Murder in Saint Germain

by Cara Black

  But the salon adjoining the library was far from quiet. Hot white lights were trained on old masters’ paintings that had been propped all over the room: banquet scenes, oil still lifes of plucked pheasants roasting on fires, a medieval scullery.

  A photo shoot?

  A white-hatted chef prepped intricate plates of hors d’oeuvres, stylish presentations of market vegetables. She watched him primping a red-and-white radish as if it were a model about to head down the runway.

  Edible art. Chloé would love it.

  Her mouth watering, Aimée edged closer to the long butcher-block table, dying to grab a nibble. Couldn’t help herself and reached.

  Beside her, a man snorted. “That’s not food.” It was Jules Dechard.

  Startled, she looked where he was pointing. The chef was holding a syringe.

  “The chef injects dye and silicon to make it pop for the photo.”

  “Merci for the warning.”

  “It’s all a sham. Not about art or taste. It’s business—advertising. They’re shooting photos for a big fundraising campaign. Spending money to make money.” He sighed. “But it keeps the board happy.”

  Nonetheless, the photo shoot made her IT tech cover for talking about the case for Dechard easier. There was so much activity in the salon that no one paid her any attention.

  “I’ve got something for you,” she said.

  He gestured her out of the salon, and she followed him to an office door. Standing in the hallway was a pudgy man holding a sheaf of papers. He was clearly waiting to speak with Dechard. “This is Professor Michel Sarlat, my colleague.”

  Michel, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was a short sausage of a man, with feet so small she wondered how they supported his girth. He wiped his lank red hair from his brow and gave her a perfunctory smile. “Enchanté.” He turned to Dechard. “This needs a quick look, Jules, if I can take a moment?”

  “Later, Michel.”

  Dechard led Aimée into his office and closed the door. Michel Sarlat, Aimée thought—his initials would be MS. He could be the staff member with the ms90 email address.

  Dechard’s vast office was unlike other professors’ remodeled offices Aimée had seen in other wings of the school. One faded maroon wall was covered in museum-quality art—centuries-old oil paintings in antique frames. There, too, was the distinctive red ribbon of a Chevalier of the Légion d’honneur, the highest order of merit awarded by the French government. The surrounding three walls were lined floor to ceiling with books: leather-bound antique tomes, tall coffee-table art books, even the kind of cookbooks her grandmother once kept in her Auvergne farm kitchen. Aimée remembered standing on her tiptoes to peer over the counter at those recipes, splotched with béarnaise sauce. How she missed her grand-mère—if only Chloé could have known her.

  “My weakness,” said Dechard, following her gaze. “I’m a bibliophile with a collection running out of control.” A practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So you’ve found all the emails already?”

  “Bien sûr, that’s my expertise.” And why he’d paid her a lot of money, but she left that out. She handed him an envelope in which she’d enclosed the printouts of the emails Saj had pulled. “The emails’ point of origin was a computer in the Tournon art gallery. There were emails to and from two staff addresses—one of which was yours, Professor.” Wondering if he would bring up the blackmail, she watched as he flipped through the pages.

  Dechard rubbed his neck. The corners of his mouth turned down. She noted the sallow complexion on his long face. Where had his summer tan gone?

  “Now, can I count on you to remain discret, mademoiselle?”

  He sounded like he wasn’t sure. Odd.

  She nodded. “A given, Professor Dechard.” The blackmail wasn’t her business, she reminded herself. She’d finished the job—she was done here. She took a step toward the door. “If that’s all?”

  “Here’s a small token of appreciation, mademoiselle.”

  He handed her a gift card to a culinary institute. Did everyone know she couldn’t cook? Or had he noticed her eye lingering on the cookbooks?

  “The bistro is run by student chefs in training,” he said. “Make sure you call ahead for a reservation.”

  “But, Professor Dechard—”

  “Food is art, too,” Dechard said. He had taken his hat from his desk.

  Taking the cue, Aimée turned to leave. Part of her wanted to warn him that accosting a blackmailer never went well. The other part knew he wouldn’t listen. And it wasn’t her business.

  Wednesday, Midafternoon

  Her scooter’s motor had died. Again. Aimée checked the oil. Fine. Flicked the ignition again. Nothing. She kicked it.

  She stared at the bus stop, where a number of people were checking their watches and stepping into the street, staring down the road. Fanning themselves in the heat. It would probably be faster to walk.

  Dropping off a client file at the law school, a last-minute errand for Saj, had taken her out of her way. Set her back. She needed to get to the Métro—then a swift ride would get her to the office in time for her client meeting.

  Leaving her scooter parked where it was, Aimée fumed as she cut through the Jardin du Luxembourg to the Métro. Puddles on the gravel paths mirrored the denim blue sky and white puff-pastry clouds above. A moist, vegetal smell emanated from the greenery; the hedge-lined pathway buffered children’s laughter. Napoleon had gifted these sixty acres, the lungs of Paris, to its children.

  The big pond made her smile. Chloé loved watching the wooden boats, as Aimée had as a child. She emerged through the gold-tipped grill gates, by the Musée du Luxembourg and le Sénat, Marie de Médici’s former palace.

  Across the street, geraniums lined the windowsills of the hotel at the corner of rue Servandoni. A plaque bore the dates that William Faulkner had lived there. Her father had told her Juliette Gréco, his not-so-secret crush, hid with résistants near here during the war.

  A taxi pulled up, blocking Aimée’s way. Like she needed another holdup? From the corner of her eye, she caught a couple coming out of the hotel’s entrance.

  The good-looking man was the Italian boyfriend of Martine, Chloé’s godmother and Aimée’s best friend since the lycée. She would know Gianni anywhere, with those white teeth bared in a huge smile, that glossy, black, curling hair.

  Why was his linen-jacketed arm draped over a woman’s shoulder? A woman who wasn’t Martine. And coming out of a hotel!

  He and Martine were leaving for vacation this week. Martine had urged Aimée to close shop, bring Chloé, and join them in Sicily. She’d been so persuasive that Aimée had browsed tickets. Even René had thought it was a good idea.

  Martine had told Aimée she was scheduling a double-date dinner with this cheater and his cousin, whom she was trying to set-up with Aimée.

  Aimée had never seen Martine so happy.

  Oh God. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to know the other woman’s identity.

  Some stolen afternoon with his secretary from the Italian Cultural Center? The next moment they disappeared inside the taxi.

  Aimée’s phone vibrated. She ducked into a doorway. The taxi pulled away.

  “Oui?”

  “So I’ve got reservations tonight for all four of us,” said Martine.

  Of all times. Paralyzed, Aimée watched the taxi bump over the cobblestones in the narrow street. Turn left.

  “But you said that . . . it would be on the weekend,” she said, scrambling. “I’ve got babysitter issues.”

  “Okay. Ever heard of takeout? There’s an incredible Sicilian restaurant Gianni knows. We’ll all play with Chloé.”

  Merde. How could she pretend she hadn’t seen him if he came to dinner? She had to get out of this—and off the phone before Martine sussed out that something was wrong. They�
��d told each other everything since they were fourteen. Mostly everything.

  Could Aimée tell Martine her boyfriend had walked out of a hotel with another woman not a minute ago? She felt a stab to her heart.

  “Look, I’ve got a traumatized flic on my hands right now, Martine . . .” she said, going for her sympathy.

  “Morbier? Haven’t you gotten over that and visited him yet?”

  Not her, too. Why couldn’t her best friend understand?

  “Mais non, I haven’t told you. It’s Suzanne Lesage, the woman who was Melac’s undercover partner and helped me when Zazie was kidnapped. Remember? She was seconded to The Hague to investigate Serbian war criminals, and now she’s back and shell-shocked—”

  “She’s not the only one, Aimée. My colleague who reported on that mess still has nightmares—”

  “I owe her, Martine,” she interrupted. And it was true.

  Pause. “And you owe me, too. Remember?”

  Put her foot in it again. Could this get worse?

  Martine had stepped up and pulled in all her journalist contacts to help Aimée chase down the truth about her father’s death—about Morbier. She’d helped Aimée despite the fact that she’d suffered a miscarriage—the straw that broke the back of her go-nowhere relationship. Thank God, Aimée had thought when Martine had finally dumped that boyfriend for Gianni, taken up Tuscan cooking and conversational Italian.

  For a cheater.

  Aimée didn’t know what to say. Her stomach knotted.

  “Aimée, you there?” Martine was saying. “Good thing I get repaid in champagne. Let’s make that prosecco tonight. It’s overdue.”

  “It’s funny, but I think I just saw Gianni,” she said, blurting it out.

  “You’re near Saint-Sulpice?” Martine said without missing a beat. “He’s minding the diva from La Scala for an Italian Cultural Center benefit. Poor Gianni. The diva requires hand-holding every minute of the day.”

  Aimée’s shoulders relaxed. Nerves, she was all nerves. Paranoid. Jumping to conclusions. Since when had she gotten so jaded?

  So much had happened—Morbier on his deathbed, then Suzanne accosting her, the Dechard blackmailing case, losing her childcare while Babette was on vacation, Melac turning up—Aimée’s mind spun. She had to prioritize, stack all these things in mental boxes and shelve away the ones she couldn’t get to right now.

  “I’ll get back to you, Martine. Got to go.” Click.

  Ten minutes later she reached the Métro. The grill gate bore a sign: closed for service maintenance.

  She wanted to kick someone. How could they? Then the burner rang.

  Mon Dieu. When Benoît had come last night, she’d gotten busy with other things and forgotten about it.

  “Got anything for me, Aimée?”

  “You first. Weren’t you meeting your Interpol connection . . . ?”

  Aimée stepped under the shade of a plane tree.

  “If only the security forces worked together, but it’s always like this,” said Suzanne. “Despite our mandate from the ICTY, prying information out of them is like trying to open a rusty can. Cooperation takes time with such a backlog. I’m trying to get Mirko’s file to the top of the pile. New emergencies come in every day.”

  Aimée had to give her the bad news.

  “Suzanne, no one recognized Mirko in the café or any of the shops nearby. I went three different times. I questioned everyone. Even a woman working the café counter who knew you couldn’t remember seeing him.” Silence. She added, “Things like this happen. I know. I’ve seen a friend at a distance and gone up to hug her, and it was a complete stranger.”

  “Don’t treat me like an infant, Aimée.” She heard paper rustling in the background. Clicking of keyboard keys. “I’m getting it from everywhere. That’s why I came to you.”

  Suzanne was good. Commander-quality good. Yet . . .

  “Suzanne, you’re back with your family now. You’re not in the war zone anymore. You have to focus on settling back in—”

  “Settle into administration?” Suzanne snapped. “Because that’s where my boss stuck me, a trained BRI operational officer . . .”

  That was what they did when they were trying to cover up an officer’s mistakes. Aimée wondered if Suzanne’s boss thought she posed a threat to the ministry.

  “Why did he put you on administration?” Aimée asked carefully.

  “Why do you think?”

  “I think events in the field shook you up,” said Aimée. “You’re human.”

  “Our convoy took casualties, so now I’m soft? Only fit for paper work?”

  “Calm down, Suzanne. Okay, you wanted proof that Mirko’s here,” said Aimée. “We’ll see what’s on the CCTV footage I obtained from the Paribas bank. The video camera covers the front of the café tabac, so it will have caught anyone coming or going.”

  A sucking in of breath. “Impressive, Aimée. Knew you’d come up spades.”

  “I’ll review it at the office. Compress a file, and email it to you. But unless it shows him, I don’t know what more I can do for you.”

  “There’s one more thing I have to tell you,” Suzanne said. “Isabelle Ideler is missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Isabelle is the Dutch prosecutor who was leading our team in Bosnia.”

  Not all this again.

  “Past tense, Suzanne. Isn’t that over?”

  “Isabelle was the one who insisted our team needed to dot every i, cross each t, to nail down Mirko in accordance with regulations.” A snort. “More rights than his victims ever had. She’s still the expert on this case, the point person coordinating the evidence. Anyway, Isabelle’s brother emailed me to say she was supposed to meet him here in Paris—she’s in town for meetings, staying with her old roommate. She never turned up when she was supposed to meet her brother, and no one’s heard from her for two days. That’s unlike her.”

  “Alert her Dutch counterparts. Standard procedure, non?” First it was a dead war criminal; now Suzanne was fixated on a former team member. “For all you know, she got lucky with some mec at a wine bar.”

  “I’m calling her brother.” Pause. “You went to the café three times—didn’t you find any lead?”

  “Look, I’ll format the bank’s video feed and send it to you. You’ll see whatever there is to see for yourself, okay?”

  She doubted Mirko would be in it.

  “That’s not what I asked, Aimée.”

  Merde. As a flic, Suzanne sensed something. Aimée would have to tell her about Olgan, who she doubted knew anything.

  “Don’t know if an old Croat professor counts,” Aimée said. “He hates Serbians.”

  “Good. Gives him a reason to turn Mirko in. Anything register with him?”

  “I gave him my card. I wouldn’t count on him making a call. But you never know.”

  Wednesday, Midafternoon

  Aimée’s partner, René Friant, was shuffling something into his leather briefcase when Aimée entered the office and tossed her trench coat over a hook. Startled, he looked up, his green eyes furtive.

  “Bonjour, stranger,” she said.

  “You’re late, Aimée.”

  For two days she hadn’t seen him. And the first thing he did was jump down her throat.

  “Désolée, the Métro station was closed. My scooter died . . .”

  “Don’t go defensive on me, Aimée.”

  She almost stomped her foot. Childish. “It’s true, René.”

  “I was going to handle your meeting for you, but it’s been postponed.”

  Thank God.

  “I thought you’d stopped all that,” said René, disapproval in his green eyes.

  Aimée controlled her surprise. “Stopped all what, René?”

  “Saj left a note on your desk.” H
e was gripping the briefcase handles tightly.

  “What’s in your case?”

  He stiffened. All four feet of him, handsome in his specially tailored café au lait linen suit. A dwarf, René sported an impeccable wardrobe with handmade shirts from Charvet.

  “A surprise for me?”

  She pretended to reach for the case. She wanted to tease it out of him, not invade his privacy.

  Something had fallen on the floor. An admissions handbook for École Alsacienne, the private and exclusive elementary school in the triangle of private schools by Jardin du Luxembourg. Stapled to the front of the handbook was the director’s card, an appointment time written on it.

  She blinked. “Are you interviewing for another job?”

  “I’ll explain when you tell me why the brother’s at the morgue.”

  Aimée blinked again. “Whose brother? What do you mean?”

  “Read Saj’s note.”

  Isabelle’s brother’s at the morgue. Suzanne says meet him there.

  It took her a moment to make sense of this. Shouldn’t Suzanne have called her on the burner phone? She checked. Somehow stuck in the bottom of her bag, the ringer had switched off. Why hadn’t Suzanne left a message?

  “Suzanne’s . . . off kilter, René. She thinks a lawyer from The Hague has gone missing.”

  “And why’s that your business?”

  “Like I know? Why is that school your business?”

  René’s lips pursed. “It’s never too early, as I’ve been saying, for you to get Chloé on a waiting list.”

  Aimée’s jaw dropped. “She’s not even walking or talking yet.” Good lord. She’d found those Latin flash cards he’d hidden in the toy box. Next it would be Chinese. “Anyhow, I owe Suzanne and will stamp ‘paid’ on the favor after I go through some CCTV footage.”

  “Favor? You mean . . . ?” René’s brow creased. Then understanding filled his eyes. “Mais oui, that’s right. She helped when Zazie went missing.” His tone changed. “Saj should have reminded me.”

  Aimée hit the fan switch. A slow chug of turning metal was followed by a stir of hot air. “So far my legwork’s turned up zero. It’s a shame, but I think she’s suffering PTSD.”