Murder on the Quai

by Cara Black

  By her father’s office, she stepped into the warm corner café, whose windows were clouded with moisture, and nodded at Virginie, the proprietress. The staticky radio news channel blared, mixing with a whooshing of the milk steamer.

  The local butcher, a rotund man wearing a white apron smeared with blood, set his demi-pression de bière on the counter. “Tell le vieux I’ve got that lamb shank he ordered.” His boucherie was around the corner, its storefront crowned with the traditional horse busts.

  “Merci,” she said.

  Le vieux, her grand-père, had founded Leduc Detective after years at the Sûreté. His private detective agency made use of his contacts and connections to specialize in missing persons. “One of the top five agencies,” he’d always say. “I’m discreet and get results.”

  The butcher liked to talk. “He’s quite the gourmand these days, eh, your grand-père?” He drew on his beer. “Semi-retirement? One like him never retires.”

  He’d got that right, according to her father, who’d taken over Leduc Detective after he left the Paris Police. Grand-père had run a one-man show at the detective agency until then. He had officially retired to make room for his son, but kept many fingers in the pie. Too many, Aimée’s father often said.

  “Tell him I’ll save some beef cheeks. I know he likes them.”

  Sounded like the butcher missed her grand-père and his business.

  “In the continuing historic news from Berlin,” said the announcer’s voice coming from the radio behind the chipped melamine counter, “on this cold afternoon, for the first time in twenty-eight years, crowds pass beyond Checkpoint Charlie after the Berlin Wall fell last night . . .” The rest was lost in crowd noises.

  “Can you believe it?” said the butcher, rubbing his hands on his apron. “That’s the end of Communism and I just paid my Party dues.”

  The wire birdcage of an elevator in her father’s building on rue du Louvre sported an Out of Service sign. When was it ever in service? She picked up the mail from the concierge—bills. The winding stairs were redolent of beeswax polish. She was still trudging up to her father’s office on the third floor when the timed light switched off, plunging the staircase in darkness, and she almost stumbled. Feeling her way up the smooth banister, she managed to reach the landing and hit the light. Leduc Detective’s frosted-glass door was open. Odd.

  “Papa?”

  Stepping inside, she heard his muffled voice. Drawers closing. The old wood-paneled partition blocked her view.

  She hung up her leather jacket but kept her scarf on. Her father’s nineteenth-century office, with its high ceilings, carved wood boiseries, and nonfunctional marble fireplace, enjoyed nineteenth-century heating. She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, then gave the radiator a good kick. Sputter, sputter . . . et voilà.

  On the wall were old underground sewer maps that had fascinated her as a child. Still did. She set the bills below the old sepia photo of her grandfather during his Sûreté days, waxed mustache and all. Next to it on the wall was Leduc Detective’s original business license.

  “I kept my distance, as requested, Jean-Claude,” a woman was saying. “I asked for nothing. But we’re still family, and now I need your help.”

  Family?

  Curious, Aimée peered around the screen. She saw a woman sitting across from her father at his mahogany desk. She was in her mid-forties, with broad cheekbones and short, brown hair. A mink-collared coat rested in her lap. Wide-set eyes blinking with unease, she reminded Aimée of a deer. A frightened deer.

  Who was this woman?

  Her father looked up at Aimée, his reading glasses riding down his nose, his dark brown hair curling over his suit jacket collar. His expression was both irritated and quizzical.

  “You paged me, Papa. Something come up?”

  Her father sighed. “My daughter, Aimée, Mademoiselle Peltier.”

  “No need for the formality, Jean-Claude.” The woman reached out to shake Aimée’s hand. “I’m Elise, your father’s second cousin. We met but you were small.”

  “We did?” Who knew she had this distant relative?

  “You were a toddler.” Elise gave a small smile.

  Aimée’s heart dropped. “Then you must have known my mother.” Her American mother, who had disappeared when Aimée was only eight years old, leaving Jean-Claude to raise their daughter alone.

  “That’s not why Mademoiselle Peltier’s here, Aimée,” said her father. His mouth was tight with anger. “Elise, I’m packing,” he said. “My train’s in an hour. I know someone very good who can help you.”

  “Mais you’re family,” Elise said, insistent. “You’re a former policeman. Without your help I’ll never discover the truth.”

  Aimée shot her father a what-in-the-world look. He averted his gaze. Was he hiding something? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father so uncomfortable.

  Elise turned back to her. “As I was telling your father, my papa was murdered. He was found tied and bound, a bullet in the back of his head, under Pont des Invalides.” Elise twisted her Hermès scarf between her fingers.

  Aimée tried not to betray her shock. She’d followed the story in Le Parisien, every lurid detail. She knew the spot, the dock for the bateaux-mouches—a busy place. “Wasn’t that a few weeks ago? Did the case get solved?”

  Elise’s lip quivered. “It’s been a month and the police have discovered nothing. My mother’s gone into a shell, won’t speak or eat.”

  Aimée tried to catch her father’s eye.

  “Again, I’m sorry, but my field’s missing persons, Elise.” Her father slid files in his briefcase.

  How could he act so cold—so businesslike—with his cousin?

  “Papa still had money in his wallet, his keys.”

  “That’s right, the article said nothing was missing,” said Aimée. She remembered reading that a fisherman had found the body early the morning after. “He wasn’t a robbery victim.”

  Elise nodded. “Why? That’s what I want to know. Who’d do this?” Her voice cracked. “The police say they have explored all avenues. Even after I showed them this. I found it in Papa’s coat pocket.”

  Curious, Aimée glanced over as Elise set an open matchbook on the desk. In it was written SUZY and a phone number.

  “Can you find her, Jean-Claude?”

  “Why do you want to find her?” her father asked. Aimée recognized that question he used to divert spouses from pursuing un amour best left alone.

  “Who is Suzy?” said Aimée.

  Elise rubbed her eyes. “You remember Papa, non, Jean-Claude? He’s not the type to have a mistress, but now I’ve got my doubts. What if he got mixed up in shady business at a club, you know?”

  Aimée picked up the matchbook. Le Gogo was emblazoned in gold on the cover.

  “Le Gogo’s off the Champs-Élysées on rue de Ponthieu, non?” said Aimée.

  Elise nodded. “You know it?”

  Aimée shrugged. “Know of it, oui.”

  A quartier of boîtes de nuit, discos and clubs like Queen, Rasputin, and Régine’s for la jet-set, at least until a few years ago. Places Florent’s sister, Mimi, clubbed at.

  “Jean-Claude, I’ll hire you to investigate. Do this for me, please? Find this Suzy and see if she had anything to do with his murder.”

  “Haven’t you called this number yourself?”

  Of course she had, Aimée thought, catching her father’s eye.

  “A man answered and I hung up.” Elise looked beseechingly at Aimée’s father. “The police have gotten nowhere. But one of the inspectors, a Morbier, told me you would help. Then I realized he was referring me to you, Jean-Claude. My own family.”

  Morbier was her father’s first colleague on the beat, and Aimée’s godfather. He must have felt sorry for Elise. What she didn’t understa
nd was why her father appeared so reluctant to help.

  She opened her mouth to speak but caught her father’s be quiet look and the slight shake of his head.

  “Elise, pursuing this could lead to discovering something that might hurt your mother,” said her father. “An indiscretion you wish you didn’t know about.”

  Elise’s eyes welled. “That’s what the police say, what everyone says. But it’s not right.” She erupted into sobs. “Papa wasn’t like that. Maybe everyone says that, but he really wasn’t the type to go to these clubs.”

  But she was ignoring the evidence in her hand, Aimée thought. The man must have led a secret life.

  “He was murdered in cold blood. Shot on the quai.” Her lip quivered. “But no one cares, they’re indifferent, no one wants to help—not even you. It’s like it never happened.”

  “The police have their procedures, Elise. They’re not indifferent; they follow clues. Check evidence. This murder may have been random, the most difficult kind to solve. Morbier must have told you that.” Jean-Claude passed her a box of tissues. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

  “The certificat de décès came today.” She blew her nose. “I don’t know what’s worse: seeing it in black and white and not being able to do anything, or seeing my mother wasting away to nothing.”

  Elise set the report on the pile on Aimée’s father’s desk.

  The radiator sputtered.

  “Jean-Claude, I’ve written down everything I can remember. Plus there’s a copy of the police statement. Please. It’s all here.”

  Her father nodded. Scanned the statement.

  “I’ll do it the minute I get back,” he said. “But only to find clues to turn over to the police, you understand?”

  In answer Elise pulled out her checkbook.

  “Will that do for a retainer?”

  Five thousand francs. Aimée’s eyes bulged.

  Elise blew her nose, wiped her eyes, a mascaraed mess.

  “Elise, there’s a WC down the hall,” said Aimée, shooting her father a look.

  Her father slapped a report into his briefcase, buckled it closed. “Aimée, I know you go back to the lab on Friday nights,” he said. “But Sylvie’s still out with la grippe.”

  He gestured to his secretary’s desk. Reports piled high around a wilting dahlia plant. Poor Sylvie, sick like tout le monde.

  “Hate to ask, but could you put in an hour and organize things? Handle calls from the answering machine while I’m gone?”

  This was the last thing she wanted to do. She had so much on her mind—she had her place in the premed program to save.

  “That’s why you paged me?”

  Again he nodded. “Two clients haven’t settled their accounts,” he said with a sigh. “It’s tight this month. That’s why I’ll take her case.”

  The curse of the business. As a private contractor, he was always the last to get paid. But how could she refuse to help?

  “Bien sûr.” She tapped her boot heel, surveying his secretary’s cluttered desk. But now there was something she needed to ask him. She swallowed hard. “Papa, Elise remembered me from when I was little. Did she know Maman?”

  For a moment, pain shone in his eyes. “It’s been fifteen years. Elise and I were never close.”

  And where her mother was concerned he ignored the question. As usual.

  But she wouldn’t let him off this time. “What about my mother?”

  “We don’t talk about the past, Aimée.”

  She steeled her nerves, aware this was painful for him, too. “It’s time we do. I want to know if my mother’s alive. I want to know about my relatives.”

  “Not now, Aimée. Leave it alone. Trust me on this.”

  “She’s still family, Papa. A blood relation.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Something come up all of a sudden?” she asked.

  “You could say that. If I don’t leave I’ll miss my train.”

  “Train to where?”

  He had packed an overnight bag, she saw.

  “Alors, Gerhard called from Berlin.”

  Now Aimée remembered his contact there and the news bulletin on the radio. “Berlin? But the Wall’s just come down. Why now? You think it’s safe?”

  “Safer than ever. I need to get hold of those Berlin files in person . . .”

  Hadn’t she transcribed his investigative notes on a German couple last week? “You mean the missing husband?”

  “Exactement. Before the Stasi destroy all the records.” He rubbed his forehead.

  Elise would be back from the bathroom any moment. Aimée didn’t want to let the woman get away without hearing what she had to say about Aimée’s mother. On impulse she said, “Let me follow up on this Suzy. I read all about the case, Papa.”

  “Aren’t you a first-year med student with exams coming up?”

  Aimée pointed to the mink-collared coat draped over the back of the chair. “Didn’t you say it’s tight this month?”

  His mouth pursed. “Not a good idea, Aimée.”

  Now he thought it wasn’t a good idea for her to help—now that it was something interesting. He’d been happy to ask her to organize his files and answer his phone messages. “A piece of cake, Papa. Not even an evening’s work. You always tell me to follow my instinct. I can do this in my sleep.”

  She’d been raised by two police detectives, her father and her grandfather. She’d spent her childhood dozing in the backseat of the car while her papa was running surveillance, and her teen years keeping the pot warm on the stove for him when he was out on all-night stakeouts.

  “Remember last year when I helped you track down that fille at the disco because you were too old to go in?”

  An aristo’s underage daughter who’d run off with a Corsican gangster.

  “This is different, Aimée.”

  “How? You’re just saying that. Look, it’s a simple job of asking around at this club and giving Elise some closure, c’est tout.” As she said it out loud, she wondered why the police hadn’t just done the same thing—it sounded straightforward enough. “Did Morbier refer her because his hands are tied?”

  “Something like that.” He’d bent down to pick up his case and she couldn’t see his expression. “Don’t you have a lab write-up to do, Aimée?”

  Changing the subject, as usual. “Not exactly,” she said.

  She felt like a six-year-old again—getting in trouble on the playground. How could she tell her father when he was running to catch a train? Face his disappointment?

  Her papa cupped her chin in his warm hands. “What’s up, ma princesse?”

  Why did she always forget how well her father knew her? “My lab experiment was sabotaged, Papa. It’s so cutthroat. I might get suspended even though I’ve done the work.”

  Her father snorted. “That’s going to stop you? Nothing worth doing comes easy.” He winked. “You’d let them intimidate you? Where’s my fighter?”

  That’s all he could say? On top of it, her boyfriend was getting engaged. Her life had fallen apart.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Aimée,” he said, his tone turned serious. “I want better things for you. To be a doctor—have a respected profession, meaningful work—that’s so important.”

  Translation: It was important for him. He didn’t want her to follow in his footsteps, and especially not those of her mother—an American free spirit who couldn’t cope with being tied down to her family and who’d broken his heart. But Aimée’s memories of her mother were warm and fuzzy—chocolat chaud and madeleines and stories at bedtime.

  “How are we related to Elise and her family? Why didn’t I know they existed?”

  “We’ll talk when I get back.”

  She let out a groan. “You mean I have to ask Grand-père, is that it?”r />
  Her father shrugged.

  Not again. “You’re still not speaking to him?”

  Her father reached for his wool scarf. “He’s not speaking to me. But he’s the one to ask about that side of the family.”

  Fine. She would. “Well, we can solve Elise’s mystery for her and put the check in the bank. We both know her father had an affair—cut and dried. I’ll check out this Suzy this weekend and then write up a report.”

  Simple. Then back to the grind of the textbooks.

  “For once listen to me. You’ve got an exam coming up,” said her father. “That’s the priority. Concentrate on studying, that’s your job.”

  “Papa . . .”

  “Not now, Aimée.” His expression was full of sadness, misgiving, and urgency, all at once. “There are some things you should know. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  She hadn’t seen that look on his face since that day when she was eight years old and she’d come home after school to find a note on the door in her mother’s handwriting: Stay with the neighbor. It was the last she’d ever heard of her mother.

  “What’s wrong, Papa?”

  He was about to speak, but the door’s buzzer sounded and he glanced at his brown leather watch. “That’s the taxi.”

  He gave Aimée a hug, enveloping her in the scent of his wool overcoat and pine cologne. Kissed her cheeks, leaving a warm imprint.

  “I’ll call you from Berlin.”

  She wished she’d had enough time to drag it out of him, whatever it was.

  Halfway down the winding stairs, he called up. “Don’t forget what I said. Hands off. And reserve the van for the Place Vendôme surveillance.”

  Elise returned from the bathroom, mascara and eyeliner carefully reapplied around her doe eyes.