Murder in the Sentier

But Romain Figeac, according to his son, didn’t fit the latter category. And the wall smudges bothered her.

Still, she was here to find out about her mother. And Christian Figeac wasn’t asking her to investigate his father’s death. Just his ghosts.

“Papa’s big fear was when he died someone would take photos and sell them.” He looked away. “Like they did of my mother.”

Not only bad taste, Aimee thought, but sick.

“Where would your father have kept his files?”

No answer.

Aimee turned around.

Christian Figeac had disappeared.

Aimee walked toward the kitchen. She wanted to go through Romain Figeac’s papers, search for connections to her mother, Jutta, or Haader-Rofmein. The similarity of Jutta’s and Figeac’s deaths was inescapable.

“Monsieur Figeac?”

No answer.

She edged down the hall, peering into the dining room. The Prix Goncourt plaque, tarnished, and a medaille d’honneur sat in a dusty glass case. A framed yellowed newspaper clipping about his mother’s Cannes Film Festival nomination occupied one wall.

She agreed with Christian Figeac—the place felt like a museum. A frisson of apprehension went through her. For a split second she wondered if he would follow the route of his parents … with his girlfriend gone, in a bout of panic, he might be capable of it. She would be the only witness.

Maybe the aura of these strong personalities was getting to her. She brushed the thought aside and stepped into the high-ceilinged room.

Piles of heavy metal CDs along with those of the Senegalese singer Youssou D’Nour cluttered a heavy-legged Spanish-style table. Bank statements, along with letters headed by a Tallimard Presse logo, were scattered among the CDs.

Water flushed in the background. Christian Figeac emerged from a floral-stenciled door in the hallway, his pupils dilated, his face flushed.

Aimee shook her head. Dealing with druggies spelled trouble.

“Does your father’s editor know what you’re doing?”

“He’s welcome to,” Christian Figeac said, craning his neck forward like an awkward bird. He spread his arms expansively. Now he exuded an aura of confidence.

“You know what I mean,” Aimee said. The man was a mess. “Getting your courage from a needle?”

“Xanax,” he said. “I’m working on my equilibrium.”

Great.

Maybe she’d given him too much credence. His hallucinations probably came from dope, and his girlfriend had wised up.

Aimee felt something crackle under her sandaled foot. A bright yellow feather. She picked it up. The sharp quill was beaded, a broken bit of mirror tied to it.

“What’s this?”

“Some ju-ju crap from Senegal,” Christian Figeac said, sighing. “I told Idrissa to stop it. She gets it from her kora player, Ousmane. He’s so superstitious.”

Aimee turned it over. What looked like dried, crusted blood coated the feathers. Gingerly, she set it on a chair.

She decided she’d better leave the dead air of the apartment, the ju-ju, and Christian Figeac.

The doorbell rang.

“Idrissa?” he asked, lurching toward the door.

Aimee couldn’t see the look on his face, but his shoulders stiffened. A cool breeze entered from the hall, smelling of wax wood polish.

“Monsieur Christian Figeac, son of Romain Figeac?” she heard from the hallway.

He nodded, bracing himself against the doorjamb.

And then she heard the metal clink … something so familiar it was like slicing bread. The sound of handcuffs. Like the pair her father had.

“We’d like you to answer some questions,” a voice said. “It’s regarding your father’s account at the Credit Industriel et Commercial in Place des Victoires.”

“But I’m busy right now.”

“Down at the Commissariat.”

Aimee walked up and stood by the door. She recognized the flic, Loic Bellan.

She froze.

Bellan had been one of the new breed before her father retired, recruited to combat corruption.

Her feet felt rooted to the ground. She wanted to hide but she was stuck. A sitting duck. Running away from a murder scene wasn’t looked on with favor. What if the police had circulated her description in connection with Jutta Hald’s murder? But would Bellan put it together?

“Monsieur Figeac, we’d like you to cooperate with us,” Bellan said, taking her in with a quick glance.

“You’ve made a mistake.” Christian Figeac shook his head dismissively. “My father had no account there.”

Bellan nodded. He’d changed. His dark hair had grayed, his once thin frame had settled into a stocky middle age. If he recognized her, he didn’t let on. But flics were trained for that, she knew. Let a perp sweat, then play with him. Like a cat with a mouse.

“We’ll just have a talk and clear all this up,” Bellan said. “After you, Monsieur Figeac.”

He lunged past Bellan. Too bad he tripped over the flic’s foot and landed hard on the floor. Scuffling and kicking sounds came from the landing, then a metallic snap as the cuffs closed.

“If you haven’t charged Monsieur Figeac, you need an interpellation to demand his attendance,” Aimee said, stepping forward reluctantly. “The handcuffs are unnecessary. In fact, illegal.”

“We’ll leave the niceties to the police judiciaire, eh, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Bellan said. He nodded to his partner, another flic with a long, sallow face who stood in the foyer.

Her heart thumped in her chest. Bellan didn’t miss a trick; he had recognized her. But if he had found evidence of a crime he would have searched the premises.

“Monsieur Figeac and I know each other …” Bellan let his words dangle in the air. “Let’s say, quite well. I really wouldn’t want to charge him with possession of illegal substances.” Bellan smiled. “But I could.”

Christian Figeac’s jacket sleeve had ripped. Aimee saw needle tracks on his wrists. Purplish brown and old.

“Call this number,” Christian Figeac said, his manacled fingers fishing a card from his front pants pocket. “Tell him to meet me at the Commissariat. I’ll be out in an hour.”

The card read, “Etienne Mabry, 28 Boulevard de Sebastopol.” There was also an office in the Bourse, the Paris stock exchange.

“He’s your attorney?” she said.

“My financial advisor on stocks.”

On the stairs, two older women paused, speaking in a Slavic dialect. Mops and buckets were in their hands. “Agence Immobiliere sent us. The agent wants the apartment cleaned for a showing.”

Downstairs, the flics took Figeac to a waiting Peugeot. Aimee didn’t know whether to be relieved that Bellan hadn’t asked her to accompany him, or suspicious.

Bellan drove away without so much as another glance. As soon as the car turned the corner, she ran back to Christian Figeac’s apartment.