Murder on the Left Bank

by Cara Black

  Aimée hadn’t been able to hold on to the girl. Or puncture her lies. Aimée’s insides twisted knowing that Léo’s notebook was gone. She hadn’t known it existed yesterday, had had trouble believing it today, and now she was bereft at the thought that she’d never see it herself.

  She’d wanted the notebook on the chance that it would reveal her father’s connection to the Hand—a connection that had cost him his life. But the notebook incriminated a whole lot of other people. Looking at it from the other side, it was a veritable gold mine for blackmailing people.

  A warble came over the bébé monitor, then a full-throated cry. Chloé.

  A bad dream? Wet diaper?

  Aimée waited, as it said to do in child-rearing guru Dr. Dolto’s book, her bedside bible. Glanced at the clock and started a mental five-minute timer. After two minutes of nonstop crying, she couldn’t stand it. Heated a bottle.

  She looked out her kitchen window and saw a lone figure walking on the quai.

  Ten minutes later, she’d changed Chloé’s diaper, given her a bottle, and snuggled beside her on her own duvet. Miles Davis, her bichon frise, licked her toes as she sunk finally into blissful sleep.

  Tuesday Morning

  Dawn brought another humid day with bruise-colored clouds hinting at showers. Chloé crawled on the bedroom floor with Miles Davis as Aimée peered through her armoire. Chloé had pulled herself up on one of the drawer handles of the claw-footed dresser. After a few lurching Frankenstein’s-monster steps, Chloé plopped on her behind and cried out. She tried to pull on the drawer again, and this time it started to slide out.

  Aimée managed a quick grab, catching the drawer halfway down. She heard a rip and looked to see a gaping hole in her silk Versace tunic from last year’s January sales. At least it had been half-price.

  She changed into a little black dress. Slid into black-toed Chanel sling backs. Meanwhile, Chloé had reached inside the open drawer, plucking Aimée’s scarves out and waving them like colorful butterflies.

  “Stealing Maman’s clothes already, ma puce?”

  At the drawer’s bottom lay the framed photo of baby Aimée in her christening dress, nestled in a woman’s arms. The photo didn’t even show the woman’s face. Aimée’s mother, Sydney, an American, had left when Aimée was eight years old. Sydney, a wanted fugitive on the World Watch List, had reappeared two months ago, wanting to meet her granddaughter, Chloé. Sydney had also wanted to warn Aimée about the Hand, implied that her daughter was naïve to believe the men who had killed Jean-Claude Leduc had gone away.

  How had she known?

  “Bonjour,” said Babette, coming into the bedroom. “You two are up early.”

  She swooped Chloé up in her arms and glanced at the photo in Aimée’s hands.

  “You rarely talk about your mother.” Babette smiled. “It was so nice to see her with Chloé. You said she’s traveling, but will I get to know her better?”

  Would she? Aimée remembered how thin Sydney had looked. How she’d wanted to be allowed into their life.

  Then left, as she always did.

  On the quai, Aimée got into René’s waiting marshmallow of a vintage Citroën DS. The controls had been customized for his height; it was his prized possession.

  “Rough night?” he asked.

  “Chloé woke up. She’s been so good at sleeping through the night, but . . .” Suddenly, Aimée thought of the figure she’d seen on the quai in the night. She pulled down the visor, checked the mirror to see if anything looked suspicious. Buses. While she was looking in the mirror, she caught sight of the circles under her eyes and took out her Dior concealer. At this rate, she’d need to buy it wholesale.

  “The Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand’s system’s an easy fix. I have a new program I’m going to install today. The fonctionnaire will think we’re geniuses.”

  “Well, you are, René.” He looked rested, smart as ever in a charcoal linen suit. “How are your allergies?”

  If she hadn’t been watching for it, she would have missed his surprised blink. “New medication, all fine.”

  Liar.

  She was about to call him on it, but her phone trilled. A number she didn’t know.

  “Oui?” she said.

  Horns, a rumbling like shaking trucks came over the line.

  “Can you tell Marcus’s uncle that . . . I’m sorry?”

  “Karine?” Aimée recognized the soft voice despite the traffic noise. Be gentle—reel her in. Get her to meet. “Ça va? Are you okay, Karine?”

  Aimée pushed the speakerphone button so René could hear. Put her finger to her lips.

  Pause. “Please, just let him know,” Karine said.

  Aimée figured Karine was scared, running out of places to hide, feeling guilty. Vulnerable.

  “Bien sûr,” Aimée said. “Look, forgive me for bursting in on you at Lili’s. Scaring you. My fault. I took your bag. You need it, non?” Talk fast. Don’t give her time to think. “Where can I give it to you?”

  René’s green eyes widened.

  Pause. More horns. “I’ve . . . got to go . . .” Karine said.

  “Zut, Karine, I feel terrible. Please, let me return it.”

  Voices sounded in the background. Aimée pulled out René’s large taxi driver map, opened it to the thirteenth arrondissement, and scanned. “Tell me where to meet you. Anywhere you like.”

  René pointed to rue de Tolbiac, mimed eating.

  Aimée took his cue. “A resto?” she suggested. “Somewhere on rue de Tolbiac?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Or you pick a place, Karine.”

  “I can’t.”

  Aimée couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. “Please, Karine, you’re in danger. You saw the homicide report. The flics won’t help, but I will.”

  René blinked.

  The shuffling sound of a hand muffling the phone. Crackling. “There’s something I should tell you . . .” Karine said.

  Had she come around, or was she in trouble?

  “Good, Karine. Tell me and—”

  “Tonight. We’ll talk later.”

  The line went dead. Merde. Aimée hit the call back symbol. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

  She couldn’t place that background rumbling—a tunnel, a station? Not that it mattered. Karine was gone.

  “That girl’s terrified of something,” said René, turning on his blinker.

  He had that right. She remembered Maxence’s description of the tattooed man whose scooter Karine had escaped on—a Loo Frères gang member?

  “Weren’t you going to tell me what happened with Karine?” He pulled onto Pont de Sully, one of the bridges connecting Ile Saint-Louis to the “Continent,” as the locals said. “Or you figured I’d get it by osmosis?”

  She’d gotten him bent out of shape again.

  “Desolée, it’s not like that,” she said. “I need your help.”

  He shook his head. “Only when it’s convenient, eh?”

  So prickly. “Let me explain, René.” Midway through her explanation of what had happened the night before, her phone buzzed again.

  Without thinking, she hit answer. “Karine?”

  “Eh? My office got broken into last night, Aimée.” Éric Besson was shouting over traffic sounds in the background. What was it with people calling her from the middle of traffic? “Can you hear me, Aimée?”

  Even René could hear.

  “Horrible, Éric, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I think someone is looking for Léo’s notebook.”

  René jammed on the brakes as a bus cut in front of them on the quai des Célestins. Aimée put her hand on the dashboard. In the muggy heat, her little black dress was already stuck to the small of her back.

  “But Éric, if Marcus was really
murdered for the notebook, wouldn’t his killers know that you don’t have it?” she asked.

  “Karine lied to you last night,” he said, shouting. “She knows where it is. What if she’s in cahoots with them?”

  René raised an eyebrow. Mouthed, Quoi?

  “I’m leaving court and taking an afternoon train back,” Éric said.

  Éric was overreacting.

  “Can’t your secretary deal with the break-in?” Aimée said. “Look, Karine just called me.”

  René pulled into a side street and parked.

  “What did she say?” Éric asked.

  “She’s sorry, Éric. Told me to tell you.”

  “What good does that do?”

  “She’s scared. That’s all I know.”

  “I need to talk to her. Please, make good on your promise, Aimée. Knowing you, you insisted on a rendezvous, non?”

  “I’m not sure she’ll turn up,” she said, reluctant.

  “Bon, I’m leaving court. I can’t concentrate. All I want to know is what happened to Marcus,” he said. “And the notebook.”

  She wondered if she should wash her hands of this.

  René took the phone from her hand. “Éric, it’s René. Aimée’s in the car with me. Shouldn’t you involve the flics?”

  “You think I trust them, René?” Éric asked.

  Click.

  “How do you get yourself into messes like this, Aimée?” René pulled out of his parking spot and honked at a car passing him. “Again and again?”

  She snorted in disbelief. “René, did I ask Éric to come beg me for help? He was desperate, crying. Racked with guilt.”

  René downshifted at the roundabout. Frowned. “How’s that your problem?”

  Now it was.

  “What’s this about a notebook?”

  René didn’t miss a thing. So she told him.

  “I can’t back out, René.” She’d decided. “I need to see this through to the end.”

  “C’est fou. You’ve got Chloé to think of. There are dangerous people involved in this, and you cannot put yourself in harm’s way. Let me go in your place and meet Karine.”

  Sometimes René made her want to scream.

  “Karine doesn’t know you. You’ll just frighten her off—she’s already terrified.” But she could use him for backup. And to talk sense into Éric. “Listen, I’ve got a plan.”

  All morning they worked at the newly painted bibliothèque office, until the fumes made René’s eyes water too much. Then he dropped Aimée off to meet Martine for lunch.

  Martine was smoking at a window table in the small bistro on rue Pascal. A local place run by two mémés, grandmas from Provence—one cooked and the other served and managed the superb wine list. Touches of Provençal-blue decor accented the dark wood and mirrors, which must have been there for a hundred years.

  “Et alors, the usual?” Martine said after their customary bisous on each cheek.

  Aimée nodded.

  Martine stubbed out her cigarette and smiled at the granny, who came over to their table. The proprietor was casual chic with stylish white hair, a nautical-blue-striped top, and Jean-Paul Gaultier jeans.

  Martine pointed to the prix fixe menu chalked on the ardoise. “Deux, s’il vous plaît.” As the granny left, Martine poured a rosé from a pichet into a glass.

  “Did you invite me for lunch because you’re going to ask me to babysit?” Martine’s blonde-streaked hair highlighted her Sicilian tan. She glowed after her long August vacances with her squeeze, Gianni. Aimée felt happy for her. And a little jealous. But her best friend deserved this after a disastrous long-term relationship.

  “Pas de tout,” said Aimée. “I know you’ll babysit your goddaughter without any bribery. You brought what I asked for, non?”

  Martine’s fuchsia lips pouted as she pulled a file from her bag. An unpublished article Martine, a journalist, had written on the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand’s secret coffers. Juicy pickings for their further contract negotiations.

  “Merci.” Aimée shoved Martine’s file in her bag. “But there’s something else. It’s about Éric Besson.”

  “It’s always something with you, Aimée. What’s le nerd done?”

  “Martine, you referred Éric to me, didn’t you?”

  “Pas exactement. I feel sorry for him, his horrific divorce, c’est tout.” Martine took a drag on her cigarette, expelled smoke. “He needed help finding something that had gone missing. I thought of you . . .”

  Something that had gone missing?

  Aimée dropped her fork. “He’s dragged me into a murder investigation, Martine.”

  Martine sat up. She hadn’t known. Now Aimée had her attention. “What happened?”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  Aimée related how Éric had shown up with a police report of Marcus’s murder, the dodgy investigation, the names in Léo Solomon’s notebook, and her search for Karine.

  “First Karine climbed down a drainpipe to escape you, and now she’s had a change of heart and wants to meet up? And you think she’ll tell you the truth?” Martine put her napkin on her lap as the starter arrived, a soupe au pistou fragrant with garlic.

  “Something has made her change her mind, but I don’t know what, Martine.”

  “So where’s this notebook?”

  “Karine thought Marcus might have hidden it somewhere. Meanwhile, Éric’s office got ransacked overnight.”

  “So you think the murderer’s still looking?”

  “Wouldn’t Marcus have told his attacker where to find the notebook since his and Karine’s lives were threatened?”

  Martine didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “But what does this all have to do with you? Be honest with me, Aimée. This is about your papa, non? That’s why you’re involved.”

  Aimée put down her spoon. Sipped the rosé, clean, delicate, and cold. No use hiding anything from her best friend. “Éric hooked me by telling me Papa was involved. How could I not listen? I think the implications are bigger than even Éric imagines.”

  “Bigger how?”

  “Why kill a kid for information unless it’s big stakes? I thought I chopped off the Hand, but it’s grown back. Mutated into another generation.” Aimée tore a slice off the baguette and wiped her soup bowl clean. “Or maybe some slick operator took over where the ousted guys left off. Who knows?”

  “The Hand?” Martine thought. “You’re going to find out. Is that it?”

  How could she not at least try? What would her father want?

  “With your help,” Aimée said.

  “Hold on. Don’t drag me into this.”

  “You dragged me into this. Éric came to me because you told him to.”

  “Did not.” Martine picked her thumb’s cuticle, a nervous gesture that would have given away the fact that she was lying even if Aimée did not already know.

  Martine had never been a good liar; Aimée had been lying for her since the lycée. For a moment, they were sixteen again, arguing about the lies Aimée had told Martine’s mother to cover for Martine when she’d slept at her boyfriend’s. It had been an easy ruse; Aimée had had no mother checking up on her. How deeply that had hurt—she would have given the world to have Martine’s problem.

  “Earth to Aimée,” said Martine. “You there?”

  She forced herself back to the present, gripped the thick cotton napkin, breathed the garlic-scented air. Martine was smiling and squeezing her arm. The storm had passed.

  “Marcus’s murder has been poorly handled, Martine. The whole police investigation’s shoddy. They’re writing him off as a drug dealer, although he never did drugs. That’s proof to me that the flics are covering something up.”

  Martine reached for another cigarette. “So the autopsy confirms no toxic substances in
his system?”

  She hadn’t verified that. Now that she thought about it, the autopsy hadn’t been included in the homicide report. Strange. But her friend Serge worked in pathology at the morgue. She’d follow up. “I don’t think this is about drugs.”

  “Alors, Aimée, getting back to the Hand.” Martine exhaled a plume of smoke. “Gianni’s sister is a law professor in Rome. She’s an expert in organized crime. According to her, the Italian mafia is completely modernized. It’s not peasants carrying out vendettas or street thugs running gambling and drug rings.”

  “And you’re saying what, Martine?”

  “It’s a new generation. Neapolitan Camorra and Calabrian ‘Ndràngheta soldiers attend Oxford, Harvard, and Sciences Po. They come out trained professionals—lawyers, accountants, all clean. Then they run the family business.” Pause. “You know, the Camorra’s also called the Black Hand. Maybe their French counterpart isn’t so different?”

  Aimée’s mind went back to Éric’s words about the Hand morphing like a hydra.

  “It only makes business sense for crime to change to remain viable. To modernize and incorporate new blood.” Martine ground out her cigarette.

  Aimée nodded. “You’ll get a great story out of this, Martine.”

  “If there’s what’s called proof, Aimée.” Martine winked. “Any editor worth their salt will require conclusive autopsy results, evidence that the notebook is real,” said Martine. “Find me that, and I’ll pitch an exclusive personal angle, blah blah blah.”

  When they finished lunch, Aimée paid with several crisp hundred-franc notes, hoping René had deposited the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand’s retainer and that the check had cleared. Client rich and cash poor, the curse of contractors, who were the last in line to get paid. Leduc Detective would need to line up more consulting gigs to cover the bills.

  “Got a meeting at Le Monde,” said Martine.

  “Merci for the article.”

  After quick pecks on the cheeks, Martine jumped into a taxi.

  Aimée used the window of time before her next client appointment to drop by Besson’s office, only a block away. She hurried up rue Pascal to Boulevard Arago, the fault line where the Latin Quarter bled into the chic wedge of the thirteenth near Gobelins.