AL06 - Murder in Montmartre al-6

by Cara Black

  Nothing could help Jacques now. Aimée hated pressing Laure while she was disoriented, but, with any luck, she might mention a sound, a detail, that would identify her attacker.

  Aimée placed a small pot of hothouse violets next to the water carafe on Laure’s bedside table. Say it with flowers—hadn’t René recommended that for Morbier? “Too bad they don’t have any fragrance.”

  “Violets in winter! Merci.”

  En route, Aimée had spent an off-season fortune at the Marché aux Fleurs behind Hôtel Dieu. She’d asked the red-cheeked flower seller, a stout woman wearing layers of sweaters under her smock, how the flowers survived in such cold. “But the flowers like it here, Mademoiselle!” she’d answered.

  Laure gave a weak smile. “So thoughtful. You always watch out for me.”

  “Laure, what do you remember?”

  Pain crossed Laure’s face. The thin white scar creasing her upper lip caught the light.

  “My head’s throbbing. It feels like it’s full of cotton.”

  “Please try, Laure. Try to picture going up on the scaffolding and tell me what you heard.”

  Laure’s hands balled into fists. But her eyes widened as though she remembered something.

  “Stay calm, Laure,” Aimée said, unfurling Laure’s clenched fingers.

  “So hard . . . yes, Jacques called me. Screaming. The men . . .”

  Hadn’t Zoe Tardou said she’d heard male voices? “You said he was meeting an informer.”

  Laure’s eyes brightened. “He needed my back-up. Now I remember but . . . my head’s throbbing.”

  “You saw these men?” Aimée leaned forward, gripped the metal bed rail. “You were set up! What did they look like?”

  “I heard men’s voices. That’s all I remember.”

  “Raised in anger?”

  Laure rubbed her head. “Can’t they give me something to stop the pain?”

  “Like an argument? Low or deep voices?”

  “Not speaking French,” she said. “I didn’t understand them.”

  Zoe Tardou had said the same thing.

  “What did it sound like?”

  Laure closed her eyes.

  “Try to think, Laure,” she said. “What language did they speak?”

  “I just remember the stale smell of sweat, a quick whiff from the rooftop,” she said, her voice fading. “And thinking it was Jacques and he had to be scared. Maybe . . . I don’t know . . . the way he called out.”

  A scared man because a deal had fallen through? Or was there something else?

  “Were you afraid for Jacques? Did you feel that he needed help? Why did you enter the apartment, Laure?”

  Tears streaked down her pale cheeks. “What else could I do? I couldn’t even pass the exam . . . Jacques fixed it for me. . . .”

  Her police exam, the one Laure had spent nights studying for? “Don’t worry about that,” Aimée said, wiping away the tears with a cloth, stroking Laure’s arm.

  If Laure had surprised the men meeting Jacques, they could have attacked her, taken her gun, and used it to shoot Jacques. But Aimée didn’t see how to account for the gun residue on Laure’s hands.

  “Papa made me promise . . . not to tell you. . . .” Laure’s voice trailed off.

  “Not to tell me what?” Aimée demanded.

  Georges had passed away several years earlier. Had the concussion returned her to the past, so she was reliving a memory? A feeling of foreboding filled Aimée.

  “What do you mean, Laure?” She tried to avoid the exasperated tone she’d used with the younger Laure when she had tagged after Aimée and dogged her movements.

  Laure’s eyelids fluttered.

  “That pile of Carambar, remember? I didn’t tell you. I took them from the concierge.”

  Carambar, the candy caramels Aimée loved. Still did.

  “He didn’t mean to, Aimée. Neither of them did,” Laure gasped in pain.

  Aimée’s spine stiffened. The way Laure spoke indicated that something more than stolen candy was on her mind.

  “Who didn’t mean to?”

  “When we came home from school . . . that day I stole the Carambar . . . the envelope . . . on the concierge’s table. Remember, I imitated her?”

  The high-pitched beeps from one of the monitors alarmed Aimée.

  “Laure, I don’t understand.”

  “Your papa, the report saying your papa . . . non, I’m so confused. That happened much later. Some cover-up.” She lay back. “With Ludovic . . . too tired.”

  Aimée felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. Laure’s words indicated her father had gotten involved in something shady. A cover-up? With “Ludovic”?

  “Mademoiselle, stand aside, please.” Aimée felt arms pushing her out of the way and from the corner of her eye saw a team of white-coated staff rushing past her.

  “Oxygen! Monitor her blood pressure,” a doctor said. “Her pupils are blown.”

  “Sixty over forty,” said the nurse.

  “Looks like increased intercranial pressure—”

  Aimée stumbled toward the nurses’ station. The staff pulled a white curtain, its hooks jingling, around Laure’s bed.

  “Please, tell me what’s happening.”

  “Complications,” said a brisk nurse, grabbing a chart.

  Complications. Did the nurse mean permanent damage? “Why has her condition worsened?”

  “Only medical personnel are permitted here now. You must leave the ward.”

  “But my friend—”

  “We’ll handle this, call back later,” the nurse said peremptorily, steering Aimée out.

  Tuesday

  AIMÉE STARED OVER THE melting, dirt-encrusted snowdrifts on the bank of the Seine, racked with worry and guilt. She’d pushed Laure, subjected her to critical stress. She would never forgive herself if the pressure of her questions had caused Laure permanent damage.

  Laure’s disjointed words spun in her mind. Old story, old news, about her father’s corruption, she wanted to shout. Hadn’t she proved he wasn’t crooked? Yet a sliver of doubt remained. Had Laure some knowledge of a cover-up, something her father had gone along with? Ludovic . . . was he Ludovic Jubert? The one who’d been referred to by the Interpol agent in Clichy in connection with Aimée’s father’s death in the Place Vendôme? The gray-hued Seine, swirling by in eddies, provided no answers.

  She had to set that aside, worry about it later, had to concentrate on Laure’s predicament. She had to see the lab report for herself; she needed more facts to go on. She pulled out the list she’d copied of the partygoers the police had questioned, hoping the man she’d seen with the backpack was on it.

  OF THE twenty names, she managed to reach eighteen by phone. The first, who identified himself as in “advertising,” replied that he’d enjoyed the hors d’oeuvre table and the blonde he’d met. That was all he remembered. And it went downhill from there. A couple commented that with all the music they hadn’t been able to have much conversation with anyone else. Two of the models indicated they’d been on their cell phones much of the time confirming their next day’s bookings.

  The catering-firm owner, a Monsieur Pivot, spoke for his staff. His caterers had slaved in a hot kitchen and hadn’t had a break until the police arrived. Pivot was sure of that—“They’d be in trouble otherwise.” The bossa nova quartet’s guitarist confirmed that they had played until eleven-thirty, just before the police arrived. She left messages for the two others she’d been unable to reach and hoped for a call back.

  Just before noon, sick of the phone, she changed into a wool pinstripe trouser suit, the warmest outfit in her armoire, outlined her eyes in kohl, and slipped on her coat. She had recalled where she’d seen Conari’s name: on trucks all around Paris.

  Half an hour later, she stood on avenue Junot at the Conari firm’s address on the upscale side of Montmartre at the crest of the northwest slope. She entered a remodeled artist’s atelier housing several architecture and construction
firms. Conari’s offices occupied an entire floor; the firm was prosperous if the building and its location were anything to go by.

  “No appointment?” said the receptionist, with a perfunctory smile. She had short curly brown hair and good teeth. So good Aimée figured her paycheck had gone into them. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Conari’s working on a deadline. It’s impossible.”

  Aimée shifted in her high-heeled boots, wishing she’d worn her two-inch heels instead. “A homicide occurred in the apartment across from where he hosted a party last night. I have a few follow-up questions, routine, of course, that will take five minutes. Guaranteed. It’s necessary to the investigation.”

  “But he’s too busy—”

  “Just ask him. He’s been so cooperative already I hate to intrude, but I promise to take just five minutes of his time.”

  The receptionist hesitated, picked up the phone. “Monsieur Conari, there’s a”—she glanced at Aimée’s card, flashed her teeth again—“a Mademoiselle Leduc of Leduc Detective who insists she needs to speak with you.”

  The receptionist blinked. “Of course, Mademoiselle, go right in. Second door on the left.”

  Aimée’s heels sank into the deep pile of the carpeted hallway whose walls were lined with abstract black-and-white paintings. She knocked on the door.

  “Entréz.”

  Floor-to-ceiling windows greeted her, a wall of glass giving a panoramic view of the rooftops below. What looked like several loft spaces had been combined into a large room with a cathedral-type glass ceiling that soared upward.

  She focused on a middle-aged charcoal-haired man leaning over a drawing table, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  “Monsieur Félix Conari? I’m Aimée Leduc,” she said. “Pardon me for disturbing you.”

  “Of course, no problem,” he said, concern in his voice. “Please sit down.”

  He indicated a low-slung red leather chair that looked difficult to get out of.

  “Non, merci, you’re busy and I’ll get to the point,” she said, pulling out the list of partygoers from her bag. “Can you describe what happened at your party last night?”

  Félix Conari rubbed his chin. “Tiens, let me think, the quartet played, my guests seemed entertained, the caterers kept stocking the bar and refilling the hors d’oeuvres trays, I made sure of that,” he said, in a down-to-earth tone. “You see, the guests were clients, important to my firm. We were about to go in to dinner. Yes, that’s right, and then the commissaire came.”

  “That’s all you remember, Monsieur Conari?”

  He expelled air from his mouth, shrugged. “Oui. But let me call Yann, he was there last night.”

  Conari hit an intercom button on his desk. She noted a Yann Marant on her list, one of the two she had not reached.

  A moment later, a man in his thirties, wearing a rumpled black suit and Adidas track shoes, with long brown hair curling behind his ears, came in.

  “My friend Yann Marant, a software engineer consulting with my firm,” Conari introduced him. “Mademoiselle Leduc’s a detective investigating the incident last night.”

  Aimée noted the telltale calluses on the edge of Yann Marant’s palm. A systems analyst or programmer, she figured.

  Yann smiled. A nice smile.

  “Sorry to bother you, Monsieur Marant, but I understand you attended Monsieur Conari’s party,” Aimée said.

  Yann nodded. “Do we need to identify someone in a lineup, a suspect? Is that why you’re here?”

  He watched too much télé. “Not quite yet,” Aimée said.

  “I want to help, but . . .” Marant shook his head. “I was preoccupied last night.”

  “You know these software engineers.” Félix gave a small smile, slapping him on the back. “Code, numbers whirling in his mind all the time. It’s hieroglyphics to me, but I pull him back to earth from time to time.”

  Aimée wondered if Marant was good. She and René used a consulting-systems analyst from time to time. They would need one if their proposals worked out, but since Marant had been hired by a successful outfit like Conari’s she doubted he’d be in their price range.

  “The commissaire told us very little,” Yann said. “We’re in the dark as to what happened.”

  Intelligence radiated from these men. They were not the type she could fob off with dumbed-down information.

  “That’s standard procedure, Monsieur. In investigations like this, the officers must gather all the facts before any hypothesis can be made. That’s why I’m here, disturbing you,” she said and smiled. “Monsieur Marant, try to think back to last night, just before eleven o’clock. Did you hear a loud noise or notice anything happening outside the window?”

  He shrugged. “I worked in Félix’s study. There are no windows. Then, Félix, your guest arrived, the musician? I lost track of time—”

  “I take it the police questioned him,” Aimée said. “His name?”

  Félix Conari’s hand clutched the slanted table’s edge. “He’s shy, that one, Lucien. A unique musician.”

  Aimée scanned the names. “There’s no Lucien listed here. His last name?”

  “Sarti. A Corsican DJ and musician. He mixes traditional polyphony and hip-hop.”

  No Lucien Sarti. Aimée thought of the timing and the man watching at the gate. “Does he have black hair and was he wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a backpack?”

  Félix grinned. “That describes many of my guests. But, yes, he is tall, rail thin, and has black curly hair.”

  “How can I reach him?”

  “Look, Mademoiselle, I don’t want to get him involved in this.”

  “Of course not, but I need help, all the help I can get. I must speak with everyone. Can you give me his phone number?”

  “Lucien’s a musician, a free spirit,” Conari said. “No phone. I contact him through a resto, Strago, and leave messages for him.”

  She wrote that down. “You mentioned your guests were clients,” she said. “I’m curious as to how you know this musician, Lucien Sarti.”

  “Call it a middle-aged man’s dream, but I’m planning to promote him,” he said, with a small smile. “I have some connections in the recording industry. Music’s close to my heart. But he disappeared before we actually signed the contract. Artists, you know!”

  She wondered why this Lucien Sarti had disappeared before speaking to the police.

  “Should Félix be concerned, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Yann asked. His ponytail poked out above his jacket collar. “I mean, has the quartier changed so much? Can I ask what happened?”

  Marant asked a lot of questions. But then she would, too.

  Félix nodded. “I’ve never seen such a police presence. This is Paris, not New York, where shootings are commonplace.”

  Read the papers, she wanted to say. But they might prove more helpful if she told them something. Word traveled in the quartier so even these busy urban professionals would hear, sooner or later.

  “We’re investigating a policeman’s murder on the roof of the building adjoining yours. The storm hasn’t helped,” she said. Two pairs of eyes watched her. “So anything that might come to your mind, a small detail—”

  “You’re a private detective, you said. Aren’t the police in charge?”

  Sharp. Didn’t miss a thing. “I’m investigating on behalf of a client,” she said. “Beyond that I can’t say.”

  “Look, I want to be more helpful,” Yann said. “How can I reach you if I remember anything?”

  Aimée hid her disappointment at their lack of information. “I appreciate your time, merci,” she said, handing them each her card.

  STRAGO, ON the less fashionable and more working-class slope of Montmartre, was a storefront restaurant with a hammer and sickle on the old curling menu posted behind smudged glass. A handwritten sign in violet ink read FERMÉ. This side of the quartier hadn’t changed much since Doisneau’s black-and-white fifties photographs, she thought. Narrow cobbled streets wound up to
the butte. The corner cafés and low buildings fronting rue Labat reminded Aimée of Edith Piaf’s sad song of the rue Labat streetwalker who had lost her man. But, then, weren’t they all sad?

  Thoughts of Guy intruded. His scent, the way he ran his fingers through his hair. She pushed the sadness down; she had to find this musician.

  At the vegetable shop under a green awning next door, Aimée asked the owner about Strago’s hours.

  “They open when they feel like it,” he told her. “If you smell garlic, Anna’s cooking.”

  She put a franc down and reached into the counter’s glass canister for several Carambars. She unwrapped the yellow waxed paper, glanced at the joke printed inside, and popped the caramel into her mouth. “Ever seen Lucien Sarti, black hair, black leather jacket, who gets messages there?” she went on.

  He shrugged. “When the weather’s like this, I stay in the shop.”

  She handed him her card. “If you do, call me. I’d like to speak with him, Monsieur.”

  She wrote down Strago’s phone number and belted her leather coat against the cold. Snow clumps in the plane tree branches melted into dripping lines that ran down the bare trunks. Snow, the rare times it occurred in Paris, never lasted long. The rising heat from the buildings took care of that. Like it had taken care of any evidence that the snow on the roof might have held.

  She rooted in her worn Vuitton wallet. Found it. The card with Jubert’s name that Pleyet from Interpol had given her when she’d dealt with him in the Clichy district. Her thoughts jumped to Laure’s ramblings. For two months she’d searched for Jubert, the one link she’d found to her father’s death in the Place Vendôme bombing. But he hadn’t been at the address listed, or in the Ministry. It was as if the man had never existed.

  Was Jubert the “Ludovic” Laure had mentioned? Was there another Ludovic in her father’s past, a past of whispers, secrets, and shadows she’d only caught hints of. Morbier would know. She pulled out her cell phone.

  “Oui,” Morbier answered.

  “May I buy you a late lunch?”