Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“There’s a better one,” she said. “In the Parc Monceau. Get us out of here.”

“I’d like to, but the flics want to question you. . . .”

“Use your clout, Pleyet,” she interrupted. “Don’t international oil rights and looted art take precedence? Call headquarters in Lyon, make your buddies smooth this over. Or it will be too late. I know where the jade is.”

SHE HELPED Gassot into Pleyet’s blue Renault, borrowed Pleyet’s phone, and called René.

“What did you find, René?”

“Interesting stuff, Aimée,” said René. “The oil bid the French Ministry made contains a unique offer.”

“The jade figures?”

Aimée saw Gassot’s hand stiffen.

“Bingo. But here’s what’s even more interesting. The Chinese bid includes it, too.”

Whoever had the jade would claim the oil rights by virtue of patrimony. Just as Derek Lau had told her in his restaurant. The ancient jade disks, older than the animal figures, were the guarantee of legitimacy for the claimant.

“You have proof in written form?” she asked.

“It’s all printed out in the e-mails and ministry documents. The jade’s supposed to be returned by the Ministry of Interior to the Vietnamese people in a munificent gesture in consideration for oil rights. The vast untapped reserves in the Gulf of Tonkin.”

“Good job, René. So the People’s Republic of China and the Vietnamese Government both claim to be legally entitled to the oil,” she said. “No wonder Julien de Lussigny wanted me to monitor the Chinese and hired Regnier.”

And tried to seduce me , she thought.

“Martine left you a message,” René continued. “Since you didn’t answer your phone. Olf pays secret commissions from a fund that funnels back to politicians and officials.”

No wonder de Lussigny could afford the Parc Monceau mansion.

“Do me a favor, overnight everything to Interpol in Lyon. Put down Pleyet’s name as the sender.”

“All in a day’s work,” René said.

“Good job, partner.”

The windshield wipers kept time to the pounding of the rain as Pleyet drove. The gray-misted Clichy streets were haloed by red-orange traffic lights.

“Thanks, Gassot,” she said, taking in his huddled form in the back seat.

But his eyes watched the wet cobblestone streets.

“You owe me, Pleyet,” she said.

“Want a job?”

“You know what I want,” she said. Her peripheral vision fogged and she clenched the door handle. She reached for her pills, swallowed them. Took the vial of mint oil, rubbed it on her temples, and closed her eyes.

“Tell me when we get there.”

AIMÉE LED them around the back to the mansion’s rear wing. An older Asian man, in blue pants and work jacket, smoking a cigarette, answered the door.

“We’re here to see Madame Nguyen,” she said. Odors of lemon grass wafted toward them.

“She’s not here,” he said, blocking the door.

“Tran, it’s all right,” Gassot said.

Aimée noticed the quiver in Gassot’s voice, the hesitation.

“Since you know each other, won’t you let us wait inside?” Aimée said.

She walked past Tran into the kitchen and toward Madame Nguyen’s room. A woman stood by the red-lighted altar where incense was burning. As the woman turned, her silk red scarf shimmered in the light of the votive candles.

Aimée saw Gassot lean against the doorframe and heard his swift intake of breath.

“What’s the matter, Gassot?”

He took a few steps. Stopped.

“Bao?” Gassot asked.

Aimée blinked. She saw a stunning Asian businesswoman of indeterminate age. Shocked, she stepped closer. Linh looked different in makeup and wearing a black pantsuit, a Hermès silk scarf around her shoulders.

“But . . . aren’t you a nun?” Aimée said.

“Half-right,” Linh said. “I was a nun. Once.”

No wonder Aimée hadn’t found her at the temple. The words of Quoc, the temple cleaner, came back to her. He hadn’t seen her before; she wore streetclothes. She should have paid attention.

“You’ve changed, Bao,” Gassot said, haltingly.

“Everyone changes, Gassot,” she said. “Except you.”

“You know her, Gassot?” Aimée asked.

“In another life,” he said. “As Bao—”

“Bao Tran, the Chinese recruited you in the labor camp,” Pleyet said. “They schooled you and your cousin Tran as saboteurs.”

“We’re an old-fashioned country,” Bao said. “We have to go far to catch up to the next century. But the jade will make it possible. We want what’s ours.”

Aimée quailed. She’d believed her . . . Linh . . . Bao. Been taken in by her warmth and calculating patience.

“And I was a perfect tool for you,” Aimée said. “Everything you told me was a lie. You made everything up.”

“Not everything,” Bao said, her voice wistful. “My brother is in prison and my country is in chains.”

“So you betray your country by helping China to win the oil rights? How can that help Vietnam or liberate your brother? You set me up, and Thadée, too,” Aimée said.

“It should have worked,” Bao said. “You would have brought me the jade. Simple!”

“Simple, except that Thadée owed Blondel,” Aimée said. “And Regnier, in Olf’s pay, knew that. He paid Blondel’s henchmen to do his dirty work. But Albert got in the way.”

“Albert wasn’t that big a fool,” Gassot said, his voice shaking. “I don’t believe it.”

“Albert worked in the tire factory—the de Lussigny’s factory— next door to the gallery for years. He knew all about the lost treasure. When old de Lussigny died, Thadée found the jade. Albert suspected that Thadée had taken it.”

Gassot hung his head. “It was my old comrades. They’d concocted a plan to use Thadée.”

“Linh, or should I say Bao, you promised Thadée money. Money he needed for the gallery and to pay old drug debts.

“And you played on Thadée’s sympathy,” she continued. “You told me yourself he had a good heart—you promised the jade would help the Cao Dai. It’s the ancient disks the Chinese government wants.”

Bao raised an eyebrow. “You lied to me ,” Bao said. “Madame Nguyen used the surly one with the withered arm—”

“Wait, do you mean the temple cleaner?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Bao’s eyes flashed. “He took the jade from the doctor’s office where you hid it. You planned it that way. You know where the jade’s hidden now. So you will lead me to it.”

It made sense. Quoc, the mahjong-playing temple cleaner had followed her after Thadée’s murder, and stolen the jade.

Did Bao truly believe she was in league with Quoc, and knew where he’d hidden the jade?

“Tran, what’s the matter?” Gassot asked.

“Now it’s my turn to use you, the way you used us,” Tran said.

“But Tran, it wasn’t like that—”

“It’s not enough you French colonized us, salted the fields, raped our women, firestormed my village . . . but to take our beliefs—”

A door slammed. Small footsteps crossed the tiles. Aimée saw Pleyet’s shoulders tense and his hand bunch in his pocket.

“ Maman? Maman ’s here!” Michel ran in and dropped his bookbag. “She called us. Where is she?”

Everyone froze.

Madame Nguyen stood behind him, staring. Aimée followed her gaze.

“Michel, come here,” Madame Nguyen said.

But Aimée had knelt down by the old chest filled with toys and lifted out the Legos. She had to get Michel engaged.

“Michel, can you finish this?” she asked, keeping her voice steady with effort. “Looks like you were building a truck.”

Michel grinned. “Fire engine, silly.”