Cara Black - Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

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Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

Murder in the Rue de Paradis

Murder in the Latin Quarter

Murder in the Palais Royal

Murder in Passy

Copyright © 2012 by Cara Black

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

In memory of Laura Hruska and the women Rèsistants in the

Marais—Odette Pilpoul, Raymonde Royal and Paulette

Buchmann.

For the ghosts

Every bird which flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw.

—VICTOR HUGO

THE MARAIS

PARIS

JANUARY 1998

Friday Evening

TOO SMALL FOR a bomb, Aimée Leduc thought, nudging with her high-heeled toe at the tiny red box on the cold landing outside Leduc Detective’s office. No card. Curious, she picked up the red gift-wrapped box, sniffed. Nothing floral. A secret admirer?

The timed hallway light clicked off, plunging the landing into darkness. She shivered, closed the frosted glass door behind her, and hit the light switch. The chandelier’s crystal drops caught the light and reflected in the old patinated mirror over the fireplace.

For once the high-ceilinged nineteenth-century office was warm, too warm. The new boiler had gone into overdrive. Her nose ran at the switch from the chill January evening to a toasty, warm office. She set down her shopping bags—January was the season of soldes , the big sales. She’d blown her budget.

Et alors , yogurt and carrots at her desk for the next week.

She slung her coat over the chair and noticed a chip on her rouge-noir -lacquered pinkie. Zut . She’d have to spring for a manicure.

The office phone trilled, startling her.

“Tell me you found Meizi’s birthday present, Aimée,” came the breathless voice of René, her business partner at Leduc Detective. “The damned jeweler screwed up the delivery.”

“Small red box? You mean it’s not for me?” she joked. She shook the box and heard a rattle. Maybe those jade earrings she’d seen him looking at. “You’re serious about Meizi? I mean, that kind of serious?”

“One day you’ll meet your soul mate, too, Aimée.”

Soul mate? He’d known Meizi what, two months? But Aimée bit her tongue. So unlike René to rush into something. A surge of protectiveness hit her. She ought to check this girl out, see what she could learn from a quick computer background search. Could be a little ticking bomb, all right.

“Save my life, eh?” René said. “Bring it to the resto , Chez Chun.”

“But I’m in the middle of a security proposal, René,” she answered, hoping he didn’t hear the little lie in her voice. She surveyed their bank of computers, which were running security checks, updating client systems she’d programmed before she left. The boring bread and butter of their computer security firm.

“Take a taxi, Aimée,” he said, his voice pleading. “Please.”

Meizi must have something his previous girlfriends from the dojo didn’t. Better to check her out in person. Aimée put the box in one jacket pocket and dug through the other for her cell phone.

“A taxi, with this traffic? Métro’s faster, René.”

She grabbed her leopard-print coat and locked the office door.

Twenty minutes later she ran up the Métro steps, perspiring and dodging commuters. Frustrated, she found herself at the exit farthest from where she wanted to be, by the Romanesque church that was now the Musée des Arts et Métiers. Harmonic Gregorian chanting wafted in the cold air and drifted into the enveloping night. Petals of snow lodged like nests of white feathers in the bare-branched trees. What a night, the temperature falling, a storm threatening in the clouded sky. The frigid air sliced her lungs, shot up the mini under her coat.

Great. She hadn’t thought her wardrobe through, as usual. René had better appreciate this. Listen to sense and slow things down.

She ran across the boulevard into the medieval quartier, still an ungentrified slice of crumbling hôtel particuliers , narrow cobbled streets lined by Chinese wholesale luggage and jewelry shops. Red paper lanterns hanging from storefronts shuddered in the wind. From a half-open door she heard the pebble-like shuffling of mah-jongg tiles. This multi-block warren comprised the oldest and smallest of the four Chinatowns in Paris. Few knew it existed.

She reached Chez Chun, the oldest or second-oldest building in Paris, depending on whom you talked to, sagging and timbered beside a darkened hair salon.

Inside Chez Chun a blast of garlic, chilis, and cloying Chinese pop music greeted her. The resto , an L-shaped affair, held ten or so filled tables. Roast ducks dangled behind the takeout counter. Not exactly an intimate dining spot.

René cornered her at the door. “Took you long enough, Aimée.” René, a dwarf, was always a natty dresser. Tonight he wore a new silk tie and a velvet-collared wool overcoat tailored to his four-foot height.

“Work, René,” she said. “I’m still running programs.”

He raised his hand. “Routine. We’re good till Monday.”

She’d never seen him like this. For once work took second place.

“Yet look who came out in the cold,” she said, wiping the snow from her collar. “Why so nervous?”

“Her parents.”

“Use your famous Friant charm,” she said under her breath. She pulled the gift from her coat pocket. “But why rush this, René?”

René reached for the box, a small smile playing on his lips. “Time to listen to my heart, Aimée.”

At the table, Meizi, her black ponytail bobbing, smiled at them. A warm smile that reached her eyes. “René said you’d be joining us. We ordered, I hope you don’t mind.” Petite, not much taller than René, she wore jeans and a green sweater as she stood ladling abalone soup into small bowls. “Love your coat, Aimée. Meet my parents.”

“ Bonsoir ,” Aimée said politely.

The unsmiling Monsieur and Madame Wu stared at her. “My parents speak Wenzhou dialect,” said Meizi with an apologetic shrug. “I’ll translate.”

Aimée grinned, determined to thaw the atmosphere. Her black-stockinged thigh caught on the plastic-covered seat. Under the disapproving stare of Madame Wu, she remembered René’s complaints about how Meizi’s parents insisted on chaperoning their dates.

René set the present on the table beside the steaming soup. “Happy birthday, Meizi.”

Aimée tried not to cringe. Even if it was only earrings, it was too soon. René was nuts, or crazy in love.

Madame Wu turned and spoke to her husband. Aimée heard her sharp intonation, and could imagine what was being said.

But Meizi’s face lit up in happiness as she untied the bow and opened the jewelry box. To Aimée’s surprise, it was a ring. A pearl ring, luminous and simple. “How thoughtful, René,” Meizi gasped. “I lost my other ring at the dojo.”