Murder Below Montparnasse (6 page)

Complete with pink Jacuzzi.

René shrugged and passed over his credit card.

Ten minutes later, Bob dropped him off at Tradelert. “How about dinner where Steve and Larry eat sometimes?”

Bob spoke fast and René had trouble keeping up. Half the time he didn’t catch what Bob meant and had to pretend otherwise. Had Bob mentioned these
mecs
before? “Your friends, Steve and Larry?”

“When anyone mentions Steve and Larry.…”

René caught himself before he gasped. Swallowed. “You mean Jobs and Ellison.”

“As in Apple and Oracle, René. You need to pick up Valley lingo.”

A different language all right.

Full of excitement at the vista opening up before him, René adjusted his new silk tie, the cuffs on his handmade Charvet shirt, and walked into the former Buick showroom, now Tradelert’s new suite of offices. Bob had told him start-ups scrambled for space, often operating out of warehouses, attics, and garages until funded by venture capitalists; after they hit it big, they bought the building. Like Tradelert had.

The ceiling loomed over him, lost in popcorn stucco and fluorescent lighting. Everything was so high up. The office directory loomed several feet above his head on the wall. He bit his lip, wondering how he’d find his office and the meeting room. Of course, he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago. What about that special-needs accommodation, or whatever they called it, that he’d read about?

Feeling self-conscious, he grabbed an orange plastic chair and climbed up to read the office directory sign. But his name wasn’t there. His nerves overtook him. Had he made a mistake, or had they changed their mind and hired someone else? Here he’d left Aimée and flown thousands of miles from his home and life.

To the left, on a corridor wall, in bright brass shone
SECURITY DIVISION MEETING ROOMS 101–106. ROOM 104—RENÉ FRIANT, CHIEF TECHNOLOGY OFFICER
. Pride coursed through him. He stepped off the plastic chair and ran down the corridor.

My new life’s beginning
, René thought. Forget the old, the past. Forget that momentary tug for Aimée, wondering if she was all right.

Of course she was.

T
HE MIST CURLING
on the Seine furred dawn’s silver glow. Rain pattered on the grilled balcony outside Aimée’s bedroom window. Miles Davis, her bichon frise, nestled on the silk duvet beside her while she monitored security reports on her laptop. Sleep eluded her. Images of the Serb on the windshield, the horrible thump, and that prison tattoo spun through her head.

Down on the quai a car’s engine whined, a door slammed, and she heard a loud curse. Just the reaction René would have over his damaged car. The repairs would consume a big chunk of their bank account, but she had little choice. Volodya’s refusal to report the robbery and his connection to her mother played in her head. A lie? If not, what was his debt to her? Had he been a snitch or some criminal involved in her past?

It smelled like ripe, three-day-old cheese.
When it smells
, Aimée’s father always used to say,
sniff it out
.

Her phone rang. So early—but it was nine hours earlier in California. René calling to let her know he’d landed?

“Satisfied you’ve made me the laughingstock of the department, Leduc?” Morbier growled. “Count your favors used up.”

Aimée cringed. So soon? She had to whip up a counterpoint defense for using his name last night. Deflect him. “
Bonjour
to you too, Morbier. Meaning what, exactly?”

“Moi, un végétarien?”

That’s all? Miles Davis’s wet nose nuzzled her elbow.

“Morbier, you’re in desperate need of a healthy lifestyle to lower your cholesterol. Just listen to your doctor.”

A snort. “Doctor? But I haven’t seen him in.…”

“Two years. You keep putting off that appointment. But that’s what he’d tell you.”

“Seems you killed someone last night and involved me.”

She chewed her lip. Word traveled fast. “Quite the way with words, Morbier,” she said. “But you don’t understand.”

“Giving up meat, that’s … that’s so.…” Morbier’s words failed him for once. “I’ve got a meeting in two minutes,” he said. “Start talking, Leduc.”

She hit
SAVE
on her laptop, pulled the duvet closer, took a breath and told him.

“Wait
une petite seconde
.” Morbier sighed on the other end of the line. “You discover a Russian’s sent you a retainer
, c’est ça?
”

“It’s not like I planned this, Morbier.…”

“Then in front of this Russian’s place Saj plows over a Serb with prison tattoos, damages René’s car and the Russian’s Mercedes. The Russian insists his painting was ’stolen.’ Now he wants you to recover it.” Another sigh. “That sum it up?”

Almost. She’d left out the part about her mother. Ever since the GIGN intelligence service had tried using her to find out whether her mother was alive, she trusted no one.

“The old man, Volodya, refused to report the robbery,” she said. “Yet we hit a Serb in front of his place fleeing the scene. Strange,
non?
”

“You’re implying a snatch-and-grab gone wrong? Easy to find Serbs for hire, a franc a dozen,” Morbier said. “But not my call.”

She didn’t care for his brush-off, but it made her think. “Serbs working for a big cheese, you mean? If the Serbian mafia wants vengeance, that puts Saj in trouble.”

“Manslaughter’s what I call trouble, Leduc.”

He had a point.

“What’s the matter? It’s not the first time you’ve knocked someone off, Leduc.”

She wanted to hit him. “You call an accident knocking people off, Morbier?”

“Shaken a chink loose in your couture armor?”

Last night had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Why couldn’t Morbier show sympathy? She jumped out of bed and hit the ancient steam radiator. For once it responded with a cranking noise and a welcome dribble of heat.

“I’d appreciate a flicker of sensitivity for once, Morbier.” If only René hadn’t left, if only the knot in her stomach would go away. Somehow her heart wasn’t into toughing it out as usual. “The man fell on the windshield, we didn’t run him over. Saj is injured and is being held in
garde à vue
. It’s wrong.”

“Traffic’s not my territory, Leduc.”

She wouldn’t let him off. He owed her. “Who’s the lord of the traffic division?”

“
Mais
you know him, Leduc, the officer who thinks I’m
végétarien
.”

She groaned inside. “Put in a good word for Saj, eh?”

“Over lunch while I watch him consume a
bifteck?
”

“Amaze him with your power salad, Morbier. It’s the new lunch. Get Saj released.”

“Nothing happens until the autopsy report. You know that, Leduc,” he said. “Like I haven’t got enough on my plate without you restricting my diet.
Compris?
”

Over the phone came the familiar whistling of his old kettle in the background. How many times had she heard it in his kitchen as a child? The little girl inside her ached to question him about her mother’s past, how Volodya might have known her. To throw away caution and endanger their rocky new reconciliation.

“The old Russian says he knew my—”

A woman’s voice—“Coffee’s ready”—interrupted her in the background.

She almost dropped her phone. Morbier with a woman? Only a few months after his lady friend Xavierre’s death? “Did you get lucky last night, Morbier?”

He hung up.

Tactless again. She should be happy for him. Not let it jar her.

This conversation had done little to further Saj’s cause. Yet despite Morbier’s usual gruffness, she’d learned he had a new girlfriend, and that the Serb had probably worked for hire. That wouldn’t help much with Saj’s defense.

She speed-dialed her pathologist friend Serge’s extension at the morgue. Voice mail. Frustrated, she left a detailed message asking for his assistance. Saj needed her help right now.

She scouted for something clean to wear in her armoire, settled on a Lurex metallic T-shirt under a ribbed oversize black cashmere cardigan, threw it on over leggings and ankle boots, and added her flea market Hermès scarf. At the porcelain sink in her bathroom, she scrubbed her face with a new bar of black clay soap guaranteed to ward off wrinkles, rimmed her eyes with kohl and smudged the lids, then accentuated them with mascara. She shoved the laptop in her leather bag and grabbed her agnès b. leather coat. With Miles Davis in tow, she hurried down the deep grooved steps of the marble staircase into the puddled courtyard. Patches of azure among the clouds promised a respite from the rain. She deposited Miles Davis with Madame Cachou, her concierge. From the courtyard’s garage, once the carriage house, she walked her scooter across the cobbles. A jump on the kick-start pedal and her Vespa roared onto the quai.

“S
AJ DE
R
OSNAY?
He’s in stable condition. No visitors,” said the nurse at the criminal ward of Hôtel-Dieu. The ward, which was guarded by police, smelled of antiseptic and despair. What if the
flics
pressed manslaughter charges? Saj needed
to keep his mouth shut. Not say anything the
flics
would use against him.

“So I’ll leave a message.” She glanced around the reception area. The scuffed green walls, the grilled metal gate. “It’s urgent.”

“Much as I’d like to help.…” The nurse glanced at the blue-uniformed police by the doors. Shrugged. “We’re not allowed.”

Panic flamed in her gut. “Nora still working nights?” She hoped she could leave a message for her friend.

“Nora switched to the day shift.”

A spark of hope. “We’re friends. Any chance you could let her know I’m here?”

“Not a good time.” The nurse gave a harried glance down the green-tiled corridor.

The phone rang at reception. Aimée hated to press her, but she had to get somewhere. “
Desolée
, I know you’re busy, but when’s Nora’s break?”

The nurse expelled air. “Who knows? The X-ray technicians went on strike. We’re run off our feet.” She hurried off to answer a doctor’s call from the corridor.

Great. The season of
grèves
. Spring must be coming.

She recognized the
flic
near the elevator from Morbier’s team a few years back. A quick glance at his name badge—Delisle—and she rustled up her courage, determined to give it her best shot.

“Officer Delisle?”

He was olive skinned, dark-haired, and muscular. He snapped his notebook shut, favoring his left wrist, which was covered with a brace. Irritation and indifference suffused his expression. “The public’s not allowed here, Mademoiselle. Follow the signs to the patient wards, if you don’t mind.”

“But we met a while ago. I’m Aimée, Commissaire Morbier’s goddaughter.” She gestured to his brace. “Carpal tunnel? Awful, I know the feeling.”

A snort of laughter. “I wish. Scuffle on the ward this morning.”

She wondered at that, and at why, as a seasoned officer, he was on a rookie posting at the criminal ward. Demoted? Injury? “Inmate patients, you mean?”

He rocked back on his thick-soled shoes. “Big eyes. Now I remember you. How’s Commissaire Morbier?”

Too much gray in his hair and a shuffle to his gait, but she kept that back. “Mismatched socks and a brain like a laser, as usual.”

Delisle smiled. His upright stance relaxed—he’d thawed. She’d said the right thing for once.

He shot her a meaningful glance. “You’re not allowed here, you know. I need to escort you out.”

What else could she try to get him to bend the rules? She could go with the truth and get nowhere. Or lie and try to worm out info. Stall and hope that Nora would … what, go on a break? With a strike going on?

“I just visited my neighbor, a stroke victim,” she said. “Thought I’d see if my old roommate Nora could have coffee on her break.” She tried for her most sympathetic look. “But what happened to you?”

A quick shake of his head. “Doing my job.”

“Hazard pay, that’s what I’m always saying to Morbier,” she said. “You men on the front lines deserve it.”

Delisle shrugged. But she could tell he liked that. He thawed more and grew talkative, revealed that a slick operator had taken advantage of the normal chaos of a shift change to talk his way in.

He’d be on his guard, then. She had a feeling that with this one her best bet was laying it on thick. “But how?” she said. “I mean, you’re so on top of it. The floor’s a locked facility.”

She hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

Delisle’s pager beeped. Eager to answer his page, he hit the
elevator button. The door swooshed open. He gestured her inside.

So far her attempt at charm had gotten her nowhere. Aimée got off on the next floor and hiked back up the concrete stairs to an
EXIT
sign. She figured Nora still hit the coffin nails. On the fire escape outside the
EXIT
door, several nurses stood smoking. The Seine, khaki green below, crested with waves from the gliding
bateaux-mouches
.

Good luck, for once. Nora, a petite brunette, was crushing out a cigarette on the metal slat. Thank God.

“Nora?”

Nora looked up, grinned. “Didn’t you quit smoking, Aimée?”

“Three days short of two months,” she said. “But who’s counting?” Aimée wished she didn’t want to snatch a drag so much. “Nora, can you do me a favor?”

“Now?” Nora said. “We’re short-staffed, there’s a strike. I’m not even supposed to take a break.” Nora opened the
EXIT
door to the back stairway. “I’ve got to get back or there’ll be trouble.”

Aimée needed to probe, and quick. “My colleague’s a patient, Saj de Rosnay. Know of him?”

Nora thought a moment. “The blond with dreads, like a Rasta? Indian clothes?”

Aimée nodded.

“Not hard on the eyes, either,” she said. “His vitals look good, X-rays normal, no fractures, under normal observation for his neck injury, took his pain meds.”

Nora’s pager vibrated.

“
Alors
, forgive me, Nora, but they’re trying to nail Saj for manslaughter. Now robbery’s involved. This Serb—”