Murder in the Palais Royal (4 page)

“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?”

“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.”

* * *

B
Y 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?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, the dark glasses, the scarf don’t fool me. You’re an amateur. Now if you don’t leave, and quietly, I’ll ask the delivery man to escort you out.”

* * *

A
CROSS NARROW RUE d e s Capuchines, Aimée took a window table in the
café-tabac
: blond wood, Formica counter and a worn sixties interior, family-run by the look of children’s pictures on the mirror. A line formed before the cashier, who sold cigarettes, LOTO tickets, and Métro passes. Locals perched at the counter. She paused to think.

A woman impersonating her had bought a helmet that looked almost like hers, entered Leduc Detective, and shot René with a Beretta.

Forget convincing Melac that she was being framed. He’d question the woman at ToutMoto and her case would look worse.

For a moment, her mind went back to Mathieu’s warm breath on her neck. What reaction would he have to being questioned by
La Crim
?

Had the shooting made the press? The shooter could be lurking anywhere, might even be stalking René while Vichon sat on his fat behind catching up on old cases.

Crowds thronged the pavement: delivery men, shopgirls, and couture-clad women with little dogs peeking out from their oversize Dior bags. Cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles ringing their bells wove through the narrow street of this commercial quartier, thrumming with activity, around the corner from Place Vendôme.

The shooter had made one small mistake: she’d bought the newer helmet.

The waiter, gray-haired and past retirement age, set a double espress and brioche before her. He might remember something.

“Did you work lunch yesterday, Monsieur?”

“Mondays, we’re closed.”

“
Merci.”

She reached Hôtel Dieu on her cell phone and asked for the intensive-care nursing station. Busy. On her second try, a nurse answered.

“Monsieur Friant’s condition remains stable,” the nurse responded to her query.

Thank God!

She had so many questions. “Can you tell me if he’s able to speak on the phone?”

“Not now, Mademoiselle,” the nurse interrupted. “Talk to the doctor. We’re run off our feet.”

“And his name?”

“Dr. Soualt,” the nurse said. “Give me your number and I’ll attach it to Monsieur Friant’s chart.”

She did and hung up, none the wiser. She dunked her brioche into her coffee. Crusty buttery flakes fell onto the worn marble tabletop.

A blue and yellow postal van had double-parked, creating a jam in the street. Horns blared. A taxi driver got out of his car, shaking his fist.

And then she noticed the video surveillance camera mounted above the
parfumerie
shop next door to ToutMoto. A
parfumerie
also selling gloves, evidenced by the sign
Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier.

She finished the flaky brioche, downed her espress, and slapped ten francs onto the table.