Murder in the Rue De Paradis (5 page)

“How well did you know him?” René said.

“I slept with him last night, René, for God’s sake,” she said. “He asked me to marry him.”

René blinked.

“I mean
really
know him, Aimée.”

She knew his scent, the tan birthmark behind his knee, the way his lopsided smile erupted into a grin.

“He’d been in Cairo more than a year . . . I don’t know how to say this any way but the wrong way.” René averted his eyes, tongue tied. “What if Yves had another life?”

“And went both ways?” Her voice rose.

“Did I say that?” René’s eyes clouded.

“You don’t have to,” she said, and hit the steering wheel. ”You sound like Maillol, implying—”

“I’m saying if Yves was working undercover, there’s more to this than we know. It’s dangerous,” Rene interrupted, wiping his brow, then glancing at his watch. “Think of that cryptic message he left.”

That stopped her in her tracks.

“You’re right. But the suspect would know.”

“Aimée, that’s the Brigade Criminelle’s job. Go home, change, and take a rest.”

“Hurry, or you’ll miss your train.”

René paused, his hand on the handle of the rain-beaded door.

“Promise me, Aimée, take care of yourself. I’ll call you tonight.”

She nodded, reprogrammed the Citroën’s seat adjustment, and extended the pedal for her five-foot-eight height, instead of René’s four-foot reach. As she pulled away, she glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw René’s troubled look as he hailed a porter.

She gunned the engine and headed to the Canal Saint-Martin. All she could do was hope Maillol hadn’t transferred the suspect to the Brigade yet.

BACK IN THE Commissariat for the second time, Aimée’s eyes swept the front reception counter. No one sat behind the desk. As she leaned over the counter, her damp skirt molded to her thighs. Forms and binders marked
proces verbal
were slotted in dividers by the phone console. She saw no files on the desk or in the box labeled “in transit.”

“He’s not responding!”

She turned to see a cluster of uniformed
flics
and white-coated medics near the wire cage of the holding cells. She walked toward the group. No one was paying her any attention; their focus was on the last cell. Peering over a blue-uniformed shoulder, Aimée saw a stretcher with a clear plastic portable drip and tubes hanging from hooks attached to a pole.

“Second junkie this week,” said a
flic
with a knowing look. “Bad stuff going around.”

The medic, a woman with a blond ponytail, pulled the stethoscope from her neck. “An asthma attack,” she said, straightening up. “Romeo needed air in his lungs, not stuff in his veins.”

Aimée stared at the chalk-white–faced figure curled in a fetal position on the stretcher. Platinum spiked hair, tight red Levis and turquoise earrings.

He didn’t look like a killer—but then, he was dead. He looked more like one of the surplus store mannequins tossed out on the street after the January sales. Concave chest, chiseled defined cheeks and pale open lips . . . almost pouting, but then he’d been desperate to get air to his constricted lungs. Yves, and now this
mec
. . . she tried to still her shaking hands. Gave up and stuck them in her skirt pockets.

“The homicide suspect . . . ?”

“
Oui,
and now he won’t talk. I’ll have to inform the Brigade. . . .” The
flic
frowned before he could finish. “
Et alors,
” he said, “no public allowed.” He herded her to the reception area. “What are you doing here? That area’s off limits.”

She saw that it said Sergeant Theroux on the name tag above his pocket.

“Commander Maillol questioned me this morning concerning Yves Robert’s . . .” she paused, then forced herself to go on. “. . . murder. Was this man the suspect?“

“Are you family?”

She reached in her bag for her card. Her fingers touched a worn, smooth rounded coin. The coin from the betrothal amulet Yves had given her.

“I identified Yves’s body at the morgue,” she said.

“I’m sorry.” He read her card and stroked his chin. “We responded to the call concerning an attack and discovered a homicide. It took time for the Police Judiciare to arrive. The Brigade instructed us to send the victim’s body over to the morgue, and the suspect to the Brigade. But now, well, the case looks open and shut.”

“Open and shut?” That was the easy way, but she bit her remark back, determined to hold herself in check. If she flew off the handle, demanded . . . well, by the look of Theroux she’d get more out of him with tact.

“That’s the Brigade Criminelle’s call,” she said. “Did this man confess?”

“I’m the one to ask questions, Mademoiselle,” he said, glancing at the wall clock.

“But of course, Sergeant,” she said. “Such a shock, everything’s happened so fast. Why would this man . . . ?”

He shrugged. “Look, we see it all the time. I shouldn’t say this, but we figure it’s a lover’s quarrel or pimp payback time.”

“But—”

“Even the decent ones sell their bodies when their veins need it. It’s a disease.”

She gritted her teeth. He assumed too much.

“How does that explain slitting Yves’s throat?”

“The victim’s cell phone and wallet were in this
mec
’s possession.”

Circumstantial evidence at best, she thought. “Did he admit it?”

“I’m not privy to the report, Mademoiselle,” he said, closing down. “As I said, it’s the Brigade Criminelle’s domain. Talk to them.”

Prying information from them was hard. Despite the sergeant’s simple take on Yves’s murder, she counted on the Brigade to perform a thorough investigation. Yet the sergeant indicated that there had been a time lapse before they realized it was homicide and the Police Judiciare responded. Evidence might have fallen between the cracks. She was determined not to leave without discovering
something
.

“May I claim Yves’s belongings?”

“Not my department.”

She tapped her foot. “Officer. . . .”

“Go through the proper channels, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Fill out the proper forms.”

One of the medics covered up the junkie with a sheet. The other snapped the medic kit closed with a sigh.

René’s question circled in her head, “How well did you
really
know Yves?”

“
Ne quittez pas,
hold on,” the uniformed receptionist said, putting her hand over the phone receiver and staring at Aimée. “
Oui?
”

Several perspiring
flics
burst through the station doors holding a wild-eyed man, his tie undone and suit jacket falling off his shoulders, shouting “I’d do it again; the
mec
stole my wife.”

“Intake!” one of the
flics
said. “We need a free cell. Now.”

“I’m requesting a victim’s belongings,” Aimée said, hoping to grab the receptionist’s attention long enough to get the proper paperwork. It had taken a year and a half to obtain the charred contents of her father’s pockets and his melted eyeglasses.

“Fill out Form 405, back and front.” The receptionist slid a stapled sheaf of papers over the counter, then gestured with a thumb behind her at the
flics
. “Escort monsieur to intake room one. Our first cell,
the
premier accommodation, will free up in a moment.”

By the time Aimée came to the end of the form under “relation to the deceased,” she stopped. Her chest tightened and she wrote fiancée. Confronted by a blank under “next of kin,” she realized she didn’t even know if Yves had family.

“Takes ten to fifteen working days,” said the receptionist, stamping a time-date on the application.

“But—”

“That’s for family members,” she said, not looking up. “Otherwise it’s up to the commander.” She paused. “
Non,
I’m wrong, the Brigade will handle this.”

Aimée nodded, knowing it useless to argue. Meanwhile, the blond medic who seemed to have been acquainted with the junkie might prove more helpful.

Outside the station at the end of the street, a black barge floated in the canal’s dark green water, waiting to enter the next lock. Leaves on the plane trees lining the canal glittered with raindrops in the now-bright sun. Muggy dense heat filled the air and sunbeams danced on the puddles between cobblestones. A bucolic scene except for the
panier à salad
, the “dead van,” pulling up behind the ambulance.

“Renaud V-o-r-n-e-r aka Romeo Void, spell it right, Jean,” said the medic to her partner who was filling out a form on his clipboard.

Aimée paused by the ambulance as the two medics shut the back door.

“You’re more acquainted with his medical history than he is . . . was, Giséle.”

As Giséle, the blond medic, pulled off her latex gloves and headed to the driver’s door, Aimée reached for her damp sleeve. She had to seize her chance before they drove away, no matter how awkward it felt.

“
Excusez-moi,
I overheard that you knew Renaud Vorner. You’re leaving now?”

“I wish,” Giséle said. “They have to catalogue his belongings. Who knows how long that will take?”

“Do you have a moment for a coffee?” Aimée said, pointing to the café awning behind them.

Giséle’s eyes swept over Aimée: the black pencil skirt, sandals, damp tank top sticking to her chest, and laptop bag slung over her arm. “Nice offer, but we’re on call, we never know when we’ll get—”

“How about the counter?” Aimée interrupted. “I’ve only got a few minutes myself.”

Giséle hesitated, checking her pager.

Aimée motioned to the other medic. “Bet you both could use one.”

Giséle stifled a yawn and nodded. “Two more hours on shift; caffeine’s a good idea.”

They passed the rattan café chairs bunched behind small circular marble tables on the terrace. Inside the café, the whooshing from the milk steamer and the clatter of saucers being stacked greeted them. A ceiling fan, circa 1930, sputtered overhead suspended from a ceiling patinaed yellow by years of cigarette smoke.

“Three expressos,
s’il vous plait.
”

“
Serre
for me,” said Giséle. Half the water.

“Me, too.” Aimée said to the man behind the counter. Any other time, she’d relish a seat in a café overlooking the canal, imagining Yves joining her. Not now, she needed answers.

“How well did you know Renaud Vorner?” Aimée said.

“You’re a reporter?” Gisèle asked.

Aimée handed her the card reading
detective privé
she kept for moments like this. “Aimée Leduc.”

“A detective?” Her partner joined them at the counter and stared at her card. His eyes narrowed. “We provide services to the community, not to vultures like you.”

A nice attitude, this one.

“Yet the
flics
let this man die,” she said, turning to the blond medic. “He had an asthma attack, but the
flics
didn’t respond in time. Right, Giséle?”

“Forget the coffee,” Jean said. “I don’t like types like you.”

This Jean had a chip of concrete on his shoulder.

“Like me . . . what do you mean?”

“Nice act.” Jean shook his head. “Snooping around. You’re paid to report to the ministry and close down even more services to the homeless.”

Giséle shot Jean a look as if to remind him of his manners.

“Not at all,” Aimée said. “I just have a hard time buying him as a murder suspect.”

Giséle’s eyes narrowed. “A suspect?” She thought for a moment, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “The
flics
don’t deal well with
habitués
like Romeo. But he had charm. If only he’d gone to the clinic,” she said and shrugged. “Last week, I gave him an inhaler, prescriptions. Usually he stayed on top of his condition.”

“What happened?”

A look of hopelessness crossed her face, then disappeared. “Some of them come round, attend the clinic, get into rehab. Better talk with the sergeant.”

The sergeant who’d insisted she fill out forms.

“I imagine you know more than anyone else. Do you think Romeo would kill for a fix?”

The waiter set the small white demitasse cups on the zinc counter. Steam curled in a thin wisp and evaporated. Her fingers tensed on the small handle.

“In our job, we save people. Try to,” Giséle said. “The rest I don’t think about.”

“He was the main suspect in my . . .” she paused, “. . . friend’s murder.”

Aimée felt their stares burn into her. Then tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked, willing them back.

“Are you kidding me?” Giséle said, leaning forward. “Not Romeo. I know the ones who’d slit your throat rather than shake your hand. But not Romeo. A romantic, we called him. Sure, he hustled, got by on his looks. But murder . . . never.”

“I can’t believe it either . . . you see, we’d just. . . .” The words tumbled out before she could stop herself. Her face reddened. How could she reveal herself to strangers like this . . . why couldn’t she behave professionally? All her investigating skills were failing her.

Giséle laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked again. She didn’t need pity. She needed answers.

“Heart attack . . . 84, rue Magenta,” spit from the radio on Giséle’s hip.

Giséle downed the espresso and her partner strode out of the café, speaking into the microphone clipped to his lapel.

Aimée tossed some francs onto the counter and followed, desperate to prise information about Romeo out of them. Something. Her heel caught between two street cobbles, cracked off, and she lurched forward, grabbing the ambulance for support.

“Here are Romeo’s belongings,” said a
flic,
handing Giséle a plastic bag through the ambulance window.

“Who did Romeo hang with?”

From inside the ambulance, Giséle shrugged. “A type who dyes his hair and sports a ‘glam punk look’.”

Aimée put her face to the half-open window.

“His name?”

“I don’t know.”

Giselle turned the ignition.

“Can you tell me where Romeo lived?”