Murder in the Palais Royal (8 page)

She thumbed through René’s diary and found Félice’s number. And she had the perfect excuse to call: René was in the hospital.

“Allô?
”

“It’s Aimée,” she said. “Remember me, René’s partner?”

“Where’s René? Our Dojo practice just finished. He never misses a class.”

Aimée heard a gong reverberating in the background.

“Félice, he’s in the hospital,” she said.

“
Mon Dieu!
What happened? Is René all right?”

“He’s stable,” Aimée said. “Someone shot him.” She didn’t know how to put her question. “René said your boyfriend’s the jealous type.”

“Manu? But we broke up.
Alors,
you can’t think he’d shoot René.”

“I need to eliminate him as a suspect. Where is he?”

“Good luck,” Félice said. “The
salop
took my keys and locked me out of my apartment yesterday. It took hours until the concierge came.”

Aimée heard an expulsion of breath over the phone.

“Manu’s got problems, but he wouldn’t hurt René, my friend, my Dojo partner. Even after. . . .”

Pause. The gong sounded again.

“After what, Felice?”

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“I need to hear it.”

“But I’m late for work.”

“René’s hooked up to machines, Félice. The
flics
suspect me because the shooter used the gun in my desk.”

Félice gasped.

“But Manu wouldn’t. . . .”

“Wouldn’t what?”

Pause.

“Go on, Félice.”

“
Zut.
It’s nothing, but. . . .” She hesitated. “Manu met me the other day, after René and I argued,” Félice said. “René meant well, warning me about Manu, but it upset me. And he’s right, Manu’s a vicious
salaud.
But Manu picked up on the fact that René didn’t like him.”

“Vicious enough to get even?”

“Manu talks big, but no action. He brought over my apartment keys later. Now he thinks I’ll take him back.”

Aimée thought. “Does Manu know where our office is?”

“He picked me up there last week.”

Excited now, Aimée grabbed a pencil and wrote “Manu” in big letters on the Nadillac case spreadsheet, the first thing at hand. He had a motive and knew their location.

“Where can I find Manu?”

“Ça alors,
I’m shattered that René’s been injured. I want to visit him.”

“The
flics
have him in protective custody,” Aimée said. “I just want to talk to Manu.”

“Manu left a message for me to meet him at Au Chien qui Fume at the bar tonight.”

“Good girl. Don’t go. Let me talk to him.”

Now she’d find out where Manu had been last night and whether he had a helmet like hers. The figure going into Tout-Moto was female. But if he’d enlisted an accomplice who had studied Aimée’s movements. . . . She wondered if he was the type who planned in detail. But prisoners learned more about crime on the inside than on the outside.

“One more thing, Félice,” she said. “Change your locks.”

* * *

A
IMÉE OPENED THE door under the sign of the dog smoking a pipe, Au Chien qui Fume. An inviting warmth filled the old-style brasserie lined with mirrors above the red leather banquettes. Paintings and photos of dogs decorated the walls. A low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery came from the dining area. Ahead she saw the curved polished-wood bar taking up the rear of the room. Liquor bottles lined the shelves behind it.

She reviewed the patrons on the stools: a banker type, talking into his cell phone; two middle-aged women drinking red colored
apéros;
a bus driver in his RATP-emblazoned green-blue jacket, reading
Le Soir
. This was not a biker hangout.

Then she heard the roar of a motorcycle outside. Someone opened the brasserie door. A gust of chilled air whipped the white tablecloths. A glimpse through the door revealed that it was
l’heure bleue
twilight. Distant Pont Neuf’s streetlights glowed like a string of misted pearls.

“The fog’s rising tonight.”

The speaker wore black leathers; longish tousled hair curled on his neck. He had a wide forehead, prominent cheekbones, and narrow lips. He was almost handsome, except for the scar running from the corner of his eye into his hairline.

He perched at the bar, his gaze resting on Aimée’s legs for a second, then shook hands with the bartender.

“
Ca va,
Charlot?” he asked.

“She’s not here, Manu.”

“A
bière
while I wait,” he said defiantly. He rested his boot on the railing below the bar.

No one paid him any attention. Neither did Charlot, the barman, once he’d set the foaming beer on a coaster before him. Not the most popular patron, Aimée could see.

“He’s right, Manu,” she said, slipping next to him at the bar.

“Eh, I don’t know you, but we can dispense with introductions.” His gaze again flicked over her black-seamed stockings.

“Aimée Leduc. But you know my partner.”

He shrugged. Took a sip of beer. Then another.

“Whatever you say,
ma fille
.”

“Mind telling me where you were last night?”

“Funny.” He shook his head, caught the barman’s attention. “She doesn’t look like a
flic,
does she, Charlot?”

Charlot averted his eyes. In the mirror, she could see Char-lot’s bald spot.

“Weren’t you on rue du Louvre, in our office?”

“Do you have a problem with that,
ma fille
? You don’t look the type to pick a fight.”

“But you do. Jealous, vindictive, a grudge-bearer. You locked Félice out.”

“So Félice sent you?” He took another sip, then slammed the glass down. Foam dripped down the sides.

She told me you’d be here. But I’m here about René Friant,
“
my partner.”

The banker set down some francs, then edged off his stool, which scraped the mosaic-tiled floor as he left. Charlot wiped the inside of a wine glass with a towel until it squeaked.

“Your partner . . . the dwarf?”

“You had a grudge against him, so you shot him.”

“Shot him?” Surprised, Manu set his
bière
down, then threw back his head and laughed. “You think I shot that dwarf? Why?”

“You’re the jealous type, Manu,” she said. “You were angry about Félice.”

He pushed his hair back from his eyes. “I was at Place de la Bastille last night.”

“Quick thinking, Manu,” she said. “But I bet there’s a Blue Fever helmet in your motorbike’s compartment.”

“Charlot, put this on my tab.” Manu reached for his glass.

But Charlot took the half-drunk beer and dumped the glass in the sink. He motioned to the manager. “First, settle your old tab, Manu.”

Manu’s thin lips pursed. “No family feeling, eh? No wonder my sister left you, Charlot.” He straightened, reached into his pocket, and threw fifty francs on the bar.

Now that he stood, she saw that Manu was short; he didn’t even reach her shoulders.

“René’s a black belt; you wanted to avoid a confrontation you’d lose,” she said. “So you got some girl to impersonate me. Why?”

“All that, for Félice?” He snorted.

She followed him out the door. Mist enveloped the rue de Rivoli, drifting through the colonnades, blurring car headlights.

As he took his white helmet from the motorcycle compartment, she peered in. The end of a baguette, a can of motor oil. No Blue Fever.

He keyed the ignition, shaking his head. “Hire an assassin on the installment plan to shoot a dwarf?” His laugh echoed off the stone.

“Don’t tell me people don’t owe you favors, Manu.”

“You don’t quit, do you?”

“Convince me, Manu.”

“Like hell I will.” But his shoulders sagged. Resignation showed in his eyes. “I’m broke. I just spent my last fifty francs.”

She believed him.

“That dwarf didn’t change Félice’s feelings for me,” he said, grabbing her sleeve. “You did, Aimée Leduc, sticking your nose into my business. You scared Félice away, didn’t you? You persuaded her not to come.”

His arm went around her neck, snapping it back, choking her. She felt a sharp point raking her skin under her sweater.

Terrified, she tried to speak, but no words came out. Manu pressed the knife deeper against her rib. Choking, her air cut off, she struggled as the knife point went deeper.

Then he let go. The motor revved and he roared away. Gasping, she stumbled against a topiary tree, rubbing her side. And when she looked up, he’d vanished in the mist.

It had been stupid to accuse him outright. She was losing her touch. Losing her grip. Her shaking fingers were smudged with blood.

* * *

W
HAT HAD SHE accomplished? She no longer thought Manu had bought the helmet or shot René. He seemed too petty a crook to have hired someone. Apart from making him her enemy, and needing a Band-aid, she’d gotten nowhere. She had to think more clearly and get some sleep. The twelve-hour kind.

Her office was only two blocks away. Shakily, she made her way beneath the rue de Rivoli arcade. At her corner café, she stared at the steamed-up windows. Zazie, the owner’s young red-haired daughter, sat doing her homework on the counter. The scene was familiar and inviting. But she couldn’t face Zazie, or anyone else, right now. She had work to do.

* * *

U
PSTAIRS, SHE UNLOCKED Leduc Detective’s door, and again faced a dark, chilly office. She closed the window, then kicked the radiator until it rumbled to life.

The chandelier illuminated the marble fireplace, the beveled mirror over it, the recamier piled with folders, the emptiness. She found the first-aid kit, left the door ajar, and went down the hall to the WC. Viaggi Travel was still dark. The other offices, too, were closed.

In front of the tarnished mirror, she lifted her worn cashmere sweater and dabbed antiseptic on the tiny slit over her rib, and covered it with an Asterix Band-aid.

Back at her desk, she checked for messages and found one.

“Sophie from Cybermatrice returning your call. No hard feelings, I hope, but we got the Ophatrix contract. That’s what this is about, right? I’m dating the coordinator, FYI. Better luck next time.” Then, a click.

Talk about rubbing it in. René had offered the same terms to Ophatrix; but if Sophie “dated” the coordinator, no wonder she’d obtained the contract. But if Sophie slept her way into contracts, she wouldn’t have to threaten René, much less injure him.

His cell phone. Why hadn’t she thought of trying that before? She could speak to him directly and find out where— and how—he was. She hit René’s number.

A moment later, she heard its distinctive Chopin sonata ringtone. René’s cell phone was still on his desk under some papers. Disappointed, she clicked off. Her phone rang the very next second.

“Aimée,” Saj said, his voice hesitant. It was their permanent part-time hacker. “You’re in New York?”

“I cancelled my trip. I’m in the office.” She sensed something in Saj’s voice. “What’s wrong, Saj?”

“What’s
right
? The
flics
questioned me this afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me René had been shot?”

“Forgive me, Saj,” she said. “I’ve had no sleep. I spent the night at the hospital, and then with the police. And the
flics
suspect me of shooting René.”

“You’re kidding.”

“If only I were.” And she told him all, from the beginning.

“Can you think of any disgruntled client, or jealous hacker, who may have it in for René?”

“René’s diplomatic,” Saj said. “He’s professional with clients and respected among hackers, Aimée.”

“I know.” Was he implying that she wasn’t?

There was a pause.

“I’m monitoring the daily updates and pursuing the Nadil-lac investigation as planned,” Saj said. “But Nadillac’s keeping tight; it’s like shaving an egg.”

She couldn’t worry about that. Right now, she needed Saj’s help. Apart from René, no one hacked computer systems better.

“Delve into our bank account,” she said. “There’s been a wire transfer to us of a hundred thousand francs. A mistake, I’m sure,” she said. “Use our access code. 09AS876. No fancy footwork, keep it low-key, and sniff the site. I’m waiting for the bank manager’s explanation.”

“I’ll try.”

The distance in his voice bothered her. “Don’t you think I’m upset? René’s right lung was punctured. If only I’d taken the bullet instead.”

“Things don’t look good, Aimée.”

“Tell me about it, Saj. I need your help right now so I can find who shot him and why.”

“Aimée, René’s blood is still staining the floor,” Saj said. “I saw it today. I can’t enter the office any more.”

The sight of the reddish-brown stain where René had fallen made her stomach churn too. The crime-scene tape was still draped over René’s chair.

“Can’t you get the woman who cleans at night to remove it?” Saj asked.

“Véro?” She considered. “Why didn’t I think of her? She was working last night; she may have seen something.”

“The
flics
will have questioned her,” Saj said.

If so, Melac hadn’t mentioned it. But she hadn’t seen the report. Maybe she was clutching at straws, but right now that’s all she had.

After he hung, up, a bad feeling dogged her. Did Saj doubt her?

She grabbed her leather coat, knotted the wool scarf around her neck, and ran down the stairs.

* * *

A
IMÉE PEERED INTO the ground-floor concierge’s loge.

“Véro?”

But it was Anna, the building concierge, a short Portuguese woman, who frowned back. Her black hair, streaked with premature gray, was pulled back from her lined face. “Véro’s off tonight.”