Cara Black: Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Sacault blinked.

“Pascal Samour applied lost medieval stained-glassmaking principles to fiber optics,” René said. “But you know that.” René handed Sacault a disc. “It’s all here. But he wanted to give the fiber-optic formula away free. A gift from the fourteenth century. And we have.” René smiled. “However, since only seventy-eight scientific engineers in the world will understand it, no great alarm.” He smiled again. “Saj designed an obscure website. Not even the Chinese will find it for six months, Monsieur.”

Three Days Later

RENÉ TRIED AIMÉE’S number again. Busy. No doubt conferring with Melac on their Martinique trip. Dejected, he buttoned his Burberry raincoat in the dusk outside the shuttered luggage shop on rue au Maire. Next door, red banners proclaiming the Year of the Tiger ruffled in the wind outside the tofu shop. He remembered Meizi speaking of the festivities and how they would—

A loud pop startled him, made him jump and duck for cover by the bin of husked lychees. Sharp pain shot up his hip.

A shot? But he smelled the acrid smoke, heard a continuous pop and crackle, then laughing children. Fireworks.

The thumping of a drum. Dum … da da dum … dum … da da dum . Crashing cymbals, growing louder and echoing in the narrow street. Then the bright head of the lion, his twisting silk body supported by a trail of people. The New Year parade.

René straightened up, feeling foolish and more alone than ever. He limped over the glistening cobbles, inhaling the cooking smells from Chez Chun. Past excited children running toward the parade to catch the candy thrown from the lion’s mouth, the red lanterns shaking in the wind. At the corner, the stained-glass windows glinted from the walls of the museum.

He turned left on rue Beaubourg toward his Citroën. Crowds, shadows, charcoal clouds promising more rain. Where had he parked his car?

His eye caught on the travel agency window: a poster with a blazing sun, palm trees, and a white beach advertising specials to California. He stood for a long time in the cold February evening, staring at the poster. He recalled the latest e-mail from the start-up in Silicon Valley offering him a job. And then he opened the travel agency door.

THE LAST RAYS of winter light shone on rue du Louvre as Aimée left the office. She passed the arcaded rue de Rivoli, took her time over the Pont Marie, thinking. Along the Quai d’Anjou, she felt that familiar frisson. As if someone were watching her. She turned around. Only a hovering mist.

Miles Davis scampered out of Madame Cachou’s loge in the courtyard and barked a greeting. She walked upstairs and, after turning her key, paused in the doorway. Her heart hesitated, wondering if Melac would understand.

She couldn’t leave René like this. Martine would call her crazy, giving up Martinique, the sun and Melac. She unsnapped Miles Davis’s tartan sweater, wiped his paws clean, and took courage from his wagging tail. “You and me, furball, no matter what.”

Miles Davis licked her face.

She took off her wet heels, pulled on wool socks, and set her shoulders. Time to return Melac’s message and cancel Martinique. And if this meant he’d end up finding someone else … maybe that was the way it was meant to be.

But first she needed a drink.

Something sweet drifted from the salon. Frangipani?

She parted the half-open door. A large tropical beach umbrella opened over the Aubusson carpet, which sat on a straw beach mat, surrounded by mini potted palm trees. Beside it sat a wine decanter filled with something pink and floating lemon rounds, along with two tall glasses and paper drink umbrellas. Sounds of breaking waves and surf came from the CD player.

“This is what you meant by Martinique, Melac?”

Melac shrugged, gave a little grin. “No boarding pass needed.” He lifted up her YSL beaded turquoise bikini from the sales. “Why don’t you put this on?”

“Matches my socks, eh?”

“Island rum, hibiscus, our own umbrella, even tropical fish.” He gestured to a fish tank, beside which she noticed Miles Davis’s bowl appeared to be filled with filet mignon strips. He’d gone all out.

“So you’re on a case.” She shook her head, hands on her hips.

He ducked his head. “It’s not always going to be like this. Desolé , I had to cancel the tickets.” When he looked up, there was sadness in his gray eyes. “Can you understand?”

She wanted to tell him. Maybe she would. Someday.

Instead she unbuttoned her black cashmere sweater, unzipped her pencil skirt, and stepped out of it. “I knew I needed that bikini.”

Melac stared at her. Blinked. “Are those stitches?”

“Two rules en vacances . I don’t talk about work,” she said. “And I get a pink umbrella in my drink.” She grinned. “Later you can rub oil on my back.”

“First things first,” Melac said.

SHADOWS LENGTHENED OUTSIDE the window. Yellow light from the quai glowed in the mist. The empty decanter sat between them on the beach mat under the umbrella.

She ran her fingers through Melac’s hair and stuck an orange umbrella behind his ear.

“There are things I can’t tell you, too, Melac.”

He propped himself up on his elbows. “You mean you joined MI6 or Israeli intelligence? I’d have to arrest an enemy agent?”

She averted her eyes. “Someday I’ll need to make a choice.”

Worry creased Melac’s brow. “About us? So you’re really married? Or have a lover in Rouen?”

Startled, she laughed. “Not that simple.” Shook her head, stood and looked out into the dusk. “Choosing sides, that’s all. We could end up on opposite ones.”

A long silence broken only by the rain drizzling on the wrought-iron balcony outside, the toot of a barge on the Seine. And she found herself in Melac’s arms. Understanding shone in his gray-blue eyes. “Blood ties?”

“Life’s not black and white.” Her gaze went beyond his shoulder, past the bare plane-tree branches, to the rain-swollen Seine.

“Don’t borrow trouble, we Bretons say. It finds you soon enough.”

She nodded. From the window she caught a glimpse of a figure shrouded in mist on the Pont Marie.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My huge gratitude goes to the many brilliant and patient people who helped with this story: Dot; Barbara; Jan; Max; Susanna; John; Mary; Libby Hellmann; Jassy Mackenzie; Steven Bunting; Isabelle and Andi; forensic pathologist Terri Haddix, M.D.; the amazing Jean Satzer; and generous inspiration of Remy Sanouillet, graduate of Ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Arts et Métiers .

Mercis in Paris to Carla Bach; Sauveur Chemouni; the Archives National; Monsieur X in the RG who told me “no one dies in Chinatown”; Adrian Leeds; Benoît, Nathalie and Gavroche Pastisson; Naftali Skrobek, a true Rèsistant ; Andre Rakoto, Chef de cabinet, service historique de la Défense ; Kati, Jo and Elise for les Bains ; the real Chez Chen; Gilles Thomas; Julian Pepinster, Metro master; the gardeners at Square du Temple; Bijoux Fantasie on rue du Temple; Gilles Fouque for les crevettes raviolis ; Donna Evleth; Sarah Tarille; and toujours Anne-Françoise Delbegue.

And always to the treasures in my corner: Linda Allen; James N. Frey, without whom; Ailen Lujo; Michelle Rafferty; my publisher, Bronwen Hruska and editor, Juliet Grames; Jun and my son, Tate.