Murder in Passy
Page 1
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Murder in the Marais
Murder in Belleville
Murder in the Sentier
Murder in the Bastille
Murder in Clichy
Murder in Montmartre
Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis
Murder in the Rue de Paradis
Murder in the Latin Quarter
Murder in the Palais Royal
Copyright © 2011 by Cara Black
All rights reserved.
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Black, Cara
Murder in Passy / Cara Black.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56947-882-0
1. Leduc, Aimee (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private
investigators—France—Paris—Fiction. 3. 16e Arrondissement (Paris,
France)—Fiction. 4. Paris (France)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.L297M7985 2011
813’.54—dc22
2010034816
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of Madame Aufrère,
Anne-Françoise’s great aunt who loved Passy,
and for the ghosts.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Monday Early Evening
Tuesday Morning
Tuesday Morning
Tuesday Afternoon
Tuesday Afternoon
Tuesday Early Evening
Tuesday Night
Tuesday Evening
Tuesday Night
Wednesday Morning
Wednesday Midday
Wednesday Afternoon
Wednesday Early Evening
Wednesday Early Evening
Wednesday Evening
Wednesday Evening
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Thursday Morning
Thursday Morning
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deep thanks to: forensic pathologist Terri Haddix, M.D., Vincent O’Neill, Jean Satzer, Dot Edwards, Barbara, Jan Gurley, M.D., Max, Susanna von Leuwen, Elaine, Libby Fisher Hellman, Jo and Don Metz, and the amazing Ailen, Katie, Mark, Bronwen, and Justin at Soho.
In Paris: Colonel Michael McGurk, American Embassy, Paris, André Rakoto, Service Historique Ministère de la Défense, Chateau de Vincennes, Sarah Schwartz, translator extraordinaire, Gilles Fouquet, Carla Bach, toujours Anne-Françoise Delbègue, Gilles Thomas, underground specialist, Julian Pepinster, of the Paris Métro, the GIGN unit at Satory, Versailles for the visit and expertise, Vassili, gracious Silvie Briet of Eau de Paris, Nathalie and Benoît Pastisson, generous beyond words.
Un grand merci in Passy and Auteuil to Anne Bordier, Lynn Green-Rutannen for our walks over the years, Arianne Rosenau Levery for sharing her “village,” and Claude Pasquét.
On the Basque front, La Maison Basque de Paris, Jean Damien Lesay, and in Bilbao, Elizabete Bizkarralegorra, huge thanks, and Ondo Izan.
Always in my corner, James N. Frey, Linda Allen, my son Tate, and Jun.
Words feel inadequate for the debt I owe my late, dear editor Laura Hruska. Her guidance and knowledge over the years were a gift. Merci, Laura.
“What is irritating about love is that it is a crime
that requires an accomplice.”
—CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
PARIS
November 1997
Monday Early Evening
THE DOORBELLS TINKLED as Aimée Leduc stepped inside the cheese shop from the cold and inhaled the warm, pungent odors. A radio blared the evening news: “… evading seven roadblocks erected after the shootout in the Imprimerie Nationale documents heist. In other breaking news, a radical faction.… ” She shivered, nodding to pink-faced, rotund Victor, standing in his white apron behind the counter. Bombings, shoot-outs, she hated to think what else—and to make it worse, just before the holidays.
“World’s gone crazy.” Victor shook his head. “The usual?” He gestured to a runny rind on grape leaves standing on the marble-topped counter: “Or this?”
Aimée tasted the Brie dripping on the white waxed paper.
“C’est parfait.”
She emerged from the shop into the evening mist and rounded the corner toward her office on rue du Louvre. The reflections of the furred yellow orbs of streetlights glowed on the wet pavement.
“About time, Leduc.” Morbier, her godfather and a police commissaire, his black wool coat beaded with moisture, paced before her building door. An unmarked Peugeot with a driver, engine thrumming, waited at the curb.
“More like five minutes early, Morbier.” The chill autumn wind cut a swathe through the street of nineteenth-century buildings. Passersby hurried along, bundled in overcoats.
A look she couldn’t read crossed his face. “We’ve got a situation in Lyon. I’m late. You’ve got the file, Leduc?”
Forget the apéritif she’d expected in the corner café! She brushed away her disappointment. So they would do the exchange in the cold, wet street. She handed Morbier a manila envelope containing the supposed ten-year-old letters and photo of her “brother” Julian. It was time to let the professionals handle the only copies she had, so she could find out once and for all if they were genuine. “A week for lab authentication, Morbier?”
In return, he showed her an engraved business card reading POLICE PAPER FORENSICS DIVISION HEAD PAUL BERT. “Bert’s the leading forgery expert. That’s all I know.”
She nodded; she couldn’t push it. He was doing her a favor.
“Time for a quick espresso?” She pointed to the lit windows under the café’s awning, which was now whipping in the wind.
Morbier shook his head. Under the thick salt-and-pepper hair, his face appeared more lined in the streetlight; dark circles showed under his eyes. “You think life finally makes sense, then … alors,” he shrugged. “Pouff, it turns upside down.”
“What’s wrong, Morbier?” She wished they were inside the warm café with its fogged-up window instead of standing in the wind. A siren whined in the distance. “A case?”
“Can’t talk about it, Leduc.”
As usual. The streetlight revealed his cuffed corduroys, his mismatched socks, one brown, one black. Morbier was no fashion plate. He hadn’t made a move toward his car. Unlike him.
She sensed something else bothering him. His health? “Did you have that checkup like you promised?”
“Something’s going on with Xavierre,” he said. “I’m worried.”
Taken aback, Aimée fumbled for something to say. She remembered him with his arm around Xavierre, an attractive older woman with dark hair. Xavierre’s laughter, warm smile, and scent of gardenias came back to her.
“Worried over what?”
“She doesn’t answer her phone,” he said.
“Zut! I don’t either, half the time,” she said. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“I need to know what’s going on.”
She’d never seen him like this, like a lovelorn shaggy dog. It was not often that he shared his personal feelings.
“Her daughter’s getting married soon, non?” Aimée rubbed her hands, wishing she’d worn gloves. “You told me yourself last week. She’s busy.” A cloud of diesel exhaust erupted from the Number 74 bus as it paused to board passengers.
“Xavierre’s holding back,” he said. “Something feels wrong, Leduc. When my
gut talks, I listen.”
“Like what? You’re thinking she’s in danger?”
“She’s fond of you,” Morbier said. “Help me out, eh?”
He hadn’t answered her question. “But what can I do?”
He pulled a police notepad from his coat pocket and wrote down an address. “Do me a favor. Her daughter’s wedding rehearsal party’s tonight. Go there and talk to Xavierre. She’ll open up to you. If I hadn’t gotten called away to this investigation—”
“Me?“ Aimée interrupted.
“How many times have I helped you, Leduc?” he said. “Better get going, the party’s started.”
Why did she always forget that Morbier’s favors had a price?
He pointed to the leather catsuit under her raincoat. “I’d suggest you change into a little black dress, too.”
“You dispensing fashion advice, Morbier?”
But he merely said, “Can I count on you?”
She nodded. And then he climbed in the waiting Peugeot. A moment later it turned and its red taillights disappeared up rue du Louvre. Some kettle of fish, she figured, if they had to summon Morbier to Lyon.
She hit the numbers on the digicode keypad; the door buzzed open. She was tired out: it had been her first day back at work after a month’s recovery from the explosion that had laid her low on her last case. Her shoulders ached; she had a report to file. And now this. But she couldn’t ignore the urgency in Morbier’s voice.
On the third floor, she unlocked Leduc Detective’s frosted glass door. Instead of the dark office she expected, she caught the sweet smell of juniper logs and welcome warmth emanating from glowing embers in the small marble fireplace. “What are you doing still here, René?”
René Friant, her partner, a dwarf, swiveled his orthopedic chair, his short fingers pausing on the laptop keyboard. “Catching up,” he said. “How did today’s surveillance go?”
He was worried about their computer security contracts, as usual.
“I think you’ll like this.” She slotted the VCR tape into the player. Hit PLAY.
René’s large green eyes scanned the screen. With an absent gesture, he brushed at the crease in his charcoal suit pants, which were tailored to his four-foot height.
“Good work.” René grinned.
She’d had a tête-à-tête with the VP of operations and had planted the video camera in his office, along with a data sniffer on his office computer’s input cable. Now they could monitor his less-than-transparent budget transactions remotely. Their client, the CEO, needed proof of embezzlement.
“So the VP took the bait?”
“Like a big hungry fish, René.” She crinkled her nose in distaste. “The things I do for computer security!”
René shrugged. “And for a fat check, too. We should be able to document the VP’s sticky fingers in the corporate cookie jar and wrap up our surveillance by Friday, write our report, et voilà.”
He was excited, as always, on a new project. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed work while spending a month on her back. She had been wounded and René hospitalized after being shot. But René had recuperated at a seaweed Thallasotherapy, a cure courtesy of national health insurance. Noticing his glowing complexion, she wished she’d done that too, instead of attempting to master the new encryption manual while she recovered.
“I need to run an errand for Morbier.” She glanced at the time. “Back in an hour. Then I’ll lock up.”
“Leaving now? You just got here.”
“L’amour, René.”
“Eh? Another bad boy? Don’t you learn—”
Was that anger in his voice? She ignored it.
“Not me. Morbier’s worried about Xavierre, wants me to talk to her,” she said. “It’s complicated.”
“You’re serious?” he said. “We’ve got an account to update. And there’s this case.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” she said. The last thing she wanted was to go back out into the cold. “But Morbier called in a favor.”
She took the half-empty Orangina off her desk, tore off a piece of baguette from inside her bag, unwrapped the white waxed paper, and scooped up a runny wedge of Brie. Dinner.
“Help yourself, René.” She went behind the screen and unzipped the black leather catsuit, peeling the buttery leather from her thighs. She found her little black dress with the scooped neck, vintage Chanel, in the armoire and hooked the last snap under her arm. She clicked open her LeClerc compact and applied a few upstrokes of mascara.
“Armed in Chanel.” René shook his head. “You look tired.”
So obvious? She noticed the circles under her eyes and dabbed on concealer, ran her rouge noir nails—for once newly lacquered—through her shag-cut hair. She had blond highlights this week, at her coiffeuse’s suggestion. She checked the address on the map in her Paris plan. “40 rue Raynouard, that’s in the 16th arrondissement.”
“Très chic,” René said. “Look, it’s your first day back; let me give you a ride.”
“But it’s out of your way,” she said. “I’ll grab a taxi.”
“Morbier’s my friend too, Aimée,” he said, sounding hurt.
“That’s not the issue, René.”
His health was. He was still using a cane. The case she’d dragged him into last month had resulted in his injuries; she didn’t want that to happen again. “No reason for you to get involved.”
“But I already am.” He shut down his laptop. “My car’s out front.”
* * *
TO THEIR LEFT, the arms of the Seine wrapped the Île de la Cité in a turgid gel-like embrace. Arcs of light from the gold-crowned Pont Alexandre III glittered on René’s Citroën DS windshield as he shifted into third gear. The dark masses of trees lining the quai whizzed by, blurring into a row of shadows.
Concern dogged her as she recalled the tense edge in Morbier’s voice, the tremble in his hand. She doubted he’d had that checkup. She pulled her anthracite-gray faux fur tighter. The heated leather seats toasted her thighs.
It was late, she was tired, and part of her wanted to get this over with. The other part wondered what Morbier’s gut had told him.
“Morbier thinks she’s seeing another man, n’est-ce pas?” René turned onto a wide avenue with tall limestone Haussmann buildings like silent sentinels to the quartier, which was bordered by the Seine and the Bois de Boulogne.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But that’s a special thing, eh,” René said. “Older men offer the devotion of a lifetime, as Oscar Wilde said.”
More to it than that, she thought as they drove past closed upscale boutiques. Past Franck et Fils, the darkened department store where her father had bought her Catholic school uniform, and the shuttered café opposite where they’d had hot chocolate, something she longed for on a night like this.
René turned onto a street canopied by trees. The next narrowed into a high-walled lane; no doubt it had been a cow path in the last century. It still amazed her how these enclaves existed, tucked away, the remnants of another world: the old villages of Auteuil and Passy, where once Roman vineyards had dotted the hills, thermal springs—celebrated for curative properties—had beckoned seventeenth-century Parisians, and where Balzac, penniless and in debt, had written while hiding from his creditors.
René turned the corner and pulled over, and the Citroën shuddered to a halt. She stepped out of the car into a biting wind under a sky pocked with stars. It was a cold clear night.
“Quiet, non?” René said.
“Deafening.” Only the chirp of a nightingale could be heard as the fallen chestnut husks crackled under their feet.
Now the quartier housed embassies in old hôtels particuliers amid exclusive countryside-like hamlets of the moneyed who could afford tranquility.
Aimée pressed the intercom at the side of the high wall fronting No. 40, which was bathed in pale streetlight.
“Oui?”
“Madame Xavierre?”
“You have an invitation?”
She felt uneasy and cleared her throat. “Commissaire Morbier asked me.… ”
“Un moment.” Aimée shivered as dead leaves swirled around her ankles. Voices and strains of classical music drifted through the intercom. René’s breaths showed like puffs of smoke in the night air.
A moment later, the grilled gate buzzed open.
They stepped into a small garden, a jardinet, fronting a Louis Seize—era townhouse. Trellised ivy climbed the stone façade. Twin horseshoe stone staircases ascended to the entrance of this small jewel of a mansion. Even wearing vintage Chanel, she didn’t feel comfortable in this kind of place.
René whistled. “Not bad, Aimée. We win the Lotto, we can live here too.”
Morbier, a dyed-in-the-wool Socialist, with a haute bourgeoise girlfriend? Opposites did attract. Several Mercedes were parked in the gravel driveway, which ended in a dark clump of buildings.
After buzzing the door, they entered a black and white tiled foyer. Beyond open double doors, a high-ceilinged room revealed a chandelier. The clink of glasses drifted toward them.
René unwound his Burberry scarf, putting his gloves in his coat pocket. Then he stopped. “You’re paler than usual, Aimée. Sure you want to go through with this?”
She applied Chanel Red to her lips. Blotted it with a torn deposit slip from her checkbook. “Better?”
Determined, she strode inside, where she saw a blue banner hung across the gilt-paneled wall. It read BON MARIAGE, IRATI ET ROBBé in silver letters. Inside, the closeness of body warmth lingered. Coming from the cold into the stuffy room made her feel light-headed.