Cara Black - Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

“Ching Wao? Never knew the name. Never spoke with them,” said the white-haired man who met them inside the atelier. “Chinese moved out. Gone.” He set down an iron rod, picked up his cup of steaming coffee. Thought for a moment. “Yesterday. Or maybe today.”

Aimée scanned the weedy courtyard. “Where’s his office?”

“I wouldn’t call it an office,” he said.

“So what did he do there?”

“Like I know?” he said. “Back on the right by the rear entrance.”

A narrow dripping stone-walled passage led to a door labeled Wao SARL Ltd. Through dirt-encrusted windows she saw an empty desk, chairs. She tried the door. Locked. But the window yielded to a push. A few shoves and she’d opened it enough to reach in and grasp the door handle.

“Try his number, René. I wouldn’t want to break in while he’s on the toilet.”

René shook his head. “Number’s disconnected.”

A grim look settled on his face. “Let me do the honors.”

She noticed the bulge in his overcoat pocket. The Glock.

René kicked the door open.

In the high glass-ceilinged room, half-drunk cups of tea sat on the metal desk. Chinese newspapers, a pink plastic hair-band, and a black telephone lay on top. The tea was warm.

“We just missed him,” René said.

The only decoration was a world map tacked on the wall. Aimée studied it, and saw circles drawn around cities: Canton, Bangkok, Trieste, Bucharest, Zurich.

Some kind of trade route? Or smuggling stations?

She opened the desk drawers. Nothing.

Aimée didn’t know what to think, but it didn’t look good.

Back at the car, René shook his head. “There’s something wrong.”

More than wrong.

“We’re going to the luggage shop.”

Unease filled her. With René carrying a loaded Glock, things could go very wrong. She thought quickly. “Give me your phone, I’ll call the shop and we’ll clear this up.” She hit the number. She pressed END after ten rings.

“No answer,” she said. “ Bien sûr , the Wus are at the commissariat giving a statement.” She sighed. “That could take hours.”

“So we’ll go, find them, and tell Prévost—”

“Forget it,” she interrupted. “Right now, they’re with interpreters in a back room. Besides, he’ll call us in later. Better we hear from them first.”

René punched the steering wheel.

“You don’t know that, Aimée. I have to talk to Meizi.”

She needed to buy herself time, get to Meizi first. “More important, we need to know what this Ching Wao’s up to, René,” she said. “He rented a space, has a business, employees. Someone has to know about him. There are records. Go look them up.”

“That’s your game plan?”

“The flics and Prévost will keep their mouths shut, but we have a stake in this,” she said, wrapping her scarf. “Get on the computer, sniff around. It’s the best way to find out.”

But René gunned the engine, turned into the narrow street. “I know she’s there. They open early for deliveries. Meizi works in back.”

Trucks clogged the street. The luggage shop shutters were rolled down.

“I told you, René.” She bit her lip. Had the Wus done a runner like Ching Wao? She had to find out.

René peered at the shop front. “ Merde! ”

“I’ll sit on this and let you know when she arrives. No reason to wait in the cold street or in the car,” she said. “See what you can find out on Ching Wao.”

Keep him busy.

“My former hacker student works in records at the mairie ,” he said. She saw the wheels spinning in his mind.

“Brilliant.” Impatient, she stared at the traffic on rue de Bretagne. “I’ll get out, grab a coffee and wait. I’ll call you the minute they show up.”

She jumped out before he could protest. The snow had melted to gray slush on the cobbles, spattering her boots.

Twenty minutes later, after a steaming espresso at a nearby café, she found the luggage shop’s shutters open. Men unloaded boxes from palettes in the back of a truck double-parked in front. She shivered, remembering the man’s body on the palette last night.

“ Bonjour ,” Aimée called out as she entered the luggage shop. But no bonjour in response. Were they in the back?

Aimée fought her way down a narrow aisle stacked with roller bags of every size and color. Knockoff faux-leather handbags hung like streamers from the walls above piles of boxes. The smell of incense from a red-lacquered wall shrine competed with the synthetic plastic aromas of the merchandise.

“ Allô? ”

The only answer was the grunting from the martial arts movie playing on the small télé behind the counter.

Scraping noises came from an open side door. She peered into the dank hallway running alongside the shop toward the open courtyard. A young woman, wearing a white cap over her black hair, was stacking cartons of sweatshirts against the wall, her back to Aimée.

Meizi.

“Meizi, René’s so worried.”

A carton toppled.

“ Aiiya! ” The young woman looked up, her cheeks flushed. A round face, uneven teeth, thick black eyebrows. Not Meizi at all.

Aimée hit the light switch, a yellowed enamel knob protruding from the wall. “ Excusez-moi , where’s Meizi?”

Fear filled the young woman’s face. She backed away.

Determined, Aimée stepped over the uneven stone pavers. Something crunched under her boots. Spilled pumpkins seeds. “Can we talk a moment?”

“No speak Français ,” the woman called out, and pointed back in the shop.

Aimée had to talk to her somehow. “Let me help you,” she said.

She lifted up the carton of sweatshirts. Heavy, like a sack of potatoes. She wondered how a small woman could lift all this. And at the diversity of the enterprise.

“ Non, merci .” The girl bit her lip.

She wanted Aimée gone. Now.

Rapid-fire Chinese came from the shop. Footsteps. The Wus had returned. Aimée stepped back inside, to more overpowering synthetic smells. Her nose tickled. Two grunting men in parkas carried stacks of cardboard cartons in from the truck parked out front. Order upon order was arriving.

A middle-aged man, the fluorescent light shining on his bald spot, looked up from behind the counter. He switched off the télé . “ Oui? ” From his arm hung several fuchsia faux-leather handbags.

“ Bonjour , would you tell Monsieur Wu I’m here?”

“We only sell wholesale,” he said.

Odd. “Is Monsieur Wu in back?”

The man straightened up. “ Oui , how can I help you?”

But he wasn’t Meizi’s father, whom she’d eaten dinner with last night. Impatient, she made an effort to keep smiling. “ Non , I mean the man who owns the shop with his wife,” she said. “His daughter Meizi works here.”

The man shrugged. “My wife’s in China.”

Her skin prickled. This didn’t make sense. “Wait a minute.” She struggled toward the back counter. “You’re Meizi’s uncle, non? I’m looking for her father, the older Monsieur Wu I met last night.”

“Last night, we closed six o’clock. See nothing.” He smiled. “I tell flics this morning, too.”

Had she entered some alternate universe?

“What the hell’s going on?”

“No problem,” he said. “I show you my business license.”

“Where’s the couple who owns this shop?”

“You see my sales permit, export lading and bills of sale,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken.

Was he worried about the tax unit, infamous for swoop investigations?

“Monsieur, I asked you a question.”