Murder at the Lanterne Rouge ali-12

by Cara Black

  Horns beeped behind them. Aimée pulled herself out, straightened up.

  “You sure you’re all right, Aimée?”

  Her boot caught in the gutter and she cursed her three-inch high heels. “Fine, Martine.”

  With a wave Martine ground into first gear and took off.

  A siren whined. Aimée buttoned up her long leather coat against the permeating damp. Why had she worn a black lace top and skimpy cashmere sweater with the temperature dropping and zero visibility?

  She hurried in the shadows past buckling seventeenth-century buildings and grimy, dark alleys. Turning the corner in the fog, she found her way blocked by several men. They wore thin jackets and were stamping their feet on the cracked pavers, their breath like steam in the dim streetlight. Their angry-sounding rapid-fire Chinese dialect echoed off the high stone walls.

  “Excusez-moi,” she said. Tso’s men? Unease filled her as she edged by them. Suspicion, or something else she couldn’t name, painted their faces. A second later the men backed off and melted into the doorways, their words evaporating with their breath.

  Another world, she thought. These few blocks were a slice of an old Chinatown—where Wenzhou immigrants settled after the First World War to work in the factories. A little-known enclave tucked near the Arts et Métiers, and not the most welcoming.

  The street twisted and into view came a small Chinese store with red banners proclaiming the Year of the Tiger in gold letters. Beyond that was an old diamond merchant, now a wine bar. Her destination.

  JEAN-LUC TRACED THE wineglass rim with his finger. His brow creased. “I didn’t understand Pascal. Never could. Now it’s too late.”

  Aimée wished the stiff, tooled leather of her chair didn’t scrape the back of her knees. That the glass of wine didn’t cost what she’d paid for the marked-down beaded YSL bikini. That the ice pack on her wrist would stop the swelling.

  And that she’d reapplied her mascara.

  Easy on the eyes, this Jean-Luc, still wearing his jeans jacket. In the light of the sputtering votive candle, she saw his blue gaze go to his cell phone on the table. “Sorry, but I’m expecting a call. A work crisis.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

  She’d need to hurry this up. A copy of Charlie Hebdo, the controversial satirical cartoon weekly, lay on a low table. Out of place, she thought. “How close were you to Pascal?”

  “Us Gadz’Arts, alors, we’re a fraternité.” Jean-Luc combed his damp blond hair back with his fingers. “I know we appear odd to outsiders. Rituals form our traditions.”

  Medieval. Tight-knit and insular for today’s world.

  “I feel responsible,” Jean-Luc said. “Like in some way I let him down. Gadz’Arts weld together into a family … yes, we call it that. It’s our life.”

  Important to him, she could tell. “For the rest of our lives we help each other, network, line up jobs, act as godfathers to each others’ children. That’s what hurts.”

  She nodded. Remembered Madame Samoukashian’s words about the initiation rituals. “Pascal didn’t seem the group type. What do you mean by welding?”

  He shrugged again. “Everyone goes through bizutage, initiation, it’s a rite of passage, a bonding ritual.”

  “Hazing? That’s bullying.”

  “Not at all, there’s a definite distinction,” he said. “But none of this is new. For hundreds of years, all Grandes Ecoles have conducted tests of courage.”

  True. She remembered her first year of premed, the escalating insults and humiliation. But that hadn’t been what made her decide to leave premed. It was the cadaver dissection.

  “Our rituals follow the spirit of our school.”

  “In what way?” She needed to draw him out. Took a sip of the smooth, clear pinot gris. “Like secret handshakes, that kind of thing?”

  He gave a small smile. “No comment. It’s based on discipline. But if you understand our history, the purpose …” He sounded almost religious.

  “Which is?”

  “The Duc de la Rochefoucauld founded our school in the eighteenth century, initially as a military academy. We evolved into the Ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Arts et Metiers after Napoleon visited and decided France must cultivate industry and engineering methods, as well. Soon they were developing the machines that launched the Industrial Revolution.”

  Skip the propaganda, she wanted to say.

  “Even now a Gadz’Arts comes out able to design, fabricate, and operate complex machines and systems,” he said. “Who else does that today? We’re not only mechanical engineers but high-level technicians.”

  Rigid and prescribed. Entering young and impressionable, graduating out the back door in a cookie mold. Not how she’d describe Pascal, from what she had seen of his life.

  “Hands-on training, you mean?”

  “From mathematical concept to execution. And some go on to hands-on jobs. Not that most of us need to. We teach …”

  “Or run engineering departments, like you,” she said. “Sounds more managerial to me. Why didn’t Pascal go that route?”

  “Did he care about money?” He shook his head, answering his own question.

  She leaned forward. “What did Pascal care about?” This oddball genius.

  Pause. Jean-Luc averted his eyes, sat without speaking.

  “Besides machines and inventions, I mean,” she prodded.

  Jean-Luc was withholding something. “I don’t know. As I said, I failed him. But if he’d just talked to me … He wanted to tell me about a project, I think. But I’m not sure. He only left a message.”

  Aimée contained her excitement. “What happened?”

  “Just a message. Something to do with the museum. Coulade mentioned he got a message, too.” Jean-Luc checked his cell phone. “But you work at the Conservatoire. No one seemed to know you.”

  Of course he’d check. “That’s due to my firm’s pro bono work,” she explained. “We’re digitizing the Musée’s catalogs, a few tie-ins with the Conservatoire.”

  “Encore, Monsieur, Mademoiselle?” The white-aproned waiter hovered with the bottle of pinot gris. Aimée kept her breath even. His cell phone vibrated.

  “Desolé, I’ve got a meeting,” he said.

  “Non merci,” she said. “The bill, s’il vous plaît.” She leaned across the low table. “Did Pascal’s message deal with his research, Jean-Luc?”

  Had Pascal reached out when Coulade didn’t return his calls?

  Jean-Luc sat back. “You’re concerned. But why?”

  The tinkle of a piano, the low chords of a bass, and the shushing of a snare drum floated from a side alcove. Jazz. Soon the place would fill up.

  She debated revealing her investigation. Pondered how to word it. “We’re searching for a file lost in the digitization process. I’m puzzled about what a fourteenth-century document signified to a modern-day engineer. Why Samour thought it important.”

  “Lost? You think Pascal stole it.”

  Interesting reaction. She needed to allay his suspicion and get information. And come up with a quick lie.

  “Samour requisitioned this file as department head. Seemed anxious. We’re trying to furnish it.” Now she’d enlist his sympathy. Try to. And lie more. “Our firm’s hoping to get the museum’s website contract,” Aimée said, thinking quickly. “This means a lot to us. I wondered if you could help?”

  “But as I told you …”

  “I appreciate your time, forgive my persistence,” she broke in with a smile, “but if you can shed any light on what he might have meant … his contact with your former professor, Becquerel?”

  Jean-Luc shook his head.

  Becquerel seemed a dead end in more ways than one.

  “You cared for Pascal, I see. Took over his class today,” she said. “It would be a way to help his project. See it through as he would have wanted for the Conservatoire. For the musée that was so important to him.”

  She saw Jean-Luc weigh the option. Had she laid it on too thick?
Or played enough to his Gadz’Arts traditions?

  “He left a message on my machine at home last night,” he said finally. “I recognized his number, but heading my new division at work leaves little time for anything else. My cat doesn’t know me anymore.”

  “That might have been Samour’s last call,” she said. “Don’t you remember what he said?”

  A sadness crossed Jean-Luc’s face.

  “He garbled his words. Sounded excited. But he wanted to meet. I remember, oui, at his work studio.”

  “You mean at his apartment on rue Béranger?”

  Jean-Luc shook his head. “He had an atelier, I don’t know where.”

  An atelier?

  “Something about a document. Encrypted, maybe? But I’d have to listen again,” he said. “Do you think he meant this one you’re looking for?”

  Careful to keep her excitement in check, she nodded. “Could you listen again and let me know?”

  A little smile. He touched her hand. Warm. Smooth for an engineer. She saw a cut on his wrist near his cuff link. “Cutting and pasting blueprints,” he said, noticing her gaze. “Blame my training.”

  Didn’t he have minions for that?

  “And you?” He gestured to the ice pack melting on her wrist.

  “Close encounter with a windshield, due to my friend’s new driving skills.” But her mind went back to the man darting in the street. Had he been following her?

  “Now you’ve got me thinking,” Jean-Luc said. “I want to help. Tomorrow I’m in an all-day symposium. Let’s meet after. Dinner?”

  She’d hoped sooner. But she’d learned that a desperate Pascal had reached out to Jean-Luc about an encrypted document. And that he had an atelier. The key was to find it.

  Saturday, 10:15 P.M

  AIMÉE CHECKED HER Tintin watch. The DST contact was late. She stood at the counter in Café des Puys on rue Beaubourg. The café was near rue Saint-Martin, the old Roman road, and had been a café in some form for several centuries, owned by successive waves of immigrants: Auvergnats, Chinese, and now Serbs, as evidenced by the Serbian national soccer pennants plastering the wall.

  Before she could order, the waiter slid an espresso over the counter. “Compliments of the house.”

  Her nerves jangled. “Merci.”

  She undid the sugar wrappers and plopped two cubes in her cup. Stirred. She scanned the café as she waited for the espresso to cool. An old woman with a poodle on a leash, two men in security uniforms, and a young couple holding hands, eyes only for each other. Who was her contact?

  She laid odds on the young couple.

  She noticed the square of chocolate on her saucer and smiled at the waiter. He nodded. She opened the packet and saw a slip of paper insid.

  Go to Théâtre Dejazet, Place de la République

  Great. More cold and damp. She downed her espresso and pulled her long, black leather coat tighter. Left a five-franc tip.

  Several blocks away, theatergoers spilled over the series of steps leading to Boulevard du Temple, once referred to as Boulevard du Crime. Not that long ago, either. Now few under forty attended the theater. She stood shivering, wishing this were over, that she could go home.

  Fog shrouded Place de la République and muted the noise of night buses.

  “Intermission and right on time,” said a familiar voice. The same blonde woman, smiling. Clad in a blue cocktail dress and matching shawl, she walked down the steps and opened her evening bag. “I’m dying for a smoke.”

  “We meet again,” Aimée said, gritting her teeth.

  “Like one? Or still not smoking?”

  “I like to live dangerously,” Aimée said, accepting a filtered Gauloises. And a light. She felt a jolt to her lungs. The rush of nicotine.

  “Keep the pack.”

  “Don’t you have something for me?”

  Aimée felt a matchbox in her hand. She slid the box open. Stared at the writing on a cigarette paper. “A website?”

  “The proof’s there. And don’t forget to smile.”

  Smile? “You bugged my scooter. Don’t even think of following me.”

  But the blonde woman had mingled with theatergoers who were descending the steps, pulling out lighters and sucking smoke. A moment later she’d disappeared into the crowd.

  Furious, Aimée ground out the cigarette with a high heel, put the matchbox in her pocket, and headed past the theater toward her cousin Sebastien’s atelier. She wished she’d kept the ice on her wrist longer.

  At least she could get warm and use his computer.

  But Sebastien’s framing atelier was dark. She hit his number on her cell phone. His phone rang and rang. No answer. Not even voice mail.

  She paced the cobbles by Sebastien’s and noticed the stained glass atelier next door. Thinking about the chapter in Samour’s book gave her an idea. She’d talk to the stained-glass artist tomorrow. What else could she do?

  Still no word from Prévost. She needed to protect Meizi, make good on her promise to Mademoiselle Samoukashian, and ensure Prévost’s cooperation in the Chinatown surveillance raid. She headed down the dark street toward the bus stop a few blocks over and hit Prévost’s number.

  “Commissariat, bonsoir.”

  “Officer Prévost, s’il vous plaît.”

  “At a meeting,” said a young voice. A yawn. “Leave your number and he’ll get the message.”

  “Too late. His informer’s in trouble,” she said. “Patch me through to him.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Big trouble, compris?”

  Pause.

  “Now!”

  She heard a click. Buzz.

  Prévost answered on the first ring. “Oui?”

  Finally.

  In the background she heard what sounded like the click of chips, the slap of cards. Gambling. Hadn’t that gotten him into trouble before? But she could use that.

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Aimée Leduc,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  “About your statement?” She heard surprise in his voice.

  “I mean the surveillance mounted in—”

  “What’s that got to do with you? Keep your nose out of this.”

  “But you wouldn’t want another mark on your record, would you?”

  “What?” Voices rose in the background. Chinese voices. A chair scraped over the floor.

  “Gambling again?” she said.

  “What the hell … listen, we’ll talk tomorrow.” Quiet now. He’d left the table.

  “So you’ll shine me on again?” she said. “I can lead you to the snakehead who controls boutiques, sweatshops in a three-block radius. Big promotion for you, Prévost. And I wouldn’t need to mention your love of cards.”

  Pause. “You’re guessing.”

  “You want more?”

  The street was quiet. Too quiet. She kept her voice low, hurried around the corner. Another deserted street lit by misted globes. Footsteps sounded behind her.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck.

  She sped up. Three more winding blocks to the bus that would drop her close to Île Saint-Louis.

  “More like a source, Mademoiselle Leduc. Hard evidence.”

  “How about nameless bodies lying in the paupers section at the Ivry cemetery,” she said. “Front page to the right investigative reporter. Especially since the funeral parlor’s right under your nose in the quartier. Or maybe they finance your chips.”

  She heard a car door slam, footsteps behind her again.

  She made her feet go faster, one eye out for ice while she scanned the darkened windows and the parked cars for movement. Whoever they were, they were good.

  “What do you want?”

  Right now, dry shoes and a warm fire. And quick. But she saw no taxi in sight.

  “A woman protected,” she said. “The date of the raid.”

  “We’ll talk. But not now.”

  Pause. Voices.

  “Getting the snakehead
and his boss, that’s gold, Prévost.”

  More voices. She had to convince him. Give him something to get information. She took a stab in the dark. “There’s a witness to Samour’s murder. Haven’t you questioned him?”

  “Who?”

  “Clodo, the homeless man in the stairs.”

  Pause. “Not anymore.”

  Footsteps sounded close behind her. She didn’t like this. Without turning around she walked faster. Her gut told her to get the hell to the Métro.

  “He’s in custody? Then he’s told you—”

  “Pushed on the Métro tracks. At Hôtel-Dieu.”

  “But have you questioned him?”

  “Clodo’s not in any condition to tell anyone anything soon. If ever.”

  Her blood ran cold. “The murderer tried to kill his witness, Prévost.”

  “More like he fell on the rails drunk or during a fight. A coincidence.”

  “No coincidence, Prévost,” she said.

  “What judge would listen to him? I need proof.”

  Proof? Prévost might need evidence to make a case. She didn’t.

  Hampered by regulations, paperwork, the endless questioning and rehashing of witness statements—vital time lost. No wonder, despite the cloud of suspicion trailing him, her father was glad to leave the force.

  “You want evidence? How about the cell phone Clodo took from the murder site?”

  Pause. “Cell phone?”

  She hoped the homeless weatherman would come through.

  “Help me and I’ll help you,” she said. “Look, Prévost, you need my information to look good with the RG, don’t you?”

  He cleared his throat. “More like I owed your father. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Owed Papa? “What do you mean?”

  But he’d hung up.

  Taken up with Prévost’s call, she’d forgotten the footsteps behind her. Stupid not to pay attention. To have her arm weighted down with the heavy Vuitton.

  Up ahead, light spilled out of massive portals into the street. Chamber music drifted from a courtyard. A man in a tuxedo escorted a laughing woman, a fox-fur wrap draped over her shoulders, to an approaching taxi. Not far now.

  And then she was grabbed from behind. Pulled into a walkway between the buildings. Shoved face-first against the pitted wall. Her gasping scream broken by the force of a body pinning her to the dripping stone. Someone had followed her to finish the job, just as they’d finished Samour. One of the huddled knot of Chinese men she’d run into earlier?