Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

A good thing they hadn’t eaten here, Aimée thought, running to the bus. She had an idea and somehow she had to get back into her office.

AIMÉE KNEW Leduc Detective was being watched. Yet everything she needed was inside the office. She walked up rue Bailleul, entered an apartment building foyer, and kept going to the rear garages she knew corresponded to the back hall window of their rue du Louvre office.

The garage and back alley were deserted. She pulled down the fire escape, hiked up her skirt, and climbed. On the landing, she took the fire extinguisher from the wall—just in case—and unlocked Leduc’s frosted-paned door.

No one.

She had to make this quick. In their storeroom she found the Health Inspector badge from the Direction de la Protection du Public . She changed into a navy blue wool suit, grabbed some underwear and her black heels. The answering machine light blinked.

Two messages. Both hangups.

In the mail stacked on her desk, she found a letter addressed to her in Guy’s writing. She took a deep breath and opened it. A court summons for damage to his office?

Flyers from Neuilly real estate agents and several full page ads describing apartments for rent fell out. Guy had circled one of them in red.

Neuilly sur Seine—four rooms, light and with southern exposure, near Métro, 150 m 2 *facing park .

Below it he’d written: Perfect for my photo lab and your home office. Even a guest bedroom, and the park nearby for Miles Davis!

She looked at the postmark. The day before yesterday. Was this all a misunderstanding? Should she swallow her pride and call him?

Never.

Yet after a moment, she punched in his office number. Four rings later his secretary, Marie, answered.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lambert left an hour ago,” she said.

“Left. When does he return?”

“Let’s see,” she said. Papers rustled in the background. “I purchased return train tickets for him and Madame Bélise.”

“Madame Bélise?”

“Can you hold on, please?”

She put Aimée on hold.

“Returning tomorrow,” she said in a businesslike voice when she came back on the line. “Any message?”

“Non, merci.”

Gone with his new woman.

And for a moment she had thought it could work out. Wanted to make it work out, even if she’d have to live in the suburbs. She tore the real estate flyer into little pieces.

She switched on their remaining computer and quickly consulted the Direction de la Protection du Public online site. The Vietnamese restaurant’s several infractions were listed. She switched the computer off, locked the office door, and climbed back down the rear fire escape.

A half-hour later, she stood at the service entrance of the resto, behind Place de Clichy, having been careful to avoid the rue de Clichy and Académie de Billard. Steam billowed from the resto back door.

She stepped inside and saw pots of boiling water and colanders draining translucent rice noodles, and heard the hiss of frying sesame oil filling the kitchen. Piles of limp bean sprouts and broccoli sat in aluminum bowls. A radio blared Chinese pop songs.

“I’m looking for Derek Lau, the owner. Where’s his office?” she asked, holding a file folder in front of her.

A cook, his face beaded with perspiration, took one look at her badge and pointed toward an open door.

Aimée knocked and peered into the cluttered, low-ceilinged fluorescent-lit office. Derek Lau, facing several phone books on his desk, was scratching his head. His eyes protruded, a classic thyroid condition symptom, and he had a crossover parting of his black hair to cover his bald spot.

“Monsieur Lau?”

“Oui ,” he nodded, taking in her outfit and setting the phone books aside. “You people weren’t supposed to come until next week. We have one week to comply.”

“Monsieur Lau, we use our own discretion in timing our visits.”

“Eh, what does that mean? Where’s the usual inspector? Let me see some credentials.”

Aimée pulled out the form she’d printed out from the site. Areas of hygiene were checked off.

“It means, Monsieur Lau, if I see compliance, we won’t make a formal visit next week. We have plainclothes staff checking up often. Catch my drift?”

A dawn of understanding crossed his worried eyes.

He reached in his drawer, pulled out an envelope, and stuffed franc notes inside.

“This should take care of it,” he said.

She waved aside the profferred envelope.

“So far we’ve noted meat stored and transported without containers, dirty ceilings, bacteria festering in the tile cracks, and inadequate freezers.”

He snapped his fingers and the cook entered bearing a tray with tea. Had he stood at the door waiting?

“Look, let’s smooth this out, eh,” he said, pushing the envelope toward her again. “I run a little business, struggle to make ends meet.”

Let him think she was going along with him.

“I’m referring to the farm-raised sea bass you serve,” she said, thinking back to the regulations. “A flagrant health violation, as you know. Your dossier’s full.”

“Just jealous restaurateurs complaining I’m sure. I told my uncle we should have stayed in the 13th.” He shrugged. “The old coot wanted ‘prestige’ but this was the closest we could get to the bon 17th.”

“This form indicates that a Ming Lau owns this. . . .”

“My uncle, oui ,” he interrupted. “He retired to Hong Kong, but I manage his investments here.”

Derek Lau closed a tall metal file cabinet and what Aimée saw framed on the wall made her blink. She suppressed a gasp, stood, and edged toward the piled account books. How could she find out what she wanted without looking too obvious?

“ Bon , show me your vendor receipts,” she said, shooting for a businesslike tone. “We’re doing a full-scale investigation this time. You know that means a temporary shutdown.”

“ Ecoutez , eh, don’t get so serious,” he said, his words conciliatory, but alarm in his eyes. “It’s all here, nothing out of line.”

He rummaged through his files.

“We’ll have to close your business unless you provide immediate proof of compliance and proper documents.”

Sweat beaded his brow. He pressed a buzzer on his desk. “Bring the Crédit Lyonnais files.” He turned to Aimée. “Drink your tea, it will only take a moment.”

She pointed to the sepia-tinted photo on Lau’s office wall. Under the title ‘Lai Chau,’ the twelve jade zodiac figures were pictured. “Your family treasure?”

Instead of the fear she expected, Derek Lau shrugged.

“Just an old photo,” he said.

“Of stolen treasure.”

Surprise turned to amusement. Then he sneered. “You’ve been talking to that crazy old lady. She has no right to complain!”

She said, “Maybe you had to sell it to pay your debts?”

“Debts?”

“According to the records, this restaurant’s heavily mortgaged.”

“Ridiculous. We have a line of credit,” he said. He looked at the photo on the wall. “You should be talking to the French soldiers who stole it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I told the old cow, according to my uncle, the French took everything, even what was hidden in the ground.”

“The Sixth Battalion?” Aimée asked.

“I don’t know details,” he said. Derek Lau smoothed the hair combed over his head. “Anyway, black crude’s more valuable now.”

“What about your emperor? Doesn’t this jade belong to him?”

“To some branch of the Imperial family, but it’s hard to say which, since they intermarried. All of them trace their lineage back to the first Emperor. Now Bao Dai’s ill and penniless after a life of Monte Carlo gambling and many wives, but the French government keeps him,” Derek Lau said. “His old mother in Saigon sold the Imperial porcelain to pay for his child support. Spoiled to the end.”