Murder at the Lanterne Rouge (21 page)

Careful to keep her excitement in check, she nodded. “Could you listen again and let me know?”

A little smile. He touched her hand. Warm. Smooth for an engineer. She saw a cut on his wrist near his cuff link. “Cutting and pasting blueprints,” he said, noticing her gaze. “Blame my training.”

Didn’t he have minions for that?

“And you?” He gestured to the ice pack melting on her wrist.

“Close encounter with a windshield, due to my friend’s new driving skills.” But her mind went back to the man darting in the street. Had he been following her?

“Now you’ve got me thinking,” Jean-Luc said. “I want to help. Tomorrow I’m in an all-day symposium. Let’s meet after. Dinner?”

She’d hoped sooner. But she’d learned that a desperate Pascal had reached out to Jean-Luc about an encrypted document. And that he had an atelier. The key was to find it.

A
IMÉE CHECKED HER
Tintin watch. The DST contact was late. She stood at the counter in Café des Puys on rue Beaubourg. The café was near rue Saint-Martin, the old Roman road, and had been a café in some form for several centuries, owned by successive waves of immigrants: Auvergnats, Chinese, and now Serbs, as evidenced by the Serbian national soccer pennants plastering the wall.

Before she could order, the waiter slid an espresso over the counter. “Compliments of the house.”

Her nerves jangled. “
Merci
.”

She undid the sugar wrappers and plopped two cubes in her cup. Stirred. She scanned the café as she waited for the espresso to cool. An old woman with a poodle on a leash, two men in security uniforms, and a young couple holding hands, eyes only for each other. Who was her contact?

She laid odds on the young couple.

She noticed the square of chocolate on her saucer and smiled at the waiter. He nodded. She opened the packet and saw a slip of paper insid.

Go to Théâtre Dejazet, Place de la République

Great. More cold and damp. She downed her espresso and pulled her long, black leather coat tighter. Left a five-franc tip.

Several blocks away, theatergoers spilled over the series of steps leading to Boulevard du Temple, once referred to as
Boulevard du Crime. Not that long ago, either. Now few under forty attended the theater. She stood shivering, wishing this were over, that she could go home.

Fog shrouded Place de la République and muted the noise of night buses.

“Intermission and right on time,” said a familiar voice. The same blonde woman, smiling. Clad in a blue cocktail dress and matching shawl, she walked down the steps and opened her evening bag. “I’m dying for a smoke.”

“We meet again,” Aimée said, gritting her teeth.

“Like one? Or still not smoking?”

“I like to live dangerously,” Aimée said, accepting a filtered Gauloises. And a light. She felt a jolt to her lungs. The rush of nicotine.

“Keep the pack.”

“Don’t you have something for me?”

Aimée felt a matchbox in her hand. She slid the box open. Stared at the writing on a cigarette paper. “A website?”

“The proof’s there. And don’t forget to smile.”

Smile? “You bugged my scooter. Don’t even think of following me.”

But the blonde woman had mingled with theatergoers who were descending the steps, pulling out lighters and sucking smoke. A moment later she’d disappeared into the crowd.

Furious, Aimée ground out the cigarette with a high heel, put the matchbox in her pocket, and headed past the theater toward her cousin Sebastien’s atelier. She wished she’d kept the ice on her wrist longer.

At least she could get warm and use his computer.

But Sebastien’s framing atelier was dark. She hit his number on her cell phone. His phone rang and rang. No answer. Not even voice mail.

She paced the cobbles by Sebastien’s and noticed the
stained glass atelier next door. Thinking about the chapter in Samour’s book gave her an idea. She’d talk to the stained-glass artist tomorrow. What else could she do?

Still no word from Prévost. She needed to protect Meizi, make good on her promise to Mademoiselle Samoukashian, and ensure Prévost’s cooperation in the Chinatown surveillance raid. She headed down the dark street toward the bus stop a few blocks over and hit Prévost’s number.

“
Commissariat, bonsoir
.”

“Officer Prévost,
s’il vous plaît
.”

“At a meeting,” said a young voice. A yawn. “Leave your number and he’ll get the message.”

“Too late. His informer’s in trouble,” she said. “Patch me through to him.”

“Who’s this?”

“Big trouble,
compris?
”

Pause.

“Now!”

She heard a click. Buzz.

Prévost answered on the first ring. “
Oui?
”

Finally.

In the background she heard what sounded like the click of chips, the slap of cards. Gambling. Hadn’t that gotten him into trouble before? But she could use that.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Aimée Leduc,” she said. “We need to talk.”

“About your statement?” She heard surprise in his voice.

“I mean the surveillance mounted in—”

“What’s that got to do with you? Keep your nose out of this.”

“But you wouldn’t want another mark on your record, would you?”

“What?” Voices rose in the background. Chinese voices. A chair scraped over the floor.

“Gambling again?” she said.

“What the hell … listen, we’ll talk tomorrow.” Quiet now. He’d left the table.

“So you’ll shine me on again?” she said. “I can lead you to the snakehead who controls boutiques, sweatshops in a three-block radius. Big promotion for you, Prévost. And I wouldn’t need to mention your love of cards.”

Pause. “You’re guessing.”

“You want more?”

The street was quiet. Too quiet. She kept her voice low, hurried around the corner. Another deserted street lit by misted globes. Footsteps sounded behind her.

The hair rose on the back of her neck.

She sped up. Three more winding blocks to the bus that would drop her close to Île Saint-Louis.

“More like a source, Mademoiselle Leduc. Hard evidence.”

“How about nameless bodies lying in the paupers section at the Ivry cemetery,” she said. “Front page to the right investigative reporter. Especially since the funeral parlor’s right under your nose in the quartier. Or maybe they finance your chips.”

She heard a car door slam, footsteps behind her again.

She made her feet go faster, one eye out for ice while she scanned the darkened windows and the parked cars for movement. Whoever they were, they were good.

“What do you want?”

Right now, dry shoes and a warm fire. And quick. But she saw no taxi in sight.

“A woman protected,” she said. “The date of the raid.”

“We’ll talk. But not now.”

Pause. Voices.

“Getting the snakehead and his boss, that’s gold, Prévost.”

More voices. She had to convince him. Give him something to get information. She took a stab in the dark. “There’s a witness to Samour’s murder. Haven’t you questioned him?”

“Who?”

“Clodo, the homeless man in the stairs.”

Pause. “Not anymore.”

Footsteps sounded close behind her. She didn’t like this. Without turning around she walked faster. Her gut told her to get the hell to the Métro.

“He’s in custody? Then he’s told you—”

“Pushed on the Métro tracks. At Hôtel-Dieu.”

“But have you questioned him?”

“Clodo’s not in any condition to tell anyone anything soon. If ever.”

Her blood ran cold. “The murderer tried to kill his witness, Prévost.”

“More like he fell on the rails drunk or during a fight. A coincidence.”

“No coincidence, Prévost,” she said.

“What judge would listen to him? I need proof.”

Proof? Prévost might need evidence to make a case. She didn’t.

Hampered by regulations, paperwork, the endless questioning and rehashing of witness statements—vital time lost. No wonder, despite the cloud of suspicion trailing him, her father was glad to leave the force.

“You want evidence? How about the cell phone Clodo took from the murder site?”

Pause. “Cell phone?”

She hoped the homeless weatherman would come through.

“Help me and I’ll help you,” she said. “Look, Prévost, you need my information to look good with the RG, don’t you?”

He cleared his throat. “More like I owed your father. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Owed Papa? “What do you mean?”

But he’d hung up.

Taken up with Prévost’s call, she’d forgotten the footsteps behind her. Stupid not to pay attention. To have her arm weighted down with the heavy Vuitton.

Up ahead, light spilled out of massive portals into the street. Chamber music drifted from a courtyard. A man in a tuxedo escorted a laughing woman, a fox-fur wrap draped over her shoulders, to an approaching taxi. Not far now.

And then she was grabbed from behind. Pulled into a walkway between the buildings. Shoved face-first against the pitted wall. Her gasping scream broken by the force of a body pinning her to the dripping stone. Someone had followed her to finish the job, just as they’d finished Samour. One of the huddled knot of Chinese men she’d run into earlier?

Terror filled her. Broken glass crackled underfoot and a rat scurried away by the garbage bin. Hands clasped her wrists in an iron grip. Big hands. A man’s hands. Her bruised wrist flashed with pain as her arms were bound together with tape.

Then her head was pulled back. Smooth sheet plastic was wrapped over her mouth, her eyes, her face. Pulled tight, smothering her. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. Frantic, she elbowed back with all her might. Again, into his chest as hard as she could, struggling to suck air. Nothing but her tongue on plastic. Panicked, she bit down hard. Only felt smooth plastic.

She kicked back with her heeled boot. Tightness in her chest, her lungs. Voices, laughter, and she didn’t feel the man anymore. Footsteps … fading away. Groggy, she sank down on jagged glass. Her mind fogged.

She pressed her face on the glass shards, rubbing against a jagged tip, frantic to poke a hole and get air. She felt the sharp point near her nostril. Rubbed harder, the glass cutting her face. A trickle of air. She fought to breathe, her mind slipping away.

M
ORBIER WIPED THE
perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief in his chief’s overheated office in the
commissariat
. His back hurt, and the small chair groaned under his weight. After too much wine, he had to force himself to concentrate. To push Aimée to the back of the line.

Morbier shifted his legs, wishing the meeting had ended thirty minutes ago. Irritation shone in Loisel’s small, ferret-like eyes. The mole on his left cheek reminded Morbier of a chocolate smudge. For the umpteenth time, he battled the urge to use his handkerchief and wipe the man’s cheek.

“So how do I substantiate allegations of police corruption, Commissaire?” Loisel asked. “Anything old-fashioned, like attending meetings with documentation? Or evidence? Remember those?”

Morbier had obtained illegal phone taps, and telephoto surveillance of the suspect’s contacts. Incriminating, but nothing Loisel could use. Still, it was leverage for Morbier.

“My neck’s on the block and I don’t like it,” Loisel said. “You’ve had free reign until now, but the stratosphere’s changed.”

His predecessor, Langouile, tasked Morbier with investigating rife police department corruption. It touched the top toes, demanding tact. Morbier met resistance and evasion, hit each bend on thin ice. And with nothing he could use legally.

“What about your
indicateur?
” Loisel asked, tenting his fingers.

Morbier’s top informer had been found in the Seine, in the salvage net at Evry. A good man. On the force for ten years and with access to high-level reports. But Morbier had arrived too late. It sickened him. The man left a wife and two young children.

“They got to him before I did.”

“So you have nothing besides a dead
indicateur?
” Loisel’s tone was cold.

“Don’t forget I spent time downstairs in Le Dépôt. A little hard to work when I was a suspect in jail.” Due to circumstantial evidence, there had been accusations that he’d murdered the woman he loved. All engineered at the hands of the top brass he wanted to topple. But he had no concrete proof of that either.

“This would go quicker and without the mess,” Morbier said, shooting Loisel a look, “if you ordered a legal wiretap.”

“I didn’t hear that, Morbier.
Alors
, deal with your personal issues, satisfy the police psychologist’s mandate, then give me concrete evidence for a court of law.”

Telling him to deal with his issues? That his informer had died for nothing?

Anger rippled inside his chest. That man had dedicated his life to the law, but had it protected him? No, only the big men at the top. Like always.

But Morbier wouldn’t let this go. He had to pierce this cloud of grief, stop drinking every night, move on. His job depended on it. And so did Aimée’s life.

“Give me two men I can trust, Loisel.”

“I need results, Commissaire. Or this investigation shuts down due to lack of evidence.”

Repeating himself, too. Covering his ass. Sweat popped on Morbier’s brow.

Loisel sighed. Sniffed. “Drinking, too. Your memory holding up these days?”

Morbier bunched his fist to knock the smug look off Loisel’s face until he noticed Loisel writing on a scrap of paper. Loisel shoved it across his magistrate’s teak-wood desk.

One name.

Loisel tore it up. A sweep of his ferret-like eyes to the tall window and a quick flick of his pointed finger told Morbier the office was bugged. Ears listened from the
centre d’écoute
under Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides.

Merde
.

“A full report with developments and proof,” Loisel said, “by this time tomorrow night or your investigation goes away.”

Morbier nodded, trying to get a read on Loisel. But he’d already picked up the phone and gave a dismissive wave.