Murder in the Palais Royal

by Cara Black

  Like hell she would. “Count on it, Morbier.”

  “It’s Melac’s call, Leduc. But behave and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Morbier reached in his drawer and put a fifty-franc note in her hand. “Buy René some flowers.”

  René needed a lot more than flowers.

  She joined the police escort at his door. Paused. “Merci.”

  All the way down the wide stone staircase, past the black-suited magistrates huddled in conversation, a thought nagged at her. Morbier had referred her to the New York detective, yet he had neglected to mention it now. So unlike him. He never forgot a favor owed.

  * * *

  IN THE FIRST - FLOOR cubicle, Aimée stared at Vichon, the duty detective. Late thirties, shaven head, and barrel-like chest, he dwarfed the small metal desk. He inserted a sheet, aligned the paper, and pecked at the ancient typewriter keyboard with two fingers.

  “WHERE’S YOUR COMPUTER?” Aimée asked. “It’s 1997.”

  “Blame it on your tax francs not at work,” Vichon said. “They hook the new system up next week. Or so they say.”

  He had that right, she thought. Half of the Commissariat’s computer systems were incompatible with the others. Red-faced, the Brigade Criminelle had tried to hide the fact that its budget didn’t provide for enough computers to handle Britain’s MI5’s communications, an embarrassment in the more than a month since Princess Diana’s car crash in the Pont de l’Alma tunnel. Referred to as ‘La Crim,’ the Brigade Criminelle’s investigation into the phantom Fiat Uno seen speeding away still had turned up nothing.

  “You’ve got security on my partner’s hospital room, non?”

  “Now you’re telling me how to do my job, Mademoiselle?”

  Somebody needed to, but she swallowed her words.

  The Brigade Criminelle was allowed to hold her in garde à vue for up to twenty-four hours. Better to shut up, not push Vichon. She couldn’t find the person who’d shot René from a jail cell.

  A knock sounded on his cubicle window.

  “Oui?” Vichon heaved himself up and conducted a conversation in the hallway with a blue-uniformed flic. The only word she caught was indicateur, an informer.

  Aimée saw a blonde in zebra-striped hot pants, lace-up stiletto boots, and matching black leather bustier. Her hands were cuffed behind her. Attractive, apart from the black eye and the dried blood on her cheek.

  Was this what they did to informers? Aimée’s shoulders tensed. Vichon stepped back into the cubicle.

  Aimée passed him a slip of paper with Mathieu’s phone number on it. “Call him. He’ll confirm that we had dinner last night at my apartment. He stayed there until the call came from the hospital.”

  Vichon shrugged. “All in good time.”

  Twenty minutes later, she’d signed her two-page typewritten statement and pushed it over his desk.

  And then it hit her. He’d typed out her statement, but not on the standard Proce`s-verbal form. And she knew why. Filing the Proce`s-verbal kicked the administrative wheels into action: duration of custody, her right to an attorney, and assignment of a procurator and Juge d’Instruction. A loss of power for the police. The elitists at La Crim hated being on the juge d’instruction’s leash. Termed “hunters,” they preferred to investigate in their own way, to remain “unofficial” until they were certain before documenting their investigation “officially.”

  A bad sign. Since Napoleon’s time—and before—the police had spied on French citizens. That hadn’t changed. They could tap her phone, follow her, give her rope with which to hang herself.

  Vichon thumbed the pages in the report, scratching his chin, ignoring her statement.

  Aimée drummed her chipped Byte-me Blue lacquered nails on the desk. “Alors, I’ve got an alibi. Besides, I have no reason to shoot my partner. He’s my best friend.”

  “Witnesses at the scene identified you.”

  Surprised, she leaned forward. “But I left my office at five P.M. to pick up the rosemary chicken. Ask the Fauchon clerk at Place de la Madeleine.”

  “One witness was very clear in his statement,” Vichon said, ignoring her words. “The one who saw you running away down the stairs.”

  “Saw me? You mean the drunken Italians down the hall? What was I wearing?”

  “Forget the fashion questions, Mademoiselle.”

  The stale air in Vichon’s cubicle was getting to her. She stood, smoothing down her skirt. What else had the Italians said? What had Vichon left out? “The Italians weren’t the only tenants on our floor partying when I left. Ask the ad agency.”

  “Until we get a confirmation of your alibi,” Vichon said in a measured tone, “you’re the suspect we’re working with, Mademoiselle. Why are you in such a hurry?”

  She dropped back into the chair, staring at him. “I know procedure and, of course, I want to assist in any way I can.” She didn’t mention that she was tired, hungry, in need of more espress, and wanted to brush her teeth. “I can help you, Vichon. I do computer security, but my background’s criminal investigation; I’m a licensed PI. Whatever I find out will go right to you. Procedure followed and adhered to.” She watched him. “And you’ll get the credit.”

  “But you’re not my type.”

  She wanted to hit the sexist salaud. Instead she bit her lip. “How does that enter into an investigation?”

  “This is La Crim’s case.” He leaned back in his chair. “No amateur help needed, especially an amateur with a plane ticket out of the country and her bags packed.”

  “But Commissaire Morbier will vouch for me,” she said. “Not half an hour ago in his office upstairs he commended Inspector Melac. He told me Melac was the best.”

  Vichon sat up. “He said that?”

  “And you’d like him to speak of you that way, wouldn’t you, Vichon? Not express concern over pointlessly detaining me, his goddaughter, in the garde à vue.”

  Vichon’s fists clenched.

  “Now, do we need to call my godfather,” she said, “or may I have my bag?”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE LEDUC DETECTIVE, Aimée stood on the scuffed wood floor of the landing. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed her frosted glass office door, which was ajar. She pushed it open.

  Inside, she saw a figure with an orange POLICE armband opening his metal fingerprint kit. Through the window came the whine of a siren, the hum of midday traffic, and cooing from a pigeon perched on the black iron grillework.

  As usual.

  But it wasn’t.

  Graphite powder dusted the woodwork and file cabinets. The contents of her desk drawer—a tube of mascara, software encryption manuals, keys, and stop-smoking patches—littered the floor.

  “Didn’t you notice the tape? No entry,” said the fingerprint technician.

  She pursed her lips.

  “It’s my office, Monsieur.”

  “And it’s my crime scene.”

  She needed to get inside. “Then you can take my prints now. It will save you an extra step later.”

  La Crim had taken her prints already, but she doubted the technician knew that.

  “If I need your assistance, Mademoiselle,” he said, “the investigator will inform me.”

  This technician went by the book.

  “Then don’t let me disturb you,” she said, tiptoeing a few steps farther inside. “You can watch me, make sure I don’t touch anything.”

  “Afraid not, Mademoiselle,” he said, blocking her path.

  “How long does this take?”

  His mouth pursed.

  And then she saw the dark red brown patch of René’s bloodstains on the parquet floor. Her stomach lurched and she grabbed the door ledge.

  “That’s my partner’s blood. Could you hurry, Monsieur?”

  “I’ve got a job to finish,” he said. But a flicker of sympathy crossed his face. “I must follow procedure.”

  At least he might let her look around.

  “And that means?”
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br />   “Finish fingerprinting the crime scene, call in the results, and then, after approval, I can release the crime scene.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before she’d said a word he continued, “So if you’ll leave and let me get to work, Mademoiselle?”

  She backed out. She’d use the time to question Luigi at the travel office next door. He’d moved in a few weeks ago and the smell of fresh paint still hovered in the hallway. She’d find out what he’d really seen.

  First, she had to inform the New York detective that she’d missed her flight. Yet each time she attempted to leave a message, his voice mailbox was full. She’d have to try again later.

  Aimée knocked on the door of Viaggi Travel.

  No answer. “Luigi?”

  Still no answer. She was about to knock again when the door opened.

  “What now?” said Luigi, a young man in his twenties, dark-haired, with charcoal stubble shading his chin. His wrinkled shirt looked like he’d slept in it. After a moment, his face darkened as he recognized her.

  “Madonna mia . . . you!” His bloodshot eyes widened. He tried to shut the door. “Get away.”

  She’d stuck her boot inside. “Been to the eye doctor’s lately, Luigi?”

  She pushed the door open. “Non? Time to get your eyes checked.” The odor of stale smoke and spilled beer met her. The little travel agency needed airing out. Peroni beer bottles filled the garbage bins, and ashtrays overflowed. A large-screen télé filled one wall; posters of Roma and Isle of Capri along with red and gold soccer pennants adorned another.

  “Assassina!” Panic showed in his eyes. “You tried to kill Monsieur René. I call the flics.” He began to run and tripped, sending beer bottles scattering over the floor.

  “Why are you accusing me? It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Remember, yesterday you recommended a shop to me for antipasto and truffles? Why would I—”

  “Drugs. You take drugs. Act crazy.” He pulled himself up and reached for the phone, then clutched his stomach as a wave of nausea passed through him. “You go to jail.”

  “Look at this place.” She tapped the bin of beer bottles with her pointed toe. “How much beer did you drink? All that partying, watching the game, the noise, the dark hallway. What did you really see?”

  He clutched his stomach again.

  “René’s my partner, my best friend, Luigi,” she said. “I want to find the person who did shoot him.”

  He backed away, eyeing the phone. “Maybe you have gun, want to shut me up too?”

  “You need Schoum,” she said.

  “Como?”

  “A time-honored antidote to hangovers.” The yellowish herbal mixture came in a blue-and-white label Traitement d’appoint de douleurs fonctionelles d’origine digestive, and worked wonders.

  She blocked his way to the phone.

  “Monsieur René . . . the blood . . . how could you shoot this little man?” Luigi said, white-faced.

  Perspiration beaded her brow; the atmosphere in this office was stifling. But she had to get him to talk, to get information.

  “Weren’t you watching the championship match?”

  “Torino versus Palermo. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She cleared a space on a cracked leather chair. “Sit down. Let’s discuss what you remember, what you actually saw.”

  “I saw you.” He pointed his finger accusingly.

  “Me? Did you see my face?”

  “I saw your raincoat. The one you wear yesterday. I hear shots . . . terrible. Like when robbers held up my uncle’s store in Torino. I never forget the sound.” He glared at her. “Next door, Monsieur René’s shouting ‘Aimée.’ Then you run down the stairs.”

  “Maybe you only saw a woman my height?”

  “I give Monsieur René CPR, try to pressure the wound.” Luigi’s voice quavered. “But so much blood.”

  “You saved René’s life, Luigi.” She rocked on her heels. “Thank you.”

  For a moment, doubt appeared on Luigi’s face, a fleeting look of concern. “I don’t like to believe my eyes.”

  And then the look vanished. “I tell Arnaldo, call polizia, ambulanzia. You run away.”

  “And the flics—”

  “I give statement,” he interrupted. “The police find your gun.”

  He clutched his mouth as nausea overtook him.

  “I know why you come back. Now you kill me.”

  She stared.

  “Non—” then Luigi stopped himself. Fear shone in his dark eyes.

  “What did you actually see, Luigi?”

  “Your helmet. Fancy helmet you wear,” he said.

  “My helmet? But it’s here in the office.”

  Blue Fever helmets like hers carried a price tag of over eight hundred francs; they were made in a limited edition.

  “Why would I keep my helmet on, Luigi?”

  “You crazy . . . I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you see, Luigi, the shooter wore the helmet to hide her face? And frame me.”

  “I tell polizia.” He leaned forward, breathing hard. “Please, they investigate.”

  Given Vichon’s attitude and the snail’s pace of the investigation, she wouldn’t count on it. Valuable time was slipping away as they spoke.

  “Luigi, I’d never hurt René. Believe me.”

  As long as she was the main suspect, and until Mathieu was reached by the police and asked to confirm her alibi, the real shooter would have ample time to disappear. Or worse, she might make another attempt on René.

  She ran out into the dimly lit hall. The crime-scene tape still hung over Leduc Detective’s closed door. A knot of worry filled her chest.

  She had to get in. She turned the doorknob with a measured twist, tiptoed inside, and heard the technician, somewhere in back, whistling. Her helmet hung from the coat rack. She grabbed it.

  “Who’s there?”

  Aimée shut the door, ignored the wire cage elevator, and ran down the steps two at a time. Out of breath, she hailed a taxi on rue du Louvre.

  “Where to, Mademoiselle?”

  The shooter thought she’d gotten away with it, Aimée thought. Not while there was breath in her body. She’d find the guilty woman, and protect René.

  A police car with flashing red-orange lights pulled up across rue du Louvre. Had the fingerprint technician alerted a patrol car? Or had Luigi reached the flics in record time? She didn’t care to find out.

  “Place du Marché Saint Honoré,” she said, breathless, to the taxi driver.

  An easy place to lose a tail.

  “But it’s not far.” Not worth the fare, he meant.

  She slipped him fifty francs. “And I’m sure you know a short cut.”

  * * *

  BY MID-AFTERNOON, SHE’D visited six motorcycle accessory stores. ToutMoto, the last carrying the Blue Fever line on her list, occupied a former bakery. Faded gold lettering and mill scenes on painted glass panels were still in evidence. ToutMoto nestled among upscale boutiques near the Madeleine and Hotel Ritz: an exclusive chunk of real estate.

  Aimée entered ToutMoto to a thumping heavy metal beat and whining strains of a guitar pouring from overhead speakers. “Bonjour,” she called.

  “Un moment,” came a woman’s voice from the rear.

  Aimée scanned the racks of pink lambskin leather jackets, Kevlar jeans and the displays of tiger-striped handlebars, and the helmets lining the walls. The Blue Fever helmet was featured, the type she wore.

  A woman in a figure-hugging red leather jacket and matching leathers emerged and set a coffee cup down on the counter.

  Aimée smiled. “My friend bought me this helmet here.”

  “Mais oui. A chic line. We sell two or three a year. You want to return it? Only store exchange is permitted.”

  “Non, but it’s a bit tight. Here,” Aimée pointed to the chin strap. “She said you’d know how to adjust it. I think it was you,” Aimée said. “Maybe you remember her?”

>   “My clients range from ‘golden girl’ bankers to Sorbonne students. We’re the exclusif female motorcycle and scooter accessory store.” The woman sipped her coffee and checked the strap. “But this helmet’s worn,” she said. “There’s a scratch here.”

  A tiny scratch, almost unnoticeable, on the visor. Merde.

  She couldn’t pass it off as new.

  The woman took another sip, her gaze hooded now. “We carry the newest Blue Fever model. This is last year’s.”

  “Vraiment? But I thought. . . .” Aimée paused, trying to think of another angle. “That’s confusing. She gave it to me for my birthday.”

  The woman shrugged.

  “It’s scratched already, and she’s trying to pass it off as new?”

  “She’s your friend.”

  Two woman entered the store laughing and zeroed in on the sale rack.

  “Why does it matter, Mademoiselle?”

  Aimée blew air out of her mouth. “Like I’m going to buy her an expensive wedding gift if she bought my birthday present at the flea market? Bet she got herself the newer model, one of those.” She pointed to the Blue Fever helmet decorated with lightning bolts in the window.

  A delivery man entered, wheeling a dolly stacked with boxes.

  “Take the strap to a leather shop,” the woman said, wanting to get rid of her. “They’ll stretch it for you.”

  “Merci. But I can’t believe it! She told me she bought it yesterday. Or was it the day before? I’d like to understand.”

  “I’ve helped you all I can, Mademoiselle.”

  “But you remember her, non?”

  Anxious for Aimée to leave, the woman scanned a sales transaction log. “Yesterday I show a cash transaction for a Blue Fever. It was a busy time. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Aimée’s shoulders slumped.

  The woman took a clipboard from the delivery man and signed. Desperate, Aimée tried again. “You’ve been so helpful. I know this sounds petty, but—”

  “Ça suffit, Mademoiselle! I don’t know what kind of scam you’re trying to pull.” Anger vibrated in the woman’s voice as she stared at the sales transaction log again, then glanced at Aimée, a knowing look in her eyes. “It was you I sold the Blue Fever to, n’est-ce pas?”