Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

Mabry watched her intently, waiting. He didn’t help her finish her sentence. He guided her downstairs with his warm hand under her elbow, and she detected a faint smell of citrus in his cologne.

“… substance abuse problems,” she finished.

“Chronic ones,” Mabry said, his brow still furrowed, as they arrived outside. “Why are you involved, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Something in the past involving his father and my mother.”

She winced. Had she said that out loud?

“Crédit Industriel et Commercial, you said?”

She nodded.

“Odd, both Figeacs banked with Barclays.”

He pulled out a helmet and mounted the black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson parked on the cobblestones in front of them.

Maybe there was some bad boy in him after all.

AIMÉE WAS puzzled. As she walked toward her office, she tried to make sense of Mabry’s comment about Christian’s bank account.

She wondered why Romain Figeac lived in the Sentier amid garment sweatshops, fabric wholesalers, and working girls: the rag and shag trade. It wasn’t fashionable or arty like the Left Bank, though she vaguely remembered that Balzac had set dramas in the Sentier and Zola had been born there. Had Romain Figeac been an antihero, opposed to the literary establishment?

* Service de Police du Quartier

She leaned against a column and pulled out her cell phone. She punched in the private number for Martine, her friend from the lycée and current editor at Madame Figaro , the watered-down right-wing women’s magazine.

“Allô, cheri? ” breathed Martine after the first ring.

“Not even close,” said Aimée. “Should I call back?”

“Just wishful thinking, Aimée,” Martine said. “Jérôme’s taken his kid en vacances . Just because I moved in with him doesn’t mean I go on holidays en famille .”

Aimée hadn’t been too surprised when, after almost a year helming the right-wing daily Le Figaro , Martine had jumped to the women’s magazine. And she’d moved in with Jérôme, the publicity director, a divorce with a child. Joint custody was something Jérôme’s ex pursued with vigor, insisting on shared vacations. Martine walked on shards of glass until they returned. A boyfriend vacationing with his ex would bother Aimée, too.

“Mind if I pick your brain?”

“Do you ever do anything else?” said Martine, her voice husky. “Just take me to Alain Ducasse’s new restaurant, then I’ll be putty in your hands.”

That would cost next month’s rent. Martine sounded bored, and edgy.

“ Madame Figaro having problems?”

“The Madame and I might soon agree to disagree,” Martine said. “ Tiens , don’t get me started. What do you need?”

“A lot of things. Info on the connections between Haader-Rofmein and Action-Réaction gangs.”

“Time traveling? Blast from the past?”

“My mother. Kind of like that.”

“Let me look.” Aimée heard tapping as Martine’s long nails sped over the keyboard. The phone line clicked. “Hold on,” she said.

“Any man in your life?” Martine asked, sighing as she returned. “But then you’re different from me. I’d be crawling the ceiling.”

“Well, I met this suit,” Aimée said hesitantly. “A golden boy from the Bourse, but I doubt he’s interested in me.” She felt too embarrassed to even mention that his uncle was also a possibility.

“Aren’t you, what do they call it … evolved?” Martine breathed into the phone. “Call him.”

“Seems too ‘nice,’ but he has got a Harley.”

“Impressive,” Martine said. “You know capitalists have some good points.”

“We met under adverse conditions,” Aimée said.

“Doesn’t matter … you met!”

Another click on the line.

“It’s Jérôme, I have to get off,” Martine said. “About your mother, I’ll dig around.”

AIMÉE’S CELL phone rang.

“Allô?” “Christian Figeac called,” René said. “His financial advisor sprang him from the Commissariat. He felt contrite, says his father used to keep tapes in some panel.”

“Panel … where?”

Why hadn’t Christian mentioned this before?

Irritated, she paused in front of a busy tabac , taking in the late afternoon paper’s headlines: WORLD TRADE ORGANIZATION PROTEST and TERRORIST THREATS OF POISON GAS with photos of demonstrators being hauled away from the Palais des Congrès. When she saw the photo of a man captioned “Spokesman for Action-Réaction,” she slipped four francs into the vendor’s hand and folded it under her arm.

“The tapes are behind the desk in his father’s study. But he’s gone, he’ll return later,” René was saying. “He said he’d forgotten about them since his father kept most things at the bank or with his publisher.”

These tapes might contain information about her mother … why hadn’t Christian remembered sooner?

“I’ll stop at Romain Figeac’s, then come to the office.”

“I’m driving to Media 9,” he said. “A negotiation question and since you weren’t there …”

She heard the complaint in his voice.

“Hold out for the exclusives,” she interrupted. “We wouldn’t want to design and implement a security system with our blood, sweat, and tears, only to see them hire a cheap-upkeep server to continue our work … and watch it crash.”

“True,” René said. “But I could use some help.”

“ Bien sûr , don’t worry, I’ll tackle my desk soon,” she said. “But be careful, René, not like last time with Euroworld, eh? We’ve learned our lesson.”

SHE NEEDED to get into Christian Figeac’s atelier and she didn’t want to wait for him.

In her apartment, she opened the worm-holed armoire and pulled out her kit. She’d find the hiding place for the tapes without anyone’s being the wiser. It was her father’s favorite tactic. She hoped Christian wouldn’t mind.

She hung up her linen jacket and put on a blue service jacket and a cap with L’eau de France’s logo of the Seine snaking across it. She struggled into the blue twill pants. Maybe she should try Morbier’s pills. Every time she quit smoking she felt it in her hips!

“ O UI?” ANSWERED a reedlike man wearing an apron double-tied around his waist who stood at the concierge’s door. A burnt vanilla aroma wafted from the interior.

“ Bonsoir , Monsieur, sorry to interrupt your dinner,” she said, setting down her tool bag. She handed him a card reading PLOMBERIE DELINCOURT 24/7 SERVICE.

From inside his hallway a television blared Questions pour un Champion , the quiz show on France3.

“Monsieur Figeac called about a blockage. He’s concerned about a compliance complaint.” She gave him a big smile, pushed the cap to the back of her head, and pulled a clipboard from her bag. “ Tiens , he’s not home.”

“You’re the second one tonight.”

“Eh, do you mean the cleaners?”

“People coming and going like this is the Gare de Lyon!” The man untied his apron. He stared at her clipboard as if it were dirty. “Come tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry, Monsieur,” she said, “but if you could unlock the apartment, I can lock up after.”

Irritation clouded the man’s face.

Aimée shrugged. “Just doing my job, Monsieur. Don’t mind me, eh, a quick plumbing adjustment, then I’ll be gone.”

All she wanted was to get into Romain Figeac’s writing room and search the back wall panels for the tapes. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

She wished he’d hurry up.

He stood, not budging.

From the hall the pitch of the contestants’ shouts mounted to a frenzy. The concierge was torn between the finale of his game show and escorting her upstairs.