Murder on the Left Bank

by Cara Black

  Pounding techno all but drowned out her voice. “René . . . a problem . . .”

  Now? But when wasn’t there a problem?

  “Show your face for ten minutes.” He had to shout over the din. “It’s important. You’ve got to meet these people—make a good impression. Xavier is going to be an important business contact. You promised.” Caught himself before he yelled, I got you out of jail for this.

  Loud laughter drowned out much of her reply. “. . . scooter . . . as soon as Madame Cachou . . .” Then he heard a click.

  He hoped to God, as he rummaged for notes in his linen jacket pockets, she’d make it in time. No way would he stand on top of a table trying to make himself seen and heard.

  Finally he made out Demy’s familiar face in a corner. As René worked his way over, he kept telling himself he was fine with who he was, didn’t feel lost in a large crowd. The smallest person there.

  The dwarf.

  “Impressive, Demy, great job,” said René, clasping the shy man’s hand with his free one.

  “Merci, René. Your support means a lot,” said Demy, breaking into a smile. He leaned on a cane, his young face at odds with the grey at his temples. Soft-spoken Demy ran the nonprofit, which was committed to urban art movements, with the support of the arrondissement’s progressive mayor. Demy had convinced René to get Leduc Detective involved by donating website design, maintenance, and security. “It’s young artists’ means of expression. Let’s give it value, not treat it like crime.” Demy, who had grown up in foster care, had told René over beers that he’d gotten into trouble as a kid and come out of it through an art program. René, in a way, identified with Demy, a self-made player. It wasn’t because he was a cripple—it was that he was different.

  “Where’s Aimée?” Demy asked.

  The crowd jostled, surging to watch an artist named Jellesse tag a wall, and someone knocked René’s drink. Limoncello splashed over his handmade Charvet shirt.

  Ruined.

  Wednesday Evening

  Aimée joined the applause as René presented the award.

  She then found a flute of champagne and him in that order.

  “Nice speech,” she said.

  His large green eyes popped. “Nice outfit.”

  She’d worn her cowboy boots and a denim jacket over a black liquid sequin mini accessorized with a slouchy Céline boho bag. Given the outfits here, it was a good thing she’d left the couture in her armoire. Thank God she’d had time after Chloé’s bath to shower and re-ice her ankle.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed”—René pointed—“that’s our boss at the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand, with some fellow Ministry of Culture people. These could be our people.”

  She groaned.

  “Smile until it hurts,” he said. “At least your sequins will grab their attention.”

  Show time. But first, a kiss for Demy on each cheek. His friendly face flushed from the champagne, he tugged her into his conversation. “I finally get to introduce you to Xavier, the éminence grise of fundraising.”

  She turned to a man with dark blond hair, a chiseled chin, and a lopsided grin. He grasped her hand, shaking it. He wore a pinstripe suit, polished shoes, and a whiff of something expensive.

  “Demy’s asked me to join the art foundation board,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. She caught how he swallowed his e’s—un vrai Parisien. “Few would accuse me of being an art connoisseur, but I have been known to milk a few pockets for this foundation.”

  “Quit with the modesty, Xavier,” said Demy. “You’re a powerhouse. We’ve got two exhibitions of art courant lined up at the ministry courtesy of you.”

  By that time she’d registered that the charm she attributed to Xavier’s smile—no doubt it was a smile—was due to maxillofacial nerve damage. Textbook case, like one she’d seen in her year of premed.

  She grinned back. “According to my partner, René, you’re the one who turned Demy’s foundation around.”

  He returned her grin with a shrug. “And your website got Demy’s foundation noticed.”

  She averted her gaze from the smooth white scar that ran from his chin to the corner of his lower lip, causing a slight downturn.

  “Car accident,” he said, reading her thoughts; everyone must have had the same question upon meeting him. “They got me into rehab right away; otherwise I would have a frozen jaw.”

  She lifted her palm, showing him the burn scar in the shape of the door handle that had been on her father’s smoldering van that morning of the explosion in Place Vendôme.

  “We kind of match,” she said. “Lucky the tendon wasn’t damaged.” She never showed anybody. But Xavier had been so direct with her. “My father . . . I couldn’t save him. I was too late.”

  “When did it happen?” Xavier asked.

  The pain welled up. “Feels like yesterday, but almost ten years ago.”

  Had she really said that aloud?

  A look of discomfort flitted across his eyes. Why had she brought up something deeply personal at a business-oriented art reception? Embarrassed, she realized she had to steer the conversation back toward the art foundation.

  But he’d gripped her hand. “I’m so sorry.” His blue eyes were full of understanding. “Fathers leave all kinds of scars.” She felt lost in a shared pain.

  René tugged her arm. A reminder that it was time to schmooze.

  She and Xavier exchanged cards. The reception passed in a blur of introductions. When she left for her appointment, she didn’t see Xavier in the crowd anymore.

  Martin sat in Le Drugstore on the Champs-Élysées on the last banquette in the rear, where he kept “office” hours from midnight until dawn. He was steps away from “his” public pay phone—more of a relic every day—in the lavatory downstairs. Martin operated without a cell phone. Or business cards.

  Martin’s contacts were legendary, even if you didn’t approve of his methods. He knew the players, from street gangs to ministries, and got results no one else did. Even the flics consulted him, and a “hands-off” attitude reigned at la préfecture. He used no computer, left no paper trail—all word of mouth. If you wanted to know the skinny on a gang in Barbès or get the word out about a hit, Martin was your man. A conduit who brokered deals, hooked up connections, made introductions—for a fee.

  And he’d once been Aimée’s father’s informer. So valuable her father had gotten Martin’s prison sentence reduced. She didn’t know how or why.

  Martin had never forgotten what he owed Jean-Claude Leduc.

  “Mademoiselle Aimée, motherhood becomes you.”

  He clasped her hands between his knobby fingers as she slid into his booth. The skin at the backs of her knees stuck on the red leather seat. Like always. Trying to scooch down, she felt like the awkward eleven-year-old she’d been when she first came here with her father. Her sequins crackled, and she tugged her mini down.

  Martin’s dove-grey pompadour, large tortoiseshell glasses, and tanned, leathery face made him look like an eccentric uncle who’d come straight from a 1970s Cannes Film Festival. Despite his appearance, his information didn’t come cheap.

  The back dining room was deserted apart from the waiter, a man with dyed-black hair and a widow’s peak who’d been here as long as Aimée could remember.

  “The usual?” Martin asked.

  Aimée nodded, returning his squeeze.

  “Un chocolat chaud pour la mademoiselle.” He waved. “It’s un peu pressé . . .”

  “Immédiatement,” said the waiter, slipping his crossword puzzle into a pocket under his ankle-hugging white apron.

  Martin slid a package across the marble tabletop. The signature Galeries Lafayette box. “I’m sorry the . . . l’hoodie—is that what you say?—didn’t fit Chloé. This should.”

  “Mais non, Martin, you shouldn’t
. . .”

  “But I want to. What other ten-month-old can I spoil? You have new pictures?”

  She rustled through her bag and found a recent photo with Miles Davis. Chloé was feeding him a strawberry.

  “Ah, quelle beauté. She’s got her grandpa’s dimples.” Martin took the photo, briefly held it to his heart. “Not a day goes by I don’t think of him. As always, I’m having the mass said for him in November. You should bring Mademoiselle Chloé.”

  Aimée nodded. She’d never gone to Martin’s mass. Maybe it was time.

  “Papa is why I’m here, Martin.”

  He leaned back as the waiter appeared and set down Aimée’s steaming chocolat chaud, which was accompanied by a dollop of crème on top and a slim rectangle of dark chocolate on the saucer.

  Aimée sipped the piping hot chocolate through the cold crème. Savored how it ran down her throat, thick and rich as velvet. Perfect.

  Martin leaned forward and, with a fatherly swipe, wiped her chocolate mustache with his napkin. “You haven’t changed. I’ve been doing that since you weren’t much older than Chloé.”

  Quite a bit older than that, but Martin liked to exaggerate.

  “I’m still curious, too, Martin. Curious why a certain Monsieur Vauban’s accident shut down an inquiry investigating the Hand. Why a dead man’s missing notebook caused two murders.”

  Martin lit a cigarette from the one still smoldering in the Ricard ashtray.

  “So not a social call, Mademoiselle Aimée.” These were working hours for him. “You know, I’m semiretired.”

  Not by a long stretch.

  “It’s a young man’s game now,” he said. “Not for old dogs like me.”

  He always said that.

  “Morbier’s an old dog, and he’s in the middle of it,” Aimée said.

  “Ah, that old salopard.”

  “The Hand’s still alive, Martin.”

  The light from the wall sconces reflected back on Martin’s lenses. She couldn’t see his eyes, read what was in them.

  He inhaled. The smoke spiraled up to the gold-inlaid ceiling. “Not my area of . . . let’s say . . . knowledge.”

  Like she believed that?

  She briefly sketched the story of Léo Solomon’s missing notebook, the murders of Marcus and Karine, and Pierre, Leo’s friend who might have been involved with the Hand.

  “Et alors, Mademoiselle Aimée, I’m an old man.”

  That was all he could say?

  “Don’t be modest, Martin. Your connections are impeccable.” At least better than anyone else’s she knew of. “Please, can’t you nose around?”

  He puffed.

  She gathered mocha foam on her index finger and licked it. “If I’m just paranoid and reading too much into this”—of course, she wasn’t after two murders—“I need to know. Can you help me?”

  She slid the envelope with the check she’d prepared toward him. This was business.

  He pushed it back. “For you and your papa’s granddaughter, anything. A little mademoiselle who has his dimples.”

  So he would help.

  “One more thing, Martin. Who is the Hand’s fixer?”

  “Ah, that’s something else.” Martin looked up as the waiter signaled him. “My next appointment’s here.” But the waiter leaned and whispered in Martin’s ear. “My appointment’s detained. I have a few minutes.”

  “Have babysitter, will listen.” Aimée’s phone vibrated. She let it go to voice mail.

  He pushed the red leather-bound menu to the side. Inhaled, then blew a smoke ring. “He’s anonymous. The best ones are.”

  “But what have you heard, Martin?” she said. “And don’t say you don’t know the rumors.”

  A shrug. “Some say it’s Charles Siganne.”

  Hadn’t she caught Morbier nosing around the Internet about that horrific murder? “Attends, I remember, but Siganne’s long dead.”

  “Bien sûr. Urban myths spring up when nobody knows the truth.”

  “Do you?”

  Martin tapped ashes into the Ricard ashtray. “I’m not entranced by myths. Or ghosts who strike and then evaporate.”

  “How can I get in touch with him, the fixer?”

  “You can’t. He gets in touch with you. And that, Mademoiselle Aimée, you don’t want.”

  Aimée’s phone rang again. Madame Cachou. Trouble?

  This time Aimée answered.

  Aimée idled her scooter on Pont Marie, watching the furred yellow light coming from her Ile Saint-Louis apartment window, the parked cars on the quai in front, the regulars walking their dogs, who watered the trees in the streetlights’ glow.

  Madame Cachou answered Aimée’s call on the first ring. “About time, Aimée. There’s a mec just sitting there in a car. A Peugeot,” she said, her voice quivering with excitement or fear—Aimée figured both. “I saw him when I walked Miles Davis on the quai before I came over to babysit. He’s still there.”

  Aimée scanned the quai lit by streetlights for a Peugeot. “At your nine o’clock?”

  “Is that spy talk?”

  “Alors, it’s the only Peugeot,” said Aimée.

  “What should I do?”

  “Stay away from the window. Check Chloé. Stay with her.”

  Aimée hung up. She revved the scooter, took the long way around the Ile Saint-Louis, parking her scooter by the island’s only garage, where it lived most of the time, the damned temperamental machine. Pulled on a cap; took a side street, then another; and went through the small door that opened to a courtyard from which she could get into another courtyard and then into hers.

  What if that rat Cyril was surveilling her apartment? If she confronted him again, would he cry wolf? Did she care?

  She stood under the pear tree in her courtyard thinking. She should do it. Show him and whoever employed him they couldn’t intimidate her.

  After setting her cowboy boots under the pear tree and tugging down her sequin mini, she opened her Swiss Army knife in her jean jacket pocket, gripping it tight. With her left hand, she buzzed the massive door. It clicked, and she pushed it open with her good shoulder and crossed the cobbles barefoot, staying in the shadows under the linden trees. She hunched down behind the Peugeot, listened. No conversation. Only acrid cigarette smoke.

  She took a breath. Popped up beside the driver’s half-rolled-down window.

  “Why don’t you tell me who’s put you up to this?” she said.

  But it wasn’t Cyril. The mec, who had long, curly salt-and-pepper hair and the red-veined nose of a drinker, stabbed out his cigarette in the car’s ashtray. He didn’t even look up. His meaty hand reached for a phone on the dashboard.

  “No, you don’t—” she said.

  “Better you speak to the boss.” He looked too big for the car, all shoulders and thighs. Like a turtle stuck in a box.

  Wary, she nodded. It seemed too easy. Was the creep just a go-between? Had they counted on her doing this?

  “Who’s your boss?” she asked.

  “I think you know.”

  A frisson traveled her spine.

  “Someone wants to talk to you,” he said, then handed her the clamshell flip phone.

  “Took your time noticing, Leduc,” said Morbier. “Chloé had a good day?”

  She wanted to slap him.

  “I’d have felt better if I’d known a big mec in a Peugeot was surveilling my place,” she said. “I almost kicked him where it hurts.”

  Pause.

  “Why? I told you I’d take care of things. Frans owes me a favor.”

  Another call came in on her phone. Melac. She let it go to voice mail. She’d deal with him later. If ever, the way she was feeling right then.

  “Why did you go behind my back?” she said. “I don’t mind help if I know abou
t it.”

  “Said I’d handle it, didn’t I? We just didn’t want schedules to conflict.”

  Handle it? Talk about treating her like a child!

  “But, Morbier . . .”

  He’d clicked off.

  Why did she feel cornered instead of safe?

  Thursday Morning

  Waiting outside on quai de la Rapée in front of the red-orange brick morgue, Aimée got a call from Serge, who told her to meet him at the side door—the staff entrance.

  When she arrived, Serge’s brow was creased in worry.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What’s right?” He glanced behind him. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Can’t you copy the autopsy report and just—”

  “You don’t understand. It’s under lock and key.”

  “That’s not normal procedure. Why?”

  “There’s something fishy; that’s why.” Serge took a deep breath. “I don’t like it. The pathologist who performed the autopsy is a friend of mine, but he’s gone to Rouen. We’ve only got a ten-minute window. Hurry.”

  He thrust a packet containing a long white lab coat, a white cap, and white plastic boots at her. “Put this on, and let me do the talking.”

  The white plastic boots came up to midcalf, like the kind the fishmongers wore at poissonneries. She pulled on the cap, buttoned the lab coat, and followed Serge.

  They passed the cadaver room with its aluminum slabs, the refrigeration room, the toxicology lab and offices, making their way to the rear-bay double doors. Serge took a clipboard from the in slot, held it under his arm. Seconds later they’d exited to the body-receiving platform. Serge hopped down, and Aimée followed suit. He waved to the technicians, dressed just like Aimée, who were hosing down the concrete in the back.

  Aimée stifled a shiver.

  Serge jerked his thumb toward a blue van, the cadaver pickup vehicle, and Aimée got into the passenger seat.

  With keys he pulled from his pocket, he started the van and shifted into first. He pressed a remote device that opened the metal gate, and they were driving over the Pont d’Austerlitz. The breeze from the Seine below couldn’t mask the pungent odors emanating from the gurney racks in the back. “Don’t tell me we’re on a pickup call,” she said.