AL05 - Murder in Clichy al-5

by Cara Black

  Dinard had put the pieces up for auction!

  Dinard, then Thadée. Had Thadée stolen them from Dinard? If so, where had Dinard gotten them? Where were they now?

  “Did your museum handle ancient jade pieces like these?”

  “Never.” Tessier shook his head. “These types of objects show up every so often: No record of excavation, or history of ownership. No pedigree. Like I told you. Some have sat in a collector’s home for years, accumulating dust in their crates, forgotten.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Without provenance there’s no verification, no history,” Tessier said. “The subtext is, they’ve been looted. Stolen. With all the scrutiny these days, and the international agreements, we’re too wary to buy such objects.”

  “Did Dinard tell you where the jade figures came from?”

  Tessier shook his head. “I never even knew of their existence, until he told me to ask you about them.”

  She sat down. Studied the Drouot receipt.

  “If the Drouot staff had done some research, and concluded items had been looted would they just note ‘withdrawn’ in the catalogue?”

  Tessier nodded. “If they were smart.”

  * * *

  AIMÉE FELT apprehensive as she approached l’hôtel Ampère for the Olf meeting. Did de Lussigny know about his godfather’s murder? She didn’t relish being the first to tell him that Dinard had been killed.

  The four-star hotel was a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe, situated in the prestigious part of the 17th. Too bad she and René couldn’t afford to hide out here.

  De Lussigny greeted her at the door, his shirtsleeves rolled up. The meeting had ended, or so she surmised from the cigarette butts in the ashtray, several used glass tumblers, and a half-empty bottle of vodka in the suite. Stacks of yellow legal pads and charts sat on the table. A fire crackled in the fireplace.

  “They made it an early night,” he said. “Sorry, but I hope you brought the reports.”

  Odd. Why hadn’t he called and asked her to come sooner?

  “Of course, right here,” she said opening her bag.

  De Lussigny reached over and turned on music. Soft jazz.

  “Sit down. Have a drink.”

  What was all this about? But she sat down, took the tumbler he’d splashed with vodka, and drank for courage. Nice, with a citrus punch. He sat down next to her and ruffled his hair.

  “Your godfather. . . .” She hesitated, trying to read his expression before voicing the bald truth. Did he already know?

  “The investigating inspector called me,” he said. “First Thadée, now my godfather, Jacques.” He shook his head. “Jacques played around. . . .”

  “Played around? We found him dead in the Parc Monceau lavatory and he’d written this in his blood.”

  She saw the horrified look on his face. “But . . . what do you mean . . . you found him?”

  She wrote the character on a yellow legal pad:

  “Know what it means?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve grown up here. My father read Chinese; in some ways he never left Indochina. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “It’s the character wu, for shaman,” she said.

  Did he know about the disks? All she saw on his face was concern.

  “Your godfather, Dinard, put a set of jade figures up for auction,” she said. “Then withdrew them. But it was Thadée that gave them to me to deliver to a Cao Dai nun. They were stolen from me. What does it mean?”

  “You surprise me all the time,” he said, taking a big gulp of vodka. “But I’m sorry you had to find my godfather’s body.”

  Sorry?

  “It’s his poor wife I feel sorry for. And Thadée.”

  De Lussigny raked his fingers through his hair. “She loved him. What about you, Aimée. Why don’t you trust me enough to explain to me how you’re involved?”

  “I don’t know you,” she said.

  Or anything.

  She felt his hand on her thigh, surprised that such a suave man would make such a move at a time like this.

  “We can change that,” said de Lussigny.

  He kissed her. Warm, moist lips. Startled, she pulled back.

  He kissed her again. Just right, lips a bit open. Nice kisses.

  “Non,” she said, pulling away.

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  A barge pole wouldn’t be long enough to keep him at a safe distance.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “The only way to react to death is with life.”

  His eyes searched hers.

  “But I had no idea you felt this way,” she said, uncomfort- able. His godfather had been murdered, yet all he wanted was to get into her pants!

  She wondered at the connection he’d made to her, that she knew nothing about. His fantasy? The soft jazz in the background, the dim lighting, the half-full glasses of vodka and white Egyptian cotton duvet of the bed conspired against her. She’d better turn to business, then leave, before she did something she’d regret.

  “Lena and I are in the midst of divorce proceedings,” he said. “And, believe it or not, I don’t do this often.”

  She doubted him, determined to ignore the way his lips had softened on hers, the aura of power and trace of vulnerability that textured his voice. She must keep in mind that he was a powerful and devious insider. Not her usual bad-boy.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  He pulled his hand back. Irritation shone on his face as he combed his hair back with his hands. “So what do we do?”

  “We talk business,” she said, reaching for her vodka glass. Trying to keep her hand steady.

  “Bon,” he said, checking his watch, stifling a yawn. “You already gave me the reports.”

  She stiffened at his dismissive gesture.

  “I want to know about PetroVietnam.”

  “Aren’t you the one supposed to give me information?”

  Arrogant bastard.

  “I want to know why you asked me to monitor the Chinese bids. And why the various bids have disappeared.”

  Surprised, he sat forward. “Who says that?”

  “I checked, and they’re not here. All records of the bids disappeared from the file and that means—”

  “It’s on someone’s desk under a pile or it’s in intra-corporate mail,” he interrupted. “And a camel walks faster than that.”

  Or someone had gotten a hidden kickback. But how to word it with tact?

  “Convince me. Put a trace on it.”

  “You’re on a fishing expedition,” he said.

  “Whoever has the bids, wants to keep them secret. Private. Not to point fingers, but what if someone got a payoff? I can help you more if I know the truth.”

  He sat back on the couch. “You really do want to talk about business.”

  “Find the bids. If they’re in intra-corporate mail, then you’re right. Otherwise, I am.”

  “D’accord,” he said, his look pensive. “I will. But I still want you to monitor the Chinese.”

  “You still haven’t given me a reason.”

  “Haven’t you figured it out? We want to match their bids for drilling rights in the Tonkin Gulf.”

  She stood.

  He treated her as he’d treated her before. Like a professional. As she reached for the hotel room doorknob, she met his hand reaching for it at the same time.

  “Excusez-moi.” His hand recoiled.

  “Au revoir,” she said. They were standing so close.

  He kissed her again. That soft warm mouth. His hands cupped her face, stroked her hair.

  She pulled away, opened the door, and left. Outside in the hushed carpeted hallway, she ran, her knees shaking.

  Saturday Night

  IN THE REAR BOOTH of the cafe below Leduc Detective, Aimée pulled off her Nicorette patch and lit a Gauloise. Her smudged red lipstick was all over the small espresso cup. She slumped, kept her head down, and
took a deep drag.

  “Why the long face, mon américaine?” Zazie, the ten-year-old daughter of the owner asked. Juliette was nicknamed Zazie because she’d begun using strong language at an early age. Her mother complained to Aimée that she’d inherited her grandmother’s mouth. Zazie scratched her red curls, set her magazine on the counter, and steamed herself a cup of warm milk. “Can I sit with you? I like your lipstick.”

  “It’s Stop Traffic Red. But isn’t it past your bedtime, Zazie?”

  Zazie’s family lived above the café. “I had a bad dream,” Zazie said, rubbing her eyes. “I want to show you something.”

  “Fine. And then to bed.”

  She thought about de Lussigny. Lust wasn’t love. And it didn’t work when you wanted to forget about someone—someone like Guy.

  “Look at this,” Zazie said. “That man in the big car who gave you a lift, Aimée, remember? When your eyes were bad that day?”

  Aimée nodded. De Lussigny. She’d like to forget.

  “He came in for a Perrier. He’s in the magazine maman buys. Regardes-toi-même?” she said, with an admiring gaze. “I didn’t know you knew famous people, I’ve been waiting to show you. Look Aimée!”

  Zazie turned the pages of Voilà, the tabloid magazine that featured celebrities and photos of aristocrats’ parties. And there he was, tuxedo-clad, hair brushed back, both arms around young women. Julien de Lussigny.

  “Good memory, Zazie.”

  Well, no surprise there. He hadn’t gotten lucky with her but . . . She studied the caption more closely.

  Last Year’s Happiness: Julien de Lussigny with his wife Lena, now separated, and Nadège de Lussigny, his daughter from a previous marriage, at a benefit for land mine victims at their mansion on Parc Monceau where it was held again this year.

  The young half-Asian woman, her long black hair entwined in purple braids, was stunning. She looked familiar. That smile! Her mind traveled back to Thadée’s words, remembered seeing the woman who’d climbed on the Vespa when she first found Sophie, what Madame Nguyen had said. Could this be her, de Lussigny’s daughter, Michel’s mother?

  Had she been staying with her uncle Thadée? And most important, where was she now?

  “Aimée. Aimée!” Zazie was saying. ”Yoo-hoo, you there?”

  She’d been lost in thought. She stared at Zazie.

  “You’re a little detective in the making, Zazie,” she said, stabbing out her cigarette.

  Zazie’s eyes shone with pride.

  And for a brief flash Aimée wondered what it would it be like to have a child. Would she be like Zazie, and never go to bed?

  “Is that a photo of you over the espresso machine, from when you were five?”

  Zazie grinned. “It’s from the école primaire, but I was six.”

  Close enough. Little Michel was five and had the same smile as his mother, Nadège. Aimée had to find her.

  She pulled out her lipstick and slid it into Zazie’s hand. Zazie’s eyes sparkled.

  “For me?”

  “Don’t tell your maman,” she grinned. “Someday you’ll follow me into the business, Zazie. Until then, get some sleep.”

  OUTSIDE, ON dark Avenue de Clichy, a lone streetsweeper dealt with the detritus of the local Armistice Day Veterans’ Parade. Each year the number of marchers got smaller. With the driver’s assistance, an old man alighted from a taxi onto the wet pavement. His wool suit hung from his shrunken frame. A blue, white, and red tricolor ribbon was draped over his caved-in chest; several medals glinted on his lapel.

  Aimée guessed he was one of the few remaining veterans from the First World War. His limbs trembled as he hobbled to a door on rue Sauffroy. The taxi driver lit a cigarette and drove away.

  Peeling posters of the Nigerian footballer Okocha glistened with rain on the stucco walls. Aimée heard the metal clink as the old man’s keys hit the ground. She stooped to pick them up.

  “Monsieur, your keys,” she smiled. “May I help?”

  “I always forget the code,” he said, his rheumy eyes tearing. “It’s in my pocket somewhere. My hands shake so.”

  “Permit me?” She stuck her hand in his pocket, found a card with his name, address, and digicode.

  “Caporal Mollard, that’s you, eh?” she said.

  He nodded.

  She punched in his code. The green door clicked open.

  “Merci,” he said.

  “Did you enjoy the parade?”

  A lost look painted his hollow-cheekboned face. “That farce?”

  Shocked, she saw that he picked at the ribbon as if trying to pull it off. But the effort seemed too much for him.

  “Most of me died in the trenches. The mustard gas took one of my lungs. The rest, well. . . .”

  “Caporal, you must be tired,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “We were supposed to save the world for peace, mon enfant. Fight the war to end all wars,” he said. “Did it do any good?”

  She shook her head. What had happened in 1914–18 on French fields had just been the beginning. “I don’t know. Can I help you inside, does someone wait for you?”

  “Everyone I knew is dead,” he said. “It’s my turn.”

  * * *

  RENÉ HAD left a note on the laptop in the hotel room.

  “Dining downstairs on Cameroun manioc, fish and rice aloko. Join us.”

  She put her head in her hands, rocked back and forth. Her hands came back sticky with tears and black mascara. She’d lost her man, been tempted to sleep with a chiseled-cheekbone charmer, and still hadn’t found Gassot or the jade. She curled up on the lumpy settee by the window, overlooking wind- and rain-blasted rue Sauffroy, feeling as alone as the old vet.

  Sunday Morning

  SHE WOKE UP TO her cell phone’s ringing. René lay asleep, pale lemon light pooled on the duvet bunched around him. Her stockings were twisted and she straightened them while listening to Serge’s voice.

  “Sorry, Aimée, I was called to Nantes, just got back to the morgue,” Serge said. “I have to work Sundays now.”

  “Which twin had the fever?” She could never tell them apart, the boys never stood still long enough to enable her to figure it out.

  “Both came down with la grippe; thank God my mother-in-law came with us.”

  “Do me a favor, Serge, find me the autopsy report on Albert Daudet.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s a suspicious death.”

  “You stopped all that, didn’t you?”

  Not Serge, too!

  “I’ll bring Miles Davis over,” she said. “Let the twins take him for a walk.”

  “Look Aimée, that’s not your field now.”

  “It never was,” she said. “But if I tell the boys you wouldn’t let me bring—”

  “Arrête! What’s the deceased man’s name again?”

  “Daudet, Albert.”

  “Like the writer, eh? Hold on.”

  She heard the shuffle of papers, conversations in the background. By the time Serge came back on the line, she’d taken her pills and pulled on her skirt.

  “Daudet died under medical care, so it took a while to dredge it up,” Serge said. “Hmm, interesting report. Most old men who go in for a cardiogram don’t die from cartilage thyroid fractures and hemorrhaging in the neck.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Asphyxiation due to manual strangulation. My guess is it came from a carotid sleeper hold.”

  She gasped. Regnier and his henchmen. Hadn’t René said he’d been caught in a carotid sleeper hold?

  “Daudet had a preexisting coronary condition. It didn’t help. The compression of the carotid did it for him,” Serge said. “I figure it took three or four minutes. That’s indicated by extensive bruises to the neck and petechiae.”

  “Would the killer have to be muscular?” she asked.

  “It helps. Hook and hold the neck in the crotch of the arm, apply pressure, and most folks pass out in ten seconds. Ho
ld a few minutes longer and it’s the big sleep.”

  “And Serge, in your professional opinion?”

  “The evenness and deep pressure bruises indicate a big guy,” Serge said. “But that’s off the record.”

  “Fax it to me, will you?”

  “You owe me, Aimée. Count some babysitting in, too!”

  * * *

  AIMÉE KNOCKED on the door of Albert Daudet’s widow, Lucie. She lived in a peeling stucco former loge de concierge at the mouth of a cobblestoned courtyard.

  The window lace shimmied and swayed as the glass door opened. Crocheted figures danced and then became still forever, caught on the lace panel, as if sculpted by sea-salt spray.

  “Madame Daudet?” she said.

  “Oui?” said a woman with a tightly curled gray perm and reading glasses hanging by a beaded string around her neck.

  “May I take a few moments of your time?”

  She stared at Aimée, smoothing down her apron. “The coffin’s all I can afford right now. Forget the memorial service you people try to cram down my throat. The anciens com-battants should help bury a veteran!”

  “I’m a detective.” She flashed her license. “Sorry to impose at this time but I want to ask a few questions.”

  “The flics came by yesterday,” she said. “I told them the same thing. It’s foul play.”

  Aimée nodded. “I know. It’s in the autopsy report.”

  “They won’t show it to me. Keep telling me to wait.”

  “But I have a copy,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

  Madame Daudet covered her mouth with her hand. “Come in,” she said.

  The converted loge, a suitcase of an apartment, was crammed with shelves of religious statues and plastic vials of holy water from Lourdes. Bronze statues of the Virgin Mary and a kneeling Bernadette were prominent. A small sink with a floral print curtain below stood next to a two burner stove.

  “Albert was my second husband, you know,” said Madame Daudet, gesturing to chairs around a table which bore a file of supermarché coupons. The corners of her mouth turned down in a sour expression. “I never had to do such things before but the pension’s not enough.”