Murder in Montmartre (22 page)
Read Murder in Montmartre Online
Authors: Cara Black
LUCIEN PUSHED OPEN THE corrugated metal siding that had been nailed over the warehouse door, slid out, and hitched the music case onto his back.
Three years in Paris and he had achieved nothing.
Kouros, he figured, had pulled out of the recording deal at the hint that he might be connected to terrorists. And now, instead of a SOUNDWERX contract, the law was after him and, almost worse, a fellow Corse had tried to frame him as a terrorist.
In the damp street, a line of customers trailed out of the door of the kabob place. He noticed a jean-jacketed, spiky-haired woman peering into a shop window with her back to him. Her long black-stockinged legs ended in stiletto heels.
He might as well call the Chatelet ethnic music organizer and make an appointment. Since his DJ jobs were in alternative clubs the
flics
didn’t police, he’d survive.
He passed Kabob Afrique, its faded green shutters latched open. Right now, he’d prefer a
canastrelli
biscuit, the traditional late-afternoon Corsican treat, with wine. And to be near sun-drenched, rose-yellow stone houses, basking in the last copper rays of the sun. Instead, he stood in a densely packed lane of silvery gray nineteenth-century buildings, in the wan wintry light.
The woman wearing the jean jacket was asking him something.
“Pardon, Monsieur . . .” Her bag dropped on the cobblestones in front of him.
He bent down to retrieve it at the same time she did. They knocked heads as their hands touched. “My fault, sorry,” she said.
Her flushed cheeks, huge eyes, and striking face put him off balance. He’d forgotten other women, stunning women, existed.
And then he saw fear in her eyes. She clutched her bag, stood, and retreated. She edged around the street corner into a narrow lane, getting away.
Women! He readjusted his
cetera
case. Then he glanced down the lane. He was aghast to see the glint of a knife being wielded by a man who had cornered the woman against a pile of broken furniture.
LAURE HEARD THE VOICES. Faraway voices, punctuated with beeps, and shuffling footsteps. Cold, she was so cold. And her head so heavy and cotton filled. She tried to speak but her dry, thick tongue got in the way.
“What’s that?” said a young voice in her ear. “Good. I know you’re trying.”
What were those noises? The sounds, the moaning. They came from her. She felt a searing pain in her side. A flash of white passed by her. Then a smiling face was looking at her, a warm damp washcloth stroked her brow. The monitor tinkled beside her.
“Hello, Laure. You’re back with us now, aren’t you?”
She nodded and felt a dull throb behind her eyes.
“Try this.”
Ice chips traced her lips, her fat tongue licked them greedily.
“Slowly, Laure. You’re thirsty,
non?
Take it nice and slow.”
She sensed heated blankets laid over her feet, hot-water bottles shoring up her side. The licks of ice were chilly and invigorating. Drops of water trickled down her eager, parched throat.
She grew aware of shadows on the row of beds, the bustle of nurses, and the low monotone of a loudspeaker system somewhere in the background.
“Someone’s here to see you, Laure,” the voice said. “Says he’s an old friend. A family friend.”
Drooping eyes were watching her; a man sat in the chair next to her bed. His head nodded. “You had us worried, Laure. You look much better. Remember me, Laure?”
The retirement party, the café, and Jacques. It all flooded back. This was Morbier, her father’s old colleague.
“You don’t have to speak,” he told her. “Squeeze my hand if you understand.”
She
had
to speak, to tell him about the roof, the scaffolding . . . she had to talk. About coming to, and the men, the snow in her face. And how they laughed. Those men. And their gun, the other gun. Someone had taken hers. They’d kicked her when she reached for it. The glint of metal from his pocket. How everything went black again.
She spoke, but no sound came out.
AIMÉE CURSED HER BAD luck. The
mec
who’d chased her after Zette’s murder was holding a knife to her face.
“You don’t pay attention, do you?” the
mec
said. He’d backed her against rain-soaked broken chairs and old tables piled up in the alley, evidence of an eviction. This street lay off the beaten track and was deserted.
“I don’t know what you mean. You must be confusing me with someone else.”
She wanted to know whom he worked for. Why threaten her . . .
here
. But first things first.
She grinned. “I get it now, big boy. If you like me, just ask.” She pointed to the Hôtel Luxe, a run-down, soot-blackened sagging hotel across the street. “For you, a five hundred franc special treatment.”
A flutter of doubt appeared in his eyes. She was not the kind of hooker he was familiar with.
“I don’t have to pay for it,” he boasted, advancing closer. “You’re the curious type.” He eyes traveled her legs. “Poking your nose in everywhere.”
His leather pants glistened with beaded rain mist. Just let him take one step closer.
“Respect is a two-way street, big boy.” She smiled and licked her lips. “Put that knife away and come here.”
In his nanosecond of indecision, she kicked with all her might at his kneecap. He doubled over in pain, clutching his knee, and howled. The knife clattered on the cobblestones. Thank God for pointed stiletto heels.
She scooped the knife up and took off. Tripped on a chair leg, scrambled, and pulled herself up the moss-embedded stone wall. At the corner she skidded into him again, the
mec
from the doorway whom she’d just bumped heads with. Deep-set, intense black eyes, chiseled features, black curly hair, sideburns: a good-looker, as Cloclo had said.
“Looks like you can handle yourself,” he said.
Lucky this time, she slipped the knife into her pocket.
“You’re Lucien Sarti, right?” she asked.
His concerned gaze changed to suspicion. “Who are you?”
And then trouble walked up the street. The limping
mec
had a cell phone to his ear. Was he calling for reinforcements? He swung the thick leg of a broken chair at her.
“Keep walking,” she said.
From the frying pan into the fire. Why was Lucien Sarti here? And the
mec?
Had Cloclo set her up?
“Quick,” she said, gesturing Lucien to a half-open gate. She hoped it led to another street, to escape.
“Look, I don’t know who you are or how you know my name,” he began.
“Explanations later. Hurry,” she said.
He hesitated. She pulled him by the arm and they ran past filled Dumpsters beneath a row of rose bushes sheeted, ghostlike, against the frost with clear plastic. Two-story townhouses bordered the quiet
impasse
. A dead end. Aimée’s pulse quickened. Where could they go?
Behind them, footsteps pounded. She turned left, up an unevenly paved passage, and ducked behind a wet hedge, pulling him by the arm to join her. They crouched in a gutter. His denim thigh rubbed hers. His look was intense and his breath was warm against her ear.
“Why’s that
mec
chasing you?” he asked.
She put her finger to her lips. From his backpack peeked an instrument case. On the right stood a Louis Philippe-style townhouse;
oeil-de-boeuf
round windows in its facade were like eyes watching them. She couldn’t see any doors leading from the courtyard to another street.
She felt a prickling on her skin, gasped for air. The footsteps stopped. Receded. And then it was quiet.
He stared at her as the water in the gutter gurgled over his feet. “He’s gone,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Sarti’s long black lashes were so close she could see how they curled.
She stood, brushing off the sodden, dead leaves. Grime streaks and grease soiled her stockings. She had to collect herself, and try to get information from him.
“You’re looking for me. Why?” he asked.
“I saw you in Montmartre the night the
flic
was shot.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “How did you find me? I don’t like
flics.
Like you.”
“Did you shoot him?”
His jaw dropped. “What kind of
flic
are you?”
Why did he have to look vulnerable and fierce at the same time?
“My friend was framed for the murder,” she told him. “And I’m not a
flic
, I’m a private detective.”
Before she could ask more questions, an automatic garage door rolled up, revealing a late-model Mercedes driven by a frowning mustached man.
“Allez-y!
You’re trespassing on private property,” he said.
With quick steps they walked back the way they had come. She peered into the street. All clear. She took a deep breath. And froze.
The man who’d threatened her, along with two others with black caps, emerged grinning from the doorways. Reinforcements had arrived.
“So you like foreigners, too,” the
mec
she had kicked said. “Looks like a Corsican, my specialty.”
She glanced around the passage, recognized it for the kind of place where street hawkers had once stored their carts at night. A fire-alarm box was affixed to the stone wall. No time for anything else. She elbowed it hard, breaking the glass, and pulled the handle. Only a loud whir resulted. Weren’t these things supposed to send off an air raid-siren-like whoop?
Another
mec
with black curly hair, wearing a leather jacket and boots, was just visible in a doorway. The hair on her neck rose. He could have been the musician’s brother. A twin brother. Her heart raced. If he was the one Cloclo meant, could they all be in league together?
The musician took the knife from her and pushed her behind him.
He spit and said something in Corsican. Her shoulders tensed, expectant.
“Look, there are four of them . . .” she began. Her palms were damp. Where could they go?
A siren bleated nearby. Talk about high alert and quick response from the local fire department. Had the Mercedes owner called the
flics
?
The sirens wailed closer. Louder. And the gang scattered, including the musician’s double.
She couldn’t control the shaking of her hands. But she didn’t want to be there when the fire brigade blocked the street looking for the fire. Or the
flics
appeared.
“Let’s go. We need to talk, somewhere safe,” Lucien Sarti said, palming the knife. “Whoever you are.”
RENÉ PACED ON THE uneven floorboards outside Paul’s apartment. Plaster crumbled in a fine dust from the wall, moldy mildew smells hovered by the skylight. At least he didn’t have to wear the Toulouse-Lautrec guise. Right now, he wished he had a hot rum to give him courage.
He’d left another message on Aimée’s phone. Just her voicemail message answered him. The stairs creaked and a woman in her thirties ascended, her red-hennaed hair knotted in a green clip. She had eyes that reminded him of Paul’s. She wore a long black skirt and a poncho, and carried a string shopping bag filled with nestled wine bottles.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a brisk tone.
“Madame, I met Paul—”
“Ah, you’re the actor. Paul told me about you,” she interrupted. “He wrote a wonderful essay, thanks to you.”
René hesitated. He wished Aimée were here.
“Actually, I hoped to speak with you and Paul.”
“Perhaps another evening,” she replied.
What should he do? She was struggling with her key and the heavy string bag.
“Let me help you,” he said.
“
Non, merci
, I can manage.”
“Mind if I wait for Paul?”
“Why?” Suspicion clouded her eyes.
René stepped back. “There’s an important matter. . . .”
A sudden panic showed in her face. “You’re checking up on us, aren’t you? From social services.”
“Not at all,” René said, taken aback.
“I know your kind. Worming your way into our life. You want to take Paul away!”
“Relax, Madame,” he said desperately. “Look at me. I don’t know about social services or anything like that. I do know Paul’s a bright boy. Intelligent, talented, but shy.”
A flicker of shame crossed her face. “Shy,
oui
. My fault, right? That’s what you’re saying.”
“There’s something we need to discuss. Please, let’s talk inside, not in the hallway.”
“Discuss? My place is a mess.” She hesitated.
“You should see mine,” he told her.
With more prodding, he coaxed her inside. By the time he’d helped her clear the small table of dishes, reached up, and rinsed two glasses clean and set them on the table, his hip throbbed from the cold. There was no heater in the slant-roofed one-room apartment. But it was neat despite the sofa bed, desk, and mismatched period chairs that filled the cramped space.
“Chilly, eh?” he said.
She gestured to the stove and unpacked her string bag.
On his tiptoes he turned the knob of the small gas oven. The blue pilot light flickered, hissed, and caught. He opened the door and a trickle of heat radiated out.
“Establish rapport, appear nonthreatening,” said the last chapter in the detective manual. Anxious to disarm her, René made conversation. “Those stairs are quite a hike,” he said. “I mean for someone like me,” he added, watching her pour wine from an unlabeled bottle. It looked like generic rotgut with viscous sediment in the bottom. “In my former apartment I had quite a climb. Have you lived here long, Madame?”
“Isabelle,” she said. “You can cut the small talk.”
Easy on the page, harder in real life. René realized the detective manual’s advice had limitations.
“Paul’s father left after he was born.” She drained her glass. “We’ve moved around. Always in Montmartre.”
“You’re lucky, great view.” He gestured to the large window with lace curtains.
She rested her elbows on the worn table, seemed to relax. “I don’t know what you want to ‘discuss,’ but I suggest you tell me.”
“It’s better if we all talk together—you, me, and Paul,” he said, trying to stall.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
Might as well get to the point. “Paul told me he saw the shooting the other night on the roof,” René said.
“You’re crazy! Paul makes up stories. He has a vivid imagination.”
“Let’s find out. I’ll ask him again, in your presence. Everything will remain confidential.”
She poured herself another glass and noticed René hadn’t touched his. “Too good to drink with me at my table?”
He preferred wine at meals, not on an empty stomach, but he knew his duty.
“Not at all, Isabelle.” He took a sip. A toasted walnutlike aroma. Not a bad way to warm up. “An aged Merlot?”
She nodded.
“Isabelle, I’m sure you’re concerned.” He handed her a card; thank God, he had one with him. “Paul says there were two gun flashes. If he gives this evidence to her lawyer, an innocent police officer will be cleared.”
“Innocent policeman? You’re joking.”
About to say “policewoman,” René paused. “What do you mean?”
“That one demanded protection money.”
“Jacques Gagnard, the man who was murdered on the rooftop?”
“Look, it’s not my business,” she said. “Forget I said anything.”
“How do you know the
flic
was bent?” he asked, easing his dangling leg onto a chair rung to relieve his aching hip.
She shrugged. “No big secret if you work the street or have a café with machines.”
Like Zette’s bar on rue Houdon, René thought. Maybe Aimée had hit the mark after all.
“I need more than that. It’s vital; a policewoman is suspected of killing her partner.”
Isabelle’s short laugh took him aback. “Ask me if I’m surprised.”
Her speech had cleared. After the wine she appeared more lucid. Some drinkers were like that. Then, a blackout.
“Your son saw a man murdered. It happened
right across from you
.”
She drained her glass.
“Those were real gunshots, not the
télé
. Have you realized your son could have been hit by a stray bullet?”
She looked away.
How could he reach her? He took another sip of wine, wishing his hip didn’t hurt so much. Poured more in her glass. “Isabelle, say this
flic
was corrupt and an angry contact shot him. We need your help to find the guilty man.”
“You’re undercover, right? Some special detective unit.”
René took a big sip. Let her think that. He nodded.
Isabelle stared straight ahead, then locked eyes with his. She pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. “There were
three
shots. I saw it all.”
“Three?” René’s stomach flip-flopped. Whether from the wine or her words, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. “Paul said . . .”
She shook her head. “Paul didn’t see the third one. The last shot.”
“Did you see who fired?”
“I don’t want Paul involved, you understand,” Isabelle said.
Negotiate, like it said in chapter eight, page eighty-seven. Reluctant witnesses would try to negotiate. Agree, but obtain your objective.
René nodded. “If you agree to meet the lawyer and give evidence, Paul can be kept out of it.”
“Then it’s a deal, little man?”
No one had ever called him that in his life and gotten away with it.
“Count on it. And my name’s René.”
She pushed aside her half-full wineglass.
“Et donc
, René, I was sitting right here, writing my uncle for help. Paul was asleep in his alcove behind the curtain. Or so I thought. That’s why I noticed. It was black outside, like coal; a storm was brewing. Then, all of a sudden, something flashed right across my line of sight from that roof. I heard a bark like a gunshot. It startled me so much I spilled the ink.” She pointed to a splotch on the table’s surface.
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Dark figures were moving on the roof. I turned down the radio. In five minutes, maybe more, I saw another flash.”
It could make sense. Had they ambushed Laure, used her gun on Jacques, then put their gun in her hand and fired again?
“How much of that had you drunk, Isabelle?” He gestured to the empty green bottles on the floor by the fridge.
“I got my check Tuesday.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“No money on Monday, René. I ran short. Paul had to have food,” she said. “But I stock up on food when I get my check. Always. Then I can’t spend it on my friends.”
He stared at the bottles. To a lonely woman, wine was a friend.
“My boy’s a monkey. He goes up on the roof all the time. I blame that old fool downstairs who lets Paul help him,” she said. “I heard the door creak open and then I saw the third flash. Paul set his schoolbag on the table and crept into the sleeping alcove. Eh, you can be sure I gave him a talking-to. Told him we’d have trouble if he opened his mouth. He promised, after I put the fear of God in him.”
Something bothered René.
“Peering out into the dark from your window, how could you see figures?”
“Before the storm came in full force, I could make out shapes. There were two dark figures.”
“Isabelle, think of how it looked from the other side. If you had a light on, wouldn’t they have seen you?”
“I keep the light on over the sink so as not to disturb Paul,” she said. “Low, like this.”
Isabelle stood and turned off the overhead light. A soft pink glow bathed the corner. “I could see out but, sitting here, they wouldn’t see me.”
René glanced at his watch and stiffened. “It’s late, shouldn’t Paul be in bed? Where is he?”
“Hiding, as usual. But he always comes home, sooner or later.”
“Isabelle, he could be in danger. Have you thought of that? Was the light on when he put the bookbag on the table?”
Something registered in her eyes. She’d had a new thought.
“What is it, Isabelle?”
Whether it was the wine or the warmth dribbling from the oven or both, she rubbed her cheek and volunteered more information.
“This
mec
asked my neighbor where Paul was. He’s rough, arrogant, pushes his way around the
quartier
. Why did he want Paul?”
René’s heart sank. “Maybe Paul’s hiding from someone. Maybe that’s why he’s so late.”
Or maybe he’d been caught. Where the hell was Aimée?
She grabbed the wineglass. Her hand trembled, sloshing red driblets on the tabletop. Like blood, René thought.
“We’ll have to move,” she said.
“You can’t run away,” he told her. “Call the police.”
“Police? No.”
“If he’s in danger, you have to. After he’s found, and you can tell the lawyer what you know, you’ll both be safe. I promise.” At least he hoped so.
She hesitated. “I stay away from the
flics
. I have a record.”
“What happened in the past doesn’t matter,” he said. “Think of Paul.”
He saw the struggle in her face.
“He could come home any minute.”
René hoped so. Otherwise he’d have to look for him.
“Now, tell me where he might be hiding.”