’d like to find out all the firms he did accounting for.”

  Maxence loved a challenge. “On it.”

  Late afternoon wind scattered red paper candy wrappers and blew them up against the stained concrete wall. Students, the after-school lycée loungers, hung out in front of the Asian grocers’ shops. The faces reflected the quartier’s diverse ethnic population.

  Aimée felt conspicuous—her Lanvin suit pencil skirt, selected for the meeting at the bibliothèque, wasn’t quite dressed down enough with an Indian scarf, jean jacket, and ballet flats. As the sole non-Asian in sight, she stood out.

  She followed an old grandma with full shopping bags from Loo Frères, an Asian supermarché, into the tower’s vestibule, holding the door for the old woman after she entered the door code.

  The tower was a characterless reminder of seventies architecture. At least the elevator worked, even if its gears ground with juddering fits and starts. The ride gave Aimée time to polish up her story.

  She got off on the fourteenth floor. The scuffed, once-green linoleum almost matched the greasy celadon concrete walls. She knocked on the apartment door—she was starting with Kalianne, whom she hoped would turn out to be Karine. No answer.

  She listened for sounds—conversations, a télé, or a radio. Nothing. Cooking smells came from down the corridor.

  She’d try the next address. This time she took the stairs. All the addresses she’d culled were in this building, thank God.

  A girl of about twelve answered the door in yellow pajamas and pigtails. “Oui?”

  “Would your sister Karine be here? Her school gave us permission to contact this address about the scholarship.”

  “My big sister?”

  “Desolée, did I get her name wrong?”

  “Well, they call her Camille at school. But now she lives in Toulouse with my aunt.”

  An older man came to the door. He wore an undershirt and scratched his chin. “What you want?”

  Aimée vaguely described a scholarship for Cambodian students.

  He shook his head. “No kids in school except this one.”

  “What about the Cambodian families in this building? I’m looking for Kalianne, or maybe you know her as Karine. Do you know her?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  She got basically the same answer at the other apartments. No one knew a thing. Or if they did, they kept quiet. Not that she blamed them if they covered up for their own. In their shoes, she might do the same.

  Of the four Cambodian girls living in the tower who had come up in Aimée’s search, Kalianne was the only one unaccounted for.

  Back on the fourteenth floor, Aimée’s calves ached, and there was still no answer to her knock. She pressed an ear to the door. The apartment on the other side was silent. Most likely everyone was at work.

  She followed the smell of coriander, garlic, and chilies several doors down. Her stomach rumbled.

  A woman in a lab coat answered Aimée’s knock. Her brown hair was clipped up, and she wore latex gloves. Wonderful, spicy smells filled the apartment, which was jammed with teakwood furniture.

  She took one look at Aimée. Shrugged. “I’ve already told the housing council, I’m here with permission to administer home treatment. Monsieur Khee is a housebound diabetic.”

  “Alors, it’s not that,” she said. “Sorry to take your time, but I’m desperate. I’m trying to reach the family in 1401. Their daughter’s applied for a scholarship we’re offering to Cambodian students. I wonder if Monsieur Khee can help me locate her, Karine or Kalianne—”

  “He’s just had a treatment. I don’t think—”

  “Who’s there?” a man’s voice demanded.

  “Attendez,” said the nurse. “I’ll ask him.”

  By the time the nurse returned, Aimée was so hungry, all she could think about was whatever was cooking.

  “Half-breed,” the nurse said, “his words. Monsieu
r Khee asked if she would qualify.”

  Aimée was taken aback.

  “The girl’s part Cambodian, part French,” said the nurse, looking embarrassed. “Is the scholarship only for full Cambodians?”

  “We’re not allowed to ask that question on our application forms,” Aimée said carefully. “Does Monsieur Khee know how I can reach her?”

  “He hasn’t seen the family for a while. Several weeks. Heard they’ve moved out.”

  At about the time of Marcus’s murder?

  “A Fukienese family will move in. Monsieur Khee likes that. He’s Fukienese.”

  “Does he have any idea where they went?”

  “That’s all he knew.”

  Nothing more to learn here. Yet she couldn’t give up without finding something. The nurse had been more forthcoming than anyone else. “Do you treat any Cambodian patients?”

  “Not since last year.”

  Monsieur Khee called from the back, “What’s she want now?”

  The nurse started to close the door.

  “Isn’t there any place where Cambodian kids in the building hang out?” Aimée said in a rush.

  The nurse paused. “The Cambodian lycée kids stick together. It’s all very segregated. Try Bánh Tân Tân, the pâtisserie. They hang out there.”

  “No hurry, Aimée,” said a breathless Babette on the phone. “We just got back from the park. Dinner will take a while. Take your time.”

  A jewel, Babette. “Merci.”

  Outside the building, Aimée felt eyes on her back. She pulled out a file, pretended to consult it, and headed in what she hoped was the right direction.

  From the lycée loungers, she heard snickers as she went by. “. . . la bureaucratie, regulations . . .” Good, let them think she was a pencil-pushing administratif from social welfare. Nice cover. She’d use that more often.

  She noticed how they nodded to a young man with short-cropped hair, gang tattoos on his neck.

  Aimée smiled at the young Asian woman sweeping the candy wrappers and sodden leaves off the cracked pavement in front of Bánh Tân Tân, which specialized in Cambodian and Vietnamese pâtisserie. Scents of coconut milk and toasted sesame drifted from the shop’s open door.

  “Bonjour, my friend says you bake the best boua loy.” Thank God the bright window held a photo display of sweets with their names written phonetically in large roman letters. “I hope you’ve got some left.”

  “Bien sûr.” The woman smiled. She was in her late twenties and had brown streaks in her black bob. “Our baker remarried; hence the Vietnamese name. But your friend was right—we’re the best.”

  The shop’s interior was adorned with red good luck banners, and gold-flecked lanterns—exotisme anchored by butter. A bright-colored shop inviting happiness, Aimée thought. Chloé would love it. “What’s that?” Aimée pointed to what seemed like pastel sticky rice wrapped in banana-leaf bundles.

  “Ah, that’s for the Pchum Ben festival.”

  Aimée had to appear interested, keep the conversation going, and steer it toward Karine. “So it’s a special festival tradition?”

  “To feed the hungry ghosts,” she said, smiling. “It’s to honor our ancestors and relatives. Alors, in April, during our Cambodian New Year, there’s a line out the door,” she said, the lilting accent to her French tempered by glottal syllables.

  “I believe it,” said Aimée, taking in the trays of mostly Cambodian sweets, along with macaroons and rainbow gâteaux. “But I heard after school there’s a rush.”

  “You missed it,” she said.

  “Zut, thought I’d see Karine.”

  No reaction. The young woman used aluminum tongs to pick up the sweets Aimée pointed out. An older woman wearing an apron brought a tray of fresh, hot, steaming buns. “My auntie just baked our sweet red bean specialty,” the young woman said. “Like to try?”

  At this rate, Aimée would buy up the shop. “Karine’s told me how good they are.” Stupid. Think of something smarter. “Give me two.”

  Again no reaction. Had she blown this? Made a fruitless trip to end up with only a mountain of sweet calories to bring home?

  “Ah, stupid me,” she said, frowning. “You’d know her as Kalianne. Her boyfriend, Marcus, works for my friend Éric. That’s how I know her.” That sounded as awkward as she felt. But she was chasing a hunch.

  Just then a woman rushed in flourishing a receipt. Pointed at a birthday cake with an inscription in green icing. An excited conversation in Khmer ensued.

  Aimée noticed the wall behind the tall rolling dolly racks was covered in photos—snapshots of customers, young and old, eating the signature sweets.

  “Help her. Go ahead.” Aimée took one of the red bean confections off the tray and stepped back to study the wall. Starving, she wolfed down the pastry in two bites. Then another. The sweet bean paste stuck to her teeth, and she was already suffering a sugar high by the time she saw what she was looking for.

  “I can ring you up now, mademoiselle,” said the young woman, smiling.

  “Call me Aimée. You’re Lili, non?”

  The young woman cleared her throat. “Oui . . .”

  “Lili, you’re here in the photo with Karine and Marcus.” Aimée pointed to a smiling trio of Lili, squinting in the sun; a tall, curly-haired boy with the beginning of a beard; and a stunning half-Asian girl. Their names were written in pink marker underneath. “Where’s Karine?”

  Fear flashed in Lili’s eyes. “How would I know?”

  “We need to talk, Lili. Now.”

  “I’m working.”

  Lili plastered a smile on her face as the auntie brought in new hot trays of sweet bean buns. As Lili rang up Aimée’s purchases, Aimée pulled the photo off the wall and stashed it in her pocket. Lili handed her a fragrant bag.

  “Lili, it’s talk to me or the flics. Got a preference?”

  “You’re some kind of what . . . undercover?”

  Aimée shook her head. “Pas de tout. I want to help Karine. Get her out of some deep trouble. I’m the only one who can.”

  Lili looked around uneasily.

  “If you don’t talk to me, I’ll be asking your auntie.”

  Lili hesitated, then wrote an address on the receipt. “Buy a ticket and go inside. Thirty minutes.”

  Aimée found the address behind the mairie of the thirteenth on Place d’Italie, a gargantuan Italianate Haussmann building.

  The meeting place was a historic Haussmannian theater. Atop the façade she saw a sculptured frieze with the figures of Tragedy and the voluptuous goddess Comedy—attributed to a young Rodin.

  Not the meeting point she’d expected.

  Inside, she found an exhibition of vintage movie posters and a ticket booth.

  “Film’s started, mademoiselle. Would you like to wait for the next showing?”

  A film buff, she hated arriving after a film began.

  “Non, merci,” she said. Bought a ticket.

  It took a moment for Aimée’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. She felt her way along the back of dark velvet seats. Only a few were occupied. The silhouetted heads were black blobs against the screen. The black-and-white silent film was accompanied by a pianist dramatizing the score.

  Mon Dieu. She’d never seen a silent movie in a theater. The piano pulled the story along, punctuating, highlighting, rippling, and fading with an ever-changing tempo.

  The iconic actress, Louise Brooks, had the biggest eyes. Black, fathomless. Her expressions spoke volumes. A curious radiance haloed her face—Aimée realized it must have come from the glow of a backlight.

  Where was Lili? Had she given Aimée the slip and a bogus address?

  “Ssss, here,” a voice said.

  Aimée found Lili in the last row.

  She wedged herself into a seat. “Where�
�s Karine, Lili?”

  “I don’t want trouble. Compris?” Lili’s soft accent dangled on each syllable.

  “Bien sûr. She’s in danger.”

  “Me, too, if this gets back. And I don’t see how it can’t.”

  But she’d shown up. Must have something to say. “I’m a PI. Talk to me. It’s safe.”

  “Quoi?”

  “Détective privé. Marcus’s uncle hired me.” Not exactly a lie. “You know Marcus was murdered, non? And Karine is missing? The flics blame it on drugs, call Karine a hooker, but it’s not true, is it?”

  Lili stood. “Non, don’t involve me, please.” She disappeared into the shadows.

  She’d blown it.

  Aimée caught up with Lili under the exit sign, where she stood trembling against the burgundy velvet curtains. The piano music crescendoed.

  “Desolée,” Aimée said, rummaging through her brain to find the right words. “I’m trying to help Karine. Can you help me?”

  Lili looked ready to bolt. “I don’t know anything.”

  “You’re afraid. I understand.”

  “Understand?” Her lips quivered. “How could you understand?”

  “Alors, you’re here. You want to help Karine. So do I.” Aimée had to think of how to get through to this scared young woman. “Marcus was murdered, and Karine’s in danger. Please tell me what you know. Please. I won’t mention your name to the police.”

  “You think I worry about les poulets?”

  The old term for police, since what was now the préfecture was once a medieval chicken market. Funny what stuck from centuries ago.

  “Who then?”

  “The ones with tattoos.”

  Aimée’s mind went to the tattooed mec who the lycée students nodded to outside the high-rise. “A gang?”

  Lili looked at Aimée as if she were a slice short of a baguette. “The Loo Frères mecs,” she said.

  “Loo Frères? You mean the Asian supermarché?”

  “They’re more than that. Big influencers, own many businesses, friends with the mayor. The Loo Frères sponsor the New Year parade, and their gang polices Chinatown. No one talks about anything. They make sure of it.”