Murder in the Sentier

reception with me.” He nodded toward the room opposite, where tuxedoed men clustered in the doorway.

“Why should I do that?”

“The champagne’s better!”

She smiled. He had a point.

Aimee slipped past the throng of men in black suits. She questioned several, getting quizzical looks in response. Above her hung a fin de siecle chandelier, its crystal swags catching the light. Had Christian gotten word to Mabry somehow? Had he already gone to retrieve Christian from the hands of the police?

Better move on, she thought. Try the champagne, then disappear.

As she left the salon and walked down the hallway, she noticed a door to another room and peeked inside. A group of teenagers, mostly girls with a melange of skin tones, perched by a computer terminal. A slim man in his early thirties leaned over it, pointing to items on the screen.

“Monsieur Mabry, the shares in networking and opticals indicate high risks,” said a girl. Her light chocolate skin was like Idrissa’s, Aimee thought.

“Mademoiselle Scalbert, can you support your view?” he said. “I think you’re on the right track but tell us why.”

Aimee slipped inside just as he looked up.

Mabry pulled his longish red-brown hair behind his ears. The man was a hunk, no getting around it; all six feet of him, in his pinstriped suit.

“Lost your way, Mademoiselle?” he asked, his voice dense as creme fraiche. His large, smoke-colored eyes crinkled in amusement, then his lips curled in a smile.

He had a wonderful smile.

It reminded her of Yves, her former boyfriend, a Middle East correspondent. Etienne Mabry’s lips curled the same way.

She and Yves had an on-again, off-again relationship, a disaster that had ended the year before on a corner in the old part of Cairo, sun-baked pyramids and buzzing flies for a backdrop.

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, wishing she could fuse with a nearby pillar and just watch him. “I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

Etienne Mabry glanced at his watch and shook his head.

“We’re running into overtime again,” he said. “At our next Young Investors’ meeting, we’ll tackle Mademoiselle Scalbert’s argument as to what constitutes excessive risk and what’s smart.”

The Young Investors gathered their things. Some cast long looks at Aimee as they left. Mabry spoke to a student and then pulled on his jacket. “How can I help you?” he said, as he reached the door.

“Aimee Leduc,” she said, handing him her card. “Your uncle’s looking for you, too.”

He set down his worn brown leather briefcase. “Leduc Detective?” he asked, reading her card. “Is there some problem?”

“Christian Figeac’s been taken in for questioning,” she said. “He wants you to bail him out.”

Etienne Mabry’s brow creased with concern. “Not again.”

So this wouldn’t be the first time Mabry had rescued Christian from jail.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for some time,” she said.

He patted the breast pocket of his fine-checked blue shirt. He even wore a red tie de rigueur for a businessman. “My fault … I forgot my phone. So sorry to make you come here to find me! I sponsor the Young Investors from the local lycee, the high school where my partner and I volunteer.”

To her relief she realized he wasn’t her bad-boy type.

“What happened to Christian?” he asked.

“The flics took him to the Commissariat,” Aimee said. “Something to do with the Credit Bank.”

Etienne Mabry looked puzzled.

“Which Commissariat?” he asked, turning to lock the door.

“Nearby, the SPQ^* on rue d’Amboise,” she said. “I’m sure this isn’t news to you but he seems to have …” She paused on the stairs.

Mabry watched her intently, waiting. He didn’t help her finish her sentence. He guided her downstairs with his warm hand under her elbow, and she detected a faint smell of citrus in his cologne.

“… substance abuse problems,” she finished.

“Chronic ones,” Mabry said, his brow still furrowed, as they arrived outside. “Why are you involved, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Something in the past involving his father and my mother.”

She winced. Had she said that out loud?

“Credit Industriel et Commercial, you said?”

She nodded.

“Odd, both Figeacs banked with Barclays.”

He pulled out a helmet and mounted the black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson parked on the cobblestones in front of them.

Maybe there was some bad boy in him after all.

AIMEE WAS puzzled. As she walked toward her office, she tried to make sense of Mabry’s comment about Christian’s bank account.

She wondered why Romain Figeac lived in the Sentier amid garment sweatshops, fabric wholesalers, and working girls: the rag and shag trade. It wasn’t fashionable or arty like the Left Bank, though she vaguely remembered that Balzac had set dramas in the Sentier and Zola had been born there. Had Romain Figeac been an antihero, opposed to the literary establishment?

^*Service de Police du Quartier

She leaned against a column and pulled out her cell phone. She punched in the private number for Martine, her friend from the lycee and current editor at Madame Figaro, the watered-down right-wing women’s magazine.

“Allo, cheri?” breathed Martine after the first ring.

“Not even close,” said Aimee. “Should I call back?”

“Just wishful thinking, Aimee,” Martine said. “Jerome’s taken his kid en vacances. Just because I moved in with him doesn’t mean I go on holidays en famille.”

Aimee hadn’t been too surprised when, after almost a year helming the right-wing daily Le Figaro, Martine had jumped to the women’s magazine. And she’d moved in with Jerome, the publicity director, a divorce with a child. Joint custody was something Jerome’s ex pursued with vigor, insisting on shared vacations. Martine walked on shards of glass until they returned. A boyfriend vacationing with his ex would bother Aimee, too.

“Mind if I pick your brain?”

“Do you ever do anything else?” said Martine, her voice husky. “Just take me to Alain Ducasse’s new restaurant, then I’ll be putty in your hands.”

That would cost next month’s rent. Martine sounded bored, and edgy.

“Madame Figaro having problems?”

“The Madame and I might soon agree to disagree,” Martine said. “Tiens, don’t get me started. What do you need?”

“A lot of things. Info on the connections between Haader-Rofmein and Action-Reaction gangs.”

“Time traveling? Blast from the past?”

“My mother. Kind of like that.”

“Let me look.” Aimee heard tapping as Martine’s long nails sped over the keyboard. The phone line clicked. “Hold on,” she said.

“Any man in your life?” Martine asked, sighing as she returned. “But then you’re different from me. I’d be crawling the ceiling.”

“Well, I met this suit,” Aimee said hesitantly. “A golden boy from the Bourse, but I doubt he’s interested in