Murder in Passy
Authors: Cara Black
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Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis
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Murder in the Palais Royal
Copyright © 2011 by Cara Black
All rights reserved.
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Black, Cara
Murder in Passy / Cara Black.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56947-882-0
1. Leduc, Aimee (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private
investigators—France—Paris—Fiction. 3. 16e Arrondissement (Paris,
France)—Fiction. 4. Paris (France)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.L297M7985 2011
813’.54—dc22
2010034816
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In memory of Madame Aufrère,
Anne-Françoise’s great aunt who loved Passy,
and for the ghosts.
Table of Contents
My deep thanks to: forensic pathologist Terri Haddix, M.D., Vincent O’Neill, Jean Satzer, Dot Edwards, Barbara, Jan Gurley, M.D., Max, Susanna von Leuwen, Elaine, Libby Fisher Hellman, Jo and Don Metz, and the amazing Ailen, Katie, Mark, Bronwen, and Justin at Soho.
In Paris: Colonel Michael McGurk, American Embassy, Paris, André Rakoto, Service Historique Ministère de la Défense, Chateau de Vincennes, Sarah Schwartz, translator extraordinaire, Gilles Fouquet, Carla Bach, toujours Anne-Françoise Delbègue, Gilles Thomas, underground specialist, Julian Pepinster, of the Paris Métro, the GIGN unit at Satory, Versailles for the visit and expertise, Vassili, gracious Silvie Briet of Eau de Paris, Nathalie and Benoît Pastisson, generous beyond words.
Un grand merci
in Passy and Auteuil to Anne Bordier, Lynn Green-Rutannen for our walks over the years, Arianne Rosenau Levery for sharing her “village,” and Claude Pasquét.
On the Basque front, La Maison Basque de Paris, Jean Damien Lesay, and in Bilbao, Elizabete Bizkarralegorra, huge thanks, and Ondo Izan.
Always in my corner, James N. Frey, Linda Allen, my son Tate, and Jun.
Words feel inadequate for the debt I owe my late, dear editor Laura Hruska. Her guidance and knowledge over the years were a gift.
Merci
, Laura.
“What is irritating about love is that it is a crime
that requires an accomplice.”
—C
HARLES
B
AUDELAIRE
P
ARIS
November 1997
T
HE DOORBELLS TINKLED
as Aimée Leduc stepped inside the cheese shop from the cold and inhaled the warm, pungent odors. A radio blared the evening news: “… evading seven roadblocks erected after the shootout in the
Imprimerie Nationale
documents heist. In other breaking news, a radical faction.… ” She shivered, nodding to pink-faced, rotund Victor, standing in his white apron behind the counter. Bombings, shoot-outs, she hated to think what else—and to make it worse, just before the holidays.
“World’s gone crazy.” Victor shook his head. “The usual?” He gestured to a runny rind on grape leaves standing on the marble-topped counter: “Or this?”
Aimée tasted the Brie dripping on the white waxed paper.
“C’est parfait.”
She emerged from the shop into the evening mist and rounded the corner toward her office on rue du Louvre. The reflections of the furred yellow orbs of streetlights glowed on the wet pavement.
“About time, Leduc.” Morbier, her godfather and a police commissaire, his black wool coat beaded with moisture, paced before her building door. An unmarked Peugeot with a driver, engine thrumming, waited at the curb.
“More like five minutes early, Morbier.” The chill autumn wind cut a swathe through the street of nineteenth-century buildings. Passersby hurried along, bundled in overcoats.
A look she couldn’t read crossed his face. “We’ve got a situation in Lyon. I’m late. You’ve got the file, Leduc?”
Forget the apéritif she’d expected in the corner café! She brushed away her disappointment. So they would do the exchange in the cold, wet street. She handed Morbier a manila envelope containing the supposed ten-year-old letters and photo of her “brother” Julian. It was time to let the professionals handle the only copies she had, so she could find out once and for all if they were genuine. “A week for lab authentication, Morbier?”
In return, he showed her an engraved business card reading
POLICE PAPER FORENSICS DIVISION HEAD PAUL BERT
. “Bert’s the leading forgery expert. That’s all I know.”
She nodded; she couldn’t push it. He was doing her a favor.
“Time for a quick espresso?” She pointed to the lit windows under the café’s awning, which was now whipping in the wind.
Morbier shook his head. Under the thick salt-and-pepper hair, his face appeared more lined in the streetlight; dark circles showed under his eyes. “You think life finally makes sense, then …
alors,
” he shrugged. “
Pouff,
it turns upside down.”
