by Cara Black
The date clicked into place. Bruno Peltier had died on October 9.
Aimée pulled out the photo again. Always make sure, her father said.
“And you know him, you’re sure?”
Suzy nodded. “Saw him twice.”
“Go on. What was he like?”
Suzy glanced around. Stabbed out her cigarette, stood and closed the door.
“Never flashed his money but appreciated good things,” said Suzy.
“A typical old money type?”
Suzy thought, then shrugged. “Depends what you call typical.”
“Loaded and discrète?”
“That’s funny you say that. He’s a provincial, like me—not old money. I went to meet him and his friends once for a drink on Avenue Gabriel.”
Ooh, this was working. Aimée nodded in what she hoped looked like encouragement. “Which place?”
Suzy thought. “That chic spot, off the Champs-Élysées.”
“Which one, Suzy?” She heard her own eagerness, tried to soften her voice and sound more encouraging. “Can you remember?”
“You know, the old hunting lodge . . . Laurent, that’s right, it’s called Laurent.”
That fit with Elise’s statement. Score this in the plus column.
“I drank champagne, then split. Not my crowd.”
Now a minus.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would you leave, Suzy?”
Suzy balled up a chocolate wrapper. Twisted it between her thumb and forefinger. “He wanted eye candy, tu comprends? To show off. But I got another booking. Left. Glad not to face a dinner with a bunch of old farts.”
“The night of October ninth?”
Suzy shrugged.
Could she have been with him the night Bruno was murdered? What were the odds that his friends had gathered two nights that same week at Laurent? But hadn’t his friends told Elise’s mother that Bruno hadn’t shown up for dinner?
Aimée pulled out her school pocket calendar, found the date and pointed to it. “A Monday, October ninth. Remember?”
Suzy’s brows knit in thought. “My mother had a gallbladder operation the next day, I remember. Let’s see. The operation was on Tuesday.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I had to get up early the next day to get to my mother’s. There are no direct trains from Gare de Lyon to Cantal.”
Cantal, a town in the Auvergne region. “My grandmother’s from near there. Whereabouts?”
Suzy made a face. “Aurillac, the land of old geezers—that’s all that’s left down there.”
Aimée thought through what Suzy had just told her. People lied sometimes, her father always said, and sometimes they lied for reasons unrelated to an investigation.
If Suzy accompanied Bruno to Laurent, yet his friends said he’d never showed up, someone was lying.
Aimée’s pulse sped up. Her father had told Elise Peltier that random murders were sometimes the hardest to solve—but if the people who had last seen Bruno Peltier alive were lying, it didn’t seem like such a random murder after all. Why had the police declined to follow up?
Was Suzy part of the setup? But why had she admitted going there—implicated herself—if she was?
Aimée wished her father were here.
Suzy took her brush and applied eyeliner.
“Last time I saw him, kid. Never heard from him again. I’ve helped you now.”
Aimée reached in her bag. What bonus could she give? “Tell me about his friends.”
“We were in the bar. Like I said, got another booking and left before they came.”
“Did he talk to anyone?”
“Maybe. The bartender? Look, I’ve got to go.”
Aimée took out another hundred-franc bill and her card and left it on the table. Hoped that looked legitimate enough. “That’s got both my numbers and my pager, if you remember something else.”
She added the small bottle, part of a sample packet, of Chanel No. 5 she’d acquired at Galeries Lafayette when she’d splurged on Chanel lipstick.
“Chanel. Nice touch, kid. You’re more professional than most.”
A rush of pride surged through Aimée. Wow, she had gotten real information from this woman.
Suzy stood up, giving Aimée the full-length view of her micro silver mini and matching boots. “Bruno’s wife’s checking up on him?”
“Not anymore.” Aimée shook her head. “Why’s the bouncer so protective of you?”
Suzy didn’t meet her eyes. Aimée saw a slight tremble as Suzy slid the cigarettes into her bag. “Jealous, maybe?” Suzy shrugged.
Instinct kicked in. Suzy was lying.
“What are you afraid of, Suzy?”
But Suzy vanished in a clinking shimmer behind the orange gauze curtain.
Paris · Friday night, 9:30 p.m.
Aimée stood in the crowded Métro car, with an accordion player and a young boy jingling coins in a coffee tin for a handout.
She held onto the greasy pole as the Métro swayed. Thank God for the warmth, although she could have done without the germ-laden mugginess. The burning smell of brakes was followed by a whoosh of cold air as the doors slid open.
She emerged from Cité, one of the deepest stations carved under the Seine, to face the Préfecture de Police, then turned right toward the Palais de la Justice, which hid the indigo stained glass of adjoining Sainte-Chapelle. The pavement bustled with passersby in wool overcoats. Lamplight filtered through the bare plane trees with their peeling-bark trunks. She passed the green cast-iron Wallace fountain, water trickling over its four caryatids, and parted the heavy velvet draft curtains of café-bistro Le Soleil d’Or, frequented by the flics from the préfecture. A lively crowd ate, talked, smoked, and drank.
Off-duty flics never strayed far from the umbilical cord, she thought, recognizing a few faces who’d worked with her father. The ones who’d sat by and watched when he’d been fingered for someone else’s corruption. At least that’s what she’d overheard. She’d like to spit in their drinks. Instead she ignored them and caught the owner Louis’s attention.
“Mademoiselle Aimée,” said Louis, kissing her on both cheeks. She’d known him since she’d come here to do her homework at the back banquette. “Any tips for arthritis, docteur?”
“Alors, Louis,” she smiled. “I’m only first-year premed.”
And for how long?
“Date night with your grand-père? Claude’s with . . .”
His mistress. She waved the words away.
“You know he doesn’t want me going up there,” she said. Grand-père now spent more and more time with his mistress, a relative of Louis’s who lived in the old family quarters above. Aimée’s papa refused to acknowledge the relationship that had been going on for years.
“Mais non, he’s over there.” Louis pointed.
Claude, lush white hair curling over the collar of his sweater-vest, sat at the back banquette. He beckoned her over, a smile on his long-jowled, mustached face, and patted the banquette seat beside him. Grand-père’s hug was big and overwhelming—just like Papa’s. Like father, like son.
A plate of half-eaten steak frites sat before him. The wafting aroma of the morel sauce made her realize she hadn’t eaten.
“Hungry, ma puce?”
“Only time for un chocolat chaud,” she said.
He motioned to Louis. “Her usual.”
She gestured to the small, dirty white dog next to him. “And who’s the fluff ball?”
He shrugged. “A stray.” The little thing shivered, and the next second it was worming into her lap.
“Et alors, you think you can do surveillance with me?”
Her grand-père paused, his fork midair. “Your father sent you?”
“Pas du tout.” The do
g licked Aimée’s wrist.
“So he’s got you working again.” Her grand-père cut a morsel of meat, took it between his fingers and let the dog smell it. Gone in an instant. “He should do it himself.”
“Papa’s on the night train to Berlin.”
“Into that mess?” He sat back, pulled a cigar from his vest pocket, tapped it on the white paper tablecloth. “Alors, I’m retired. Why didn’t he call me himself instead of sending you?”
If she reminded him that he wouldn’t speak to his son, she’d be putting herself in the middle. Why couldn’t her grandfather and father settle whatever it was between them?
“Mais non, it’s me asking the favor, not him.” She dipped a frite in the mustard pot. Then another. Couldn’t help herself. “What’s with you two anyway?”
He shrugged, as he always did when he wanted to avoid a subject, and twisted the end of his mustache. “What’s he got you doing now?”
“Surveillance, comme toujours,” she said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. “I need your overcoat. Please, Grand-père.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be studying, ma puce?” He rubbed her cheek.
“And I’m not? It’s a few hours’ work, c’est tout.”
He squinted his left eye, like he did when he was secretly pleased.
“Good thing I’m bored,” he said. “What surveillance?”
She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Over a steaming cup of chocolat chaud dolloped with crème, she pulled out her notebook.
He took a glance. “Your lab notes? Want me to lose my appetite?”
“Mais non, it’s this part.” She turned the pages and pointed to her scribbled case notes. “The victim is Bruno Peltier, Grand-père. He’s family.”
“That’s a stretch,” he said, shaking his head.
Surprised, Aimée related Elise’s tearful explanation. “She said a second cousin. So how are we related?”
“Ask your father.”
“Funny, he said the same thing—to ask you.”
“Wrong side of the sheets. That kind of relative, comprends?”
An illegitimate child? “But whose?”
“That’s all you need to know. We don’t talk about him.” He raised his thick-fingered hand. “So what have you got there?”
Still curious, she had to let that go. For now. She showed him Peltier’s photo and his daughter’s statement. “Don’t you remember the murder on the quai a month ago?”
“That was Bruno Peltier?” Her grand-père’s bushy eyebrow rose.
She talked him through her notes, telling him everything she knew. “Cause of death, according to the certificat de décès, a shot to the back of the head.”
“Et alors, ma petite detective, what does that tell you?”
“He rubbed gangland the wrong way. Got in over his head. Gambling?”
Her grandfather leaned over to pet the dog still on Aimée’s lap, who gave a little sigh of contentment. “Think, Aimée. How would they get their money back?”
“So scratch gambling. Okay. Suzy’s pimp? Or her husband?”
“Take it step by step, Aimée.” Her grandfather gave a little sigh. “Be methodical, like you would for anatomy. Looks like the man got a bullet to the head. Execution style. Of course you noticed the bullet, but with my eyes, I can’t read that . . . a nine millimeter or twelve?”
“Not from a pistol,” she said, knowing that much. “But a rifle?”
He made a face. “You should know better. I’ve got one myself.”
Louis put down a second chocolat before her.
“Merci,” she said, smiling at him. She licked the rim of her cup. “You mean that old submachine gun in your armoire—the one that jammed all the time in the war?”
“Sten gun. Such merde the Anglais dropped,” he said.
Aimée became aware of a buzzing of nervous energy taking over the bistro. She looked up. Out the windows, which overlooked the Seine, she could see the blue-lit Zodiac police boat speed by below.
“Another floater!” she heard someone at a table nearby say as he grabbed his coat.
“That’s why’s my beeper’s going when I’m almost off duty,” his table mate said, his chair scraping back.
Her grand-père pointed to her notes. “So Suzy drank with Bruno at his last known location.”
“That’s why I need to confirm with the bartender. Have a chat.” She downed the last of her velvety chocolat chaud. “May I borrow your bike?”
“It’s freezing, Aimée.” Her grandfather handed her his motorcycle keys. “My helmet and jacket are on the coat rack.”
She ruffled the dog’s fur and kissed her grandfather. Her last image was of him puffing on his cigar and feeding the puppy bits of steak.
She threw her bag in her grandfather’s motorcycle sidecar, adjusted the helmet’s strap, and pulled on his big shearling-lined leather motorcycle jacket. Huge; she swam in it. Goggles on for protection against the biting wind, she eased his BSA into first and maneuvered past the préfecture along the quai. She weaved in traffic, glad of the jacket and the power of this machine between her legs. She just hoped her knees wouldn’t freeze solid.
Bruno’s last known location, Laurent, a chic resto, set back in the park, commanded a partial view of the Champs-Élysées under the bare, low-hanging branches. A few diners sat in the oval dining room and warm smells came from the kitchen. Impressive, très sophistiqué and out of her budget.
Her cowboy boots conflicted with the dress code. If only she’d thought this through and stuck a pair of heels in her bag. Too late now.
“Bonsoir,” she said to the man at the bar, the helmet under her arm. Tall, olive-complected, and dark-haired in a white shirt and black jacket, he could grace the Dior Homme runway show. He nodded and slid a cocktail napkin in front of her.
Not the bribable type. Or if so, not one she could afford. How could she play this?
“We’re serving a Sancerre, if you’re interested. Smooth and subtle.”
He imparted a touch of seduction as he smiled a second too long. His tone was smooth and not so subtle.
She gave a little pout. Regretted not applying mascara. “I wish. Mais non, merci,” she said, pulling out the photo of Bruno. “Can you help? I know the flics probably questioned you about this victim . . .”
“You’re what, a flic from a special unit? Kinda young, non?”
Quick, too.
“Close.” She smiled, showing her doctored PI license. But not for too long. “I’m Aimée and you’re . . .”
“Marc.” He set a coaster in front of her and poured her a Pellegrino. “On the house.”
His warm fingers lingered a moment on hers as she took the glass. Like Florent’s fingers. Stop. Focus, she had to focus.
“Merci, Marc. The victim’s daughter’s devastated. She’s hired us.”
“Why?”
Her father always said to control the questioning, don’t let it get away from you.
“It’s hit her mother hard,” said Aimée, hoping to elicit his sympathy. “That’s all I can say. You’ll appreciate my discretion, I’m sure. But even after a month there’s no closure in the investigation. Nothing.” She shrugged. Needed to establish a baseline. “Did the flics question you about Bruno’s visit here?”
Concern showed in Marc’s face.
“Pas du tout. But I left for Sardinia the next day. Had no idea until I came back from holiday. They spoke with my boss. Shall I get him?”
“So no one has questioned you?”
Marc shook his head. Picked up a wine glass to dry with a towel. A piano tinkled in the background.
“So you do remember October ninth, Marc, because you left for holiday the next day, non?”
He nodded. “I’ve thought about it a lot, to tell you the truth.�
��
Good, a thinker. She readied her camera behind her helmet.
“So tell me about Bruno and his companion.”
“Such a crazy evening. We had a ministry bunch, then the . . .”
He liked to talk. She had to suppress her glee—she was so pleased with herself for finding another informative witness. After he had related what seemed a typical evening, he described Bruno’s arrival. “With a woman. A looker, like you.” Marc grinned. His charm probably worked on most of the female population, but not on her, not tonight.
Her heart was racing because she had just learned Suzy hadn’t lied—which meant Bruno’s friends had lied to Madame Peltier, and to the police. She needed to focus on her witness now, see what other information she could get from him. “So that struck you as unusual, Marc?” she asked, remembering to use his name. Add the personal touch, her father always said.
His eyes lifted from her sweater. “Eh, she looked bored. Left. Every month, Monsieur Peltier and his friends dine together. I get the feeling . . .” He paused.
Eager, she leaned on the bar. “Go on.”
“Provincials.” He’d lowered his voice.
“Eh, meaning . . . ?”
“Maybe they live here, but can’t rub off the village dirt.” Marc hesitated. “That’s not the best way to say it, but you understand, non? Nice enough gentlemen.”
Suzy said the same thing—she’d called Bruno Peltier a provincial.
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“Why, recently.”
“Are they here now?”
He shook his head.
That would have been too easy.
“Did you see Bruno actually join them that evening?
He shrugged. “I didn’t notice.”
“Did you see him leave?”
He shrugged again. “But I saw them leave last night.”
“Last night?”
“Two took a taxi and one walked.”
“And you remember this why, Marc?”
“Three sheets to the wind, I’d say. One of them forgot his scarf, cashmere, came back in the taxi and left me a generous tip.” He smiled. “They tip well.”
She still didn’t know if Bruno had joined the friends for dinner, or if he’d left for some reason before they all met up. Suzy had been afraid of something—did she know more? These old friends—were they in on it, or were they in danger, too? Wouldn’t they be nervous about dining here again so soon after Bruno’s murder?
