Cara Black: Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

But he turned—not easy in the aisle crowded with stacked and open boxes—and pointed to the framed business license by the cash register. He pushed a worn binder at her and opened it. “All in order.” He smiled. “You check. I work here. I Monsieur Wu.”

“Then I’m Madame Chirac.”

“You look here.” He jabbed his ink-stained finger at the sales permit printed with the name Feng Wu.

Why did he pretend not to understand? He played a game and she didn’t know the rules.

“I busy. Unpack shipment.” His French deteriorated the more he spoke. His face remained a smiling mask. “Wholesale clients only.”

She scanned the dates on the license. The sales permit was dated 1995. “Did you work here in 1995?”

He nodded, and glanced at the cell phone vibrating among the papers strewn over the counter. He ran his finger over a payment log.

“I open business in 1995. Work here every day.”

A blast of cold air rattled the cardboard. Voices signaled arriving clients.

“The man murdered last night behind the shop knew Meizi Wu. He had her picture.”

This Monsieur Wu looked down. “I don’t know. I never see him.” He folded his hands over his chest. Defensive.

Aimée stared at the business license. The forms in the binder. Everything matched.

But he’d given her an idea. She’d play his game, whatever it was.

“ Mon Dieu , I can’t find anything in here,” she said, rummaging in her shoulder bag, pulling out mascara, her checkbook, keys. “Mind holding this just a moment?” She thrust her rouge-noir nail polish bottle in his hands. “ Désolée . Glass, you know, wouldn’t want it to break.”

The surprised Monsieur Wu held it, his thin black eyebrows raised.

She smiled, gave a little sigh. “ Et voilà ,” she said, pulling a card from the collection in her bag. Imprinted with a Ministry logo. Generic. She had one for each ministry.

“You from tax office, no fool me. I cooperate.”

She smiled. “Not quite, but that’s good you’re cooperating, Monsieur.” Her smile widened and she plucked the nail polish bottle from his hand, slipping it into a plastic bag in her purse.

“ Merci .” She handed him the card. “We at the office d’habitation et domicile take details seriously,” she said. “Your residence isn’t listed on the permit. That’s because you live upstairs, illegally. We checked that room last night and found illegals, sleeping men. Lots of them. We think you’re subletting.” She shook her head. “Illegal according to the statute AB34, unless your business permit includes a residence permit.”

He blinked. For a moment she thought she had him.

“So my team will need to investigate the premises. Write up our report. Say this afternoon?”

She’d stirred the pot. If he’d hurt the Wus, or was in cahoots with them, this would flush them out.

He reached in the drawer and produced a ledger, which he set on the counter. He opened it and ran his finger down a column. “I live Ivry. Suburb. See rent in this column. My shop pay from my earnings. All here. All correct.”

She’d rather see the other set of books she figured he kept. He was prepared. He’d expected a visit.

“ Zut! You leave me no option. We’ll run your fingerprints in our database, and check them against the prints on file for identification.” She smiled and held up the plastic bag with the nail polish bottle from her purse. “Glass shows prints so well. Unless you’d like to tell me where you’ve hidden the Wus?”

He glanced at his cell phone. Then at her. Deciding. “Come back later.”

“Why? So you can check with Ching Wao?”

A horn tooted on the street. “Big shipment.” And before she could press him, he’d hurried after the delivery man out the door to the waiting truck. But instead of unloading, he jumped in the passenger seat and the truck roared away.

Great. René would have done better getting answers with his Glock. All she’d done was shake the tree, and now the birds had flown.

But frustration wouldn’t get her answers. Aimée ducked behind the counter and explored the back of the shop. Boxes, cartons, a cracked, stained porcelain sink. Dark, empty cupboards. Wet mops leaning against the cobwebbed, padlocked back door. No one had used this door in a long time. Barred windows filmed with dirt looked onto the narrow walkway. The place reeked of damp and mildew. No one hid here, or would want to. She followed the cartons into the side hallway. The young woman looked up from the carton she was taping.

“Why are you afraid?” Aimée asked. “Did they tell you to keep quiet?”

The young woman dropped the tape dispenser. Perspiration beaded her lip. “Why you bother me? Why you make problem?”

“Problem? I think you’ll have a problem when the flics ask to see your ID, your residence permit. Or don’t you have one?”

“You no understand.” The girl’s lip trembled.

“Understand what?” Aimée said. “Look, if Meizi’s in trouble, I can help her. So can my partner.”

She could tell the girl understood more than she let on. Aimée’s scarf fell from her arm. “It’s hard feeling alone and afraid. I want to talk with Meizi. Won’t you help me, tell me where she’s gone? S’il vous plaît ?”

The girl stepped closer, picked up Aimée’s scarf. Met her gaze and pressed the scarf into her hand.

“No good to ask questions. People watch you. Understand?”

AIMÉE PAUSED AT the walkway behind the shop, still blocked off by orange-and-white striped crime-scene tape. She wondered what evidence besides the wallet the crime-scene techs found. Wondered if the evidence had degraded in the melting snow. Or with the rats. Could the flics identity Meizi from the picture? It would be almost impossible if Meizi were illegal.

LIKE FINDING A single snowflake in a gray snowpile in the gutter.

Dejected, she walked, glad to get away from the synthetic smells hovering in the street.

Fake. Like everything else here, in this conspiracy of silence.

The feeling she’d been beaten dogged her.

So far she’d learned the Wus didn’t live above the shop. Meizi cleaned toilets, Monsieur Wu was a different Monsieur Wu. And things stank.

But she had someone’s fingerprints on her rouge-noir nail polish bottle. Five minutes later, she’d reached Benoit, a fingerprint analyst in the crime-scene unit on 36 Quai des Orfèvres. He’d gone to school with her cousin, liked heavy metal. And with the promise of highly coveted concert tickets, agreed to meet her.

With two hours until their rendezvous, she needed to keep busy. Sniff around.

Where rue au Maire elbowed right, she noticed a small hotel, the one-star variety. A hôtel borné , her father had called them, a fleabag demi-pension with rooms rented by the hour, typically by working girls, or old men who couldn’t afford anything else rented by the month.

The hotel’s open door led to a booth, then winding stairs. The smell of turmeric and onion mingled with the sweetish odor of tobacco.

A North African man in a red-and-green striped djellaba smoked a hookah in the cubicle of a reception booth. “We’re full, complet ,” he said. “Try later.”

Aimée wanted information, not a room. She saw hotel business cards on the chipped counter. Sophisticated for a one-star hotel. “Hôtel Moderne, proprieter Aram,” she read. “You’re Aram?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know the man who was murdered last night? Or his girlfriend Meizi, from the luggage shop?”

The man shook his head again. Gave a big, gold-toothed smile. “Better you ask Aram. Knows everybody. Here a long time. But he’s at le dentiste .” He pointed to his teeth.