Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

Nearby stood an artists’ squat, in a Haussmann-era building, the whole six floors covered with fluorescent graffiti. It was an unexpected bright spot in the middle of the financial district.

Aimée paused in the central enclosure of the Bourse. A speckled gray pigeon had flown inside. Disoriented, it pecked at the tommettes , the hexagonal red clay floor tiles. She knew how it felt, away from familiar ground and looking for crumbs.

Kind of like now.

Several men passed in formal evening attire. She wished she was wearing something more dressy than the crisp linen jacket over her jeans.

More business and efficiency exuded from the antenna-topped Agence France Presse opposite, she thought, than from the deserted wide marble corridors of the Bourse. Rounding a corner, she strode toward the trading hall.

“Trading has ended for the day, Mademoiselle,” said a plainclothes guard wearing a headset. His massive shoulders barred her way. “No unauthorized visitors. Do you have an appointment?”

“But of course,” she said, trying to scan the trader directory behind him for Mabry’s name. She had to make sure he was listed and where he could be found.

Before she could think of what to say next, the guard smiled broadly.

“Another convert baptized,” he said.

“Baptized?”

His massive hand pointed to the yellow-green splotch on her shoulder. Big and spreading.

“You must be special,” he winked. “Our winged friends don’t bestow this honor on everyone.”

Great. Just what I need, she thought. No way in and bird poop on my suit.

On his desk, a halogen lamp beam focused on the visitors’ log.

Too bad she hadn’t mastered reading upside down.

“Happen to have a tissue?”

He pulled a Wet Wipe from his desk.

“Try this.”

“Merci.” She spotted an Evian bottle on the floor. “Mind if I use a bit of this, too?”

“Be my guest,” he said with a gesture. Quickly, she rubbed at her linen jacket.

“He’s following me,” she said. “Look!”

As the guard turned, Aimée bent over the tenants’ register. She scanned the entries and found the name Etienne Mabry.

“Who?”

She grinned, pointing to the pigeon who’d waddled into view.

“If you don’t watch out, you’re next,” she said. “Please, tell Etienne Mabry I’m en route and I apologize for arriving late.”

SHE DIDN’T know what to expect upstairs. The oddly narrow marble staircase echoed to the click of her heels. But by the time she arrived she’d dug in her bag, looped a silk scarf around her neck, and attached chunky silver earrings.

The placard on the landing read, “Mabry—YI Burobourse reception, salle A ’2ième étage .”

The small room didn’t hold more than fifteeen people. All men. And as much ethnic variety as béchamel sauce. Fat binders and business prospectuses sat on the Directoire table. A few of the men, tanned and distinguished, could have stepped out of an Armani commercial.

“I’m looking for Monsieur Mabry,” she said to one with a flute of champagne in his hand. “Can you point him out to me?”

“ Désolé , Mademoiselle,” he said.

But another man appeared at her elbow. Tanned, with graying hair, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “You and me both.”

She looked up, surprised to be at the receiving end of a major charm offensive. She didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t hard on the eyes. At all. She’d had an affair with an older man in her neighborhood who walked his dog when she did. An aristo with old money and de la before his last name. He’d offered her a life of luxe, calme, et volupte … but she’d refused. She was her own mistress. No one else’s.

“Let me know when you find him.”

“And why should I?”

“I’m his uncle,” he said. “Jean Buisson.”

“Aimée Leduc,” she said. As she turned, he clasped her elbow. “But if we don’t find him, come to the reception with me.” He nodded toward the room opposite, where tuxedoed men clustered in the doorway.

“Why should I do that?”

“The champagne’s better!”

She smiled. He had a point.

Aimée slipped past the throng of men in black suits. She questioned several, getting quizzical looks in response. Above her hung a fin de siécle chandelier, its crystal swags catching the light. Had Christian gotten word to Mabry somehow? Had he already gone to retrieve Christian from the hands of the police?

Better move on, she thought. Try the champagne, then disappear.

As she left the salon and walked down the hallway, she noticed a door to another room and peeked inside. A group of teenagers, mostly girls with a mélange of skin tones, perched by a computer terminal. A slim man in his early thirties leaned over it, pointing to items on the screen.

“Monsieur Mabry, the shares in networking and opticals indicate high risks,” said a girl. Her light chocolate skin was like Idrissa’s, Aimée thought.

“Mademoiselle Scalbert, can you support your view?” he said. “I think you’re on the right track but tell us why.”

Aimée slipped inside just as he looked up.

Mabry pulled his longish red-brown hair behind his ears. The man was a hunk, no getting around it; all six feet of him, in his pinstriped suit.

“Lost your way, Mademoiselle?” he asked, his voice dense as crème fraîche . His large, smoke-colored eyes crinkled in amusement, then his lips curled in a smile.

He had a wonderful smile.

It reminded her of Yves, her former boyfriend, a Middle East correspondent. Etienne Mabry’s lips curled the same way.

She and Yves had an on-again, off-again relationship, a disaster that had ended the year before on a corner in the old part of Cairo, sun-baked pyramids and buzzing flies for a backdrop.

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, wishing she could fuse with a nearby pillar and just watch him. “I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

Etienne Mabry glanced at his watch and shook his head.

“We’re running into overtime again,” he said. “At our next Young Investors’ meeting, we’ll tackle Mademoiselle Scalbert’s argument as to what constitutes excessive risk and what’s smart.”

The Young Investors gathered their things. Some cast long looks at Aimée as they left. Mabry spoke to a student and then pulled on his jacket. “How can I help you?” he said, as he reached the door.

“Aimée Leduc,” she said, handing him her card. “Your uncle’s looking for you, too.”

He set down his worn brown leather briefcase. “Leduc Detective?” he asked, reading her card. “Is there some problem?”

“Christian Figeac’s been taken in for questioning,” she said. “He wants you to bail him out.”

Etienne Mabry’s brow creased with concern. “Not again.”

So this wouldn’t be the first time Mabry had rescued Christian from jail.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for some time,” she said.

He patted the breast pocket of his fine-checked blue shirt. He even wore a red tie de rigueur for a businessman. “My fault … I forgot my phone. So sorry to make you come here to find me! I sponsor the Young Investors from the local lycée , the high school where my partner and I volunteer.”

To her relief she realized he wasn’t her bad-boy type.

“What happened to Christian?” he asked.

“The flics took him to the Commissariat,” Aimée said. “Something to do with the Crédit Bank.”

Etienne Mabry looked puzzled.

“Which Commissariat?” he asked, turning to lock the door.

“Nearby, the SPQ *on rue d’Amboise,” she said. “I’m sure this isn’t news to you but he seems to have …” She paused on the stairs.