Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

BACK IN the Leduc Detective office she tried Etienne Mabry again.

Still no answer. And none at Christian Figeac’s apartment.

Worried, she wondered if he was still in custody.

She looked up from her computer terminal as René entered, wearing a tailored straw-colored linen suit, wiping perspiration from his large forehead.

“Diuretics!” he said. “The humidity’s equal to the temperature and the doctor prescribed diuretics!” He unbuttoned the linen jacket, tailored to his four-foot height. “I need another glass of Evian!”

She passed him bottled water and one of the Baccarat tumblers, the only glasses they had left from her grandfather’s time.

“I heard you borrowed money from Michel. But I’ve learned that his uncle Nessim needs extra laundry service,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We need to play it safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nessim’s wholesale fabric business needs outlets besides the Deauville casinos in which to launder money.” René shrugged. “And Michel’s couture is one of them.”

“But I want to help Michel.”

“So do I,” he said. “A lot of questionable bankruptcies are declared in the Sentier. I wouldn’t want Michel to be a victim of his uncle. We should see what security his computer system needs.”

René pushed up his shirtsleeves. “The Société Générale’s account is overdue. They owe us but the manager keeps stalling me.”

Insurance companies were the worst when it came to paying for contracted services.

“It takes two weeks to authorize issuance of a check.” René tugged on his goatee, something he did when worried. He mounted his orthopedic chair and swiveled to face his computer screen.

She gathered up papers and stuffed them in her black leather backpack.

“In the meantime, rent’s due,” René said, looking at the pile of bills on her desk. “What’s our Media 9 contract status?”

“Pending,” she said, pointing to the thick folder labeled MEDIA 9 on his desk.

“ Attends , let me look at Nessim’s business structure,” he said.

“There’s tons of legalese. I’ll have to decipher it after I return.”

“Return?” He peered at the dated Post-Its on the pile. “This was due yesterday.”

She paused, feeling guilty. “ Désolée , René, but these things …”

He tugged his goatee. “It’s more than that, about your father, Aimée. All that time poking around government departments, then the trip to Berlin. I thought you’d pick up the slack when you returned. Now, this new wild goose chase …”

“René, I know I need to be here more, helping you out.”

Remorse assailed her. But she couldn’t postpone investigating this lead to her mother.

She stood up, paced to their office window overlooking rue du Louvre. Below, leafy lime trees shifted in an arid breeze, throwing shadows over a roadwork crew. Her hands shook. She didn’t want René to see.

But he did. “What’s wrong?”

Aimée hesitated. “It’s worse than bad.” She told him about Jutta Hald, her suspicions concerning Romain Figeac’s suicide, and her mother. “I can’t stop now, René. This woman was murdered almost in front of me. And there’s news about my mother. After all these years, I have a chance to find out what happened to her.”

“I know, but …” He looked away. “But you borrowed money from Michel and we need it!”

“Yes, of course we do,” she said, conflicted. With Jutta gone she might as well use the money, think of it as a temporary business loan. “And we’ll use it for the business. We’ll survive, we always do.” She pulled out all but five thousand francs of the fifty she’d borrowed from Michel. “Here, this should help.” She stuffed her laptop in her bag, then made for the door. But she had to make him understand. She turned around. “René, you know I have given everything I have to the business. But for once, this has to come first.”

René’s eyes flashed. “Dot-coms court me, Aimée,” he said. “All the time. Offering me nice sign-up packages, stock options. The works.”

Shocked, she sat down. She’d had no idea. She felt stupid. Of course they would, but she’d been too distracted to notice.

“What are you saying, René?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, his goatee quivering.

He slid down from his orthopedic chair, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the office door. She’d never seen him so upset.

“René!”

No answer. She ran into the hallway after him. The wire-cage lift rumbled and creaked below her. She ran down the spiral steps, her high-heeled sandals clattering, meeting René as he opened the curlicue-work metal door.

“Look, René,” she said. “We’re in this together, I need you. Please understand….” She wasn’t prepared to tell him she simply couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Friends honor commitments, it’s that simple.” René snorted. “Your mind’s been somewhere else.”

So he’d noticed.

She was obsessed: her mother, Jutta, the terrorists. Yet, René had always been there for her, time and again in the past. She knew she was jeopardizing their relationship.

She hung her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She rocked on her heels. “I’ll catch up. I promise. Forgive me, partner?”

His green eyes fluttered and he dusted invisible lint from his trousers. “Writing code all day bores me but I like to pay the rent and eat out once in a while.”

“We’ve got receivables. Like you said, people owe us! I’ve sent them warnings, next step is the collection agency. They cough up when they get that red-bordered notice.”

She took a deep breath. “Hungry?”

René gazed at the sushi bar opposite them on rue du Louvre. “Are you buying?”

She nodded.

“Later,” he said, looking at his pocket watch. “I have to meet our bank manager about a loan.”

“A loan?”

“To tide us over until we get paid.”

René was smart. Now she should make a dent in the pile of work on her desk. Upstairs, she filled Miles Davis’s water bowl, then tried Etienne Mabry’s number again. Still no answer.

The door opened. “I forgot my briefcase,” René said, looking pointedly at the papers on her desk.

Aimée returned the look as she stuck her detailed Paris Plan into her leather backpack.

“Going someplace again?

“I have to find Etienne Mabry so Christian Figeac can get out of jail.”

Monday Afternoon

TUCKED DOWN BELOW street level, in the hollow of a quarry, the cemetery was a tangle of trees and pompous mausoleums. Stefan blinked as crunching noises sounded behind him. He balled his hand into a fist. Turned around.

But it was just the grave digger shoveling shiny white stones into a wheelbarrow. Near the Virgin Mary marble statue, a squirrel nibbled an old furred chestnut.

Stefan pulled himself up.

Fear curdled his thoughts.

Would he be killed next?

Except for an old bag, the coffin, lined with dirty cobwebs, lay empty.

Jutta had taken the Laborde stash and all the bonds. She’d demolished him.

But whoever killed her would have them … wouldn’t they?

Thoughts crowded his mind. Had Jutta joined forces with some new terrorist fanatics, planning to strike again? Had she blabbed to someone in prison? Or had one of the gang survived and followed her?

Stefan went rigid with terror. As he rubbed the gray stubble on his chin, his mind spun. Everything ruined, his future gone. Greedy Jutta. He remembered. She hadn’t changed.

Despair hit him as he crouched among the gravestones. A bird’s molted gray feathers lay clumped by his elbow. Still on the run. Still wanted after twenty years, and now he had no money.