Cara Black - Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Aimée’s gut wrenched. “I’m sorry, René. I should have …” Her voice cracked. All the things she could have done flashed in her mind: bolted Meizi to the bed, given her the damn phone, gained her trust.

René reached on his toes and kissed Meizi’s forehead.

“It’s not your fault, Aimée,” he said, his eyes wide and dry.

Aimée looked down. Meizi’s spattered blood on the green tile, the oxygen machine tubes trailing on the floor. She made a sign of the cross.

“I’ll take you home, René.”

“Meizi made me feel things. Things I didn’t know I’d feel again for anyone. Almost as much as …” He paused. “And I thought …”

What was that look on his face? “What, René?”

His voice had changed when he spoke again. “I want to say good-bye. To be alone with her.”

“But René …”

He raised his hand. “Do one thing for me, Aimée.”

“Anything, partner,” she said.

“Get the bastard.”

She blinked at the hardness in his voice.

“That’s a given, René.”

Sunday, 10:15 P.M.

ARMED WITH EXTRA-STRENGTH Doliprane, she left Hôtel-Dieu and stood across from floodlit Notre Dame. No tourists, just bare-branched trees and the speckles of light from the Gothic window. Opposite lay the prefecture.

Her headache had subsided to a dull throb. She could walk for hours and still not erase the ache, the pointlessness of Meizi’s death. Or the hardness in René’s voice.

She needed to talk to someone. And she bet that someone sat in his office on the quai behind the prefecture.

She pulled out her cell phone.

“Morbier, turns out I’m free for dinner.”

A clearing of his throat. “Ever hear of advance notice, Leduc?”

“Knowing you, you’re at your desk with a cigarette burning and a half-drunk cup of espresso.”

She heard what sounded like the closing of a door.

A pause. “Something wrong, Leduc?”

“Why don’t I stop at Le Soleil, bring up a casse-croûte? ” she said. “You’re paying, right? I’ll put it on your tab.”

Pause. “Forget it.”

“Didn’t you want to talk to me, Morbier?” she said, kicking a cobblestone. “No matter if you don’t have Clodo’s file. He didn’t make it.”

“I meant forget Le Soleil.” Voices, a loudspeaker in the background. Sounded like a train station. “L’Astier. Give me twenty minutes.”

He hung up.

SHE WALKED BACK to her Île Saint-Louis apartment knowing this only postponed the sleepless night ahead of her. Reliving the sickening thud, Meizi’s ashen face, her spattered blood on the green hospital tiles. The fact she hadn’t found Samour’s murderer and he’d struck again.

In the bathroom she applied arnica to her bruises and antibiotic cream to the still-stinging cuts on her face, then a heavy dose of concealer to the bump on her forehead. In her armoire she found the little black vintage Chanel, still in its plastic dry-cleaning bag. On her way out she grabbed her long copper coat and hailed a taxi down on Pont Neuf. She touched up her mascara on the short ride.

The driver let her off at Place des Vosges. Her red-soled Louboutin heels echoed under the dark, vaulted arcade. Several black limos double-parked, as unobtrusively as possible, waiting for the dining ministers inside.

She’d discovered part of Samour’s project. Too bad she hadn’t found all the DST wanted. But tomorrow she’d make a deal with them. Ignore the hollowness inside. Right now she needed Morbier’s help to fine-tune her dealings with them. To find the killer.

The tuxedoed maître d’ glided her past late-night diners to a secluded corner table. Morbier was sitting there, drinking something red. His basset-hound eyes were ringed with deeper circles than usual. His jowls sagged. The corduroy jacket with elbow patches and the crumpled tie looked even shabbier than usual. Xavierre’s death had hit him harder than she’d thought.

“A three-star Michelin resto without reservations? You’ve come up in the world, Morbier. Or you’ve got something on the maître d’.” She summoned a smile. At least the Doliprane was working.

“A little of both.”

A waiter appeared with a deep bow.

“Mademoiselle, un aperitif before ordering?”

She glanced at the bottle of Burgundy on the table. Wine and Doliprane? “That looks fine.”

“She’ll have what I’m having, Paul,” Morbier said, reaching over to pour her a glass from the half-full bottle. “I’ll do the honors. We’d like a little quiet, if you don’t mind.”

“ Oui, Monsieur le Commissaire .” He bowed again, more discreetly this time, and vanished.

Aimée clinked her glass to Morbier’s. “Call me impressed. His first bow almost scraped the floor.” She hesitated. Didn’t know how else to say it. “Grieving takes time, Morbier.”

“So the world tells me, Leduc.” He waved his hand, then stared at her. “What happened to you?”

So her makeup hadn’t done its job? Her hand paused at her temple. “Stupid. I ran into a lamppost.”

“Anything to do with the roundup near Arts et Métiers?”

He’d heard.

She nodded. “It got messy,” she said, fingering the white linen napkin on her lap. “A major casualty.”

“Not what I heard,” he said. “They’re calling it a success. Weren’t you involved?”

“René’s girlfriend didn’t make it,” she said. Bit her lip. “But that’s part of why I’m here.”

Again he waved his liver-spotted hand. “We’re here to eat. For once. This place costs the earth.”

“You’ve called in a favor, more like it,” she said, “or the maître d’s your informer.” She noticed the burgundy spots on the lapel of his jacket. “Killed half a bottle already, I see.”

“I’d like to enjoy it, Leduc. Looks like you could do with some food in your stomach.”

But she told him anyway. And about Pascal Samour.

Morbier pulled out an unfiltered Gauloises. Cast a warning glance at a waiter, who had promptly appeared with a lighter, then lit it with a matchbox from his pocket.

Aimée stared. Why hadn’t she seen it? Stupid again.

“All these years you’ve worked with the DST and never told me?” she said, controlling her voice with effort. “Shame on you, Morbier.”

Shock painted his lined brow. “Where does that come from?”

“A little under-the-sheets time with the DGSE too? Too bad the DGSE agent success rate is only twenty-eight percent.”

He blinked. She’d surprised him for once.

“I thought their rate was thirty-two percent.”

Her turn for surprise. And then it faded.

“Your leaked report’s more current than mine,” she said. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my contact instead of Sacault tonight.”

“The lamppost knocked you harder than you thought,” Morbier said. “Not my people at all. The opposite.” Shrugged. “There are things I need to tell you.”

Something in his voice made her sit up.

Two plates of white asparagus dotted with caviar appeared. He paused until the waiter backed away.

Morbier pushed his cell phone toward the wineglass, tucked his linen napkin in his collar. A member of the proletariat like him would enjoy a three-star resto in his own way. He speared an asparagus tip with his salad fork.

“Eat while it’s hot, Leduc,” he said, glancing at the other diners.

“Asparagus is served cold, Morbier. So you wanted to have dinner, eh? Talk?”

He nodded. Always a good liar.

“Then convince me.”

“You’re more than unusually feisty tonight.” He glanced at her untouched plate.

“Murder does that to me.”

“Homicide’s not my turf. Not anymore, you know that.”