Murder in the Sentier

me.” She felt too embarrassed to even mention that his uncle was also a possibility.

“Aren’t you, what do they call it … evolved?” Martine breathed into the phone. “Call him.”

“Seems too ‘nice,’ but he has got a Harley.”

“Impressive,” Martine said. “You know capitalists have some good points.”

“We met under adverse conditions,” Aimee said.

“Doesn’t matter … you met!”

Another click on the line.

“It’s Jerome, I have to get off,” Martine said. “About your mother, I’ll dig around.”

AIMEE’S CELL phone rang.

“Allo?” “Christian Figeac called,” Rene said. “His financial advisor sprang him from the Commissariat. He felt contrite, says his father used to keep tapes in some panel.”

“Panel … where?”

Why hadn’t Christian mentioned this before?

Irritated, she paused in front of a busy tabac, taking in the late afternoon paper’s headlines: WORLD TRADE ORGANIZATION PROTEST and TERRORIST THREATS OF POISON GAS with photos of demonstrators being hauled away from the Palais des Congres. When she saw the photo of a man captioned “Spokesman for Action-Reaction,” she slipped four francs into the vendor’s hand and folded it under her arm.

“The tapes are behind the desk in his father’s study. But he’s gone, he’ll return later,” Rene was saying. “He said he’d forgotten about them since his father kept most things at the bank or with his publisher.”

These tapes might contain information about her mother … why hadn’t Christian remembered sooner?

“I’ll stop at Romain Figeac’s, then come to the office.”

“I’m driving to Media 9,” he said. “A negotiation question and since you weren’t there …”

She heard the complaint in his voice.

“Hold out for the exclusives,” she interrupted. “We wouldn’t want to design and implement a security system with our blood, sweat, and tears, only to see them hire a cheap-upkeep server to continue our work … and watch it crash.”

“True,” Rene said. “But I could use some help.”

“Bien sur, don’t worry, I’ll tackle my desk soon,” she said. “But be careful, Rene, not like last time with Euroworld, eh? We’ve learned our lesson.”

SHE NEEDED to get into Christian Figeac’s atelier and she didn’t want to wait for him.

In her apartment, she opened the worm-holed armoire and pulled out her kit. She’d find the hiding place for the tapes without anyone’s being the wiser. It was her father’s favorite tactic. She hoped Christian wouldn’t mind.

She hung up her linen jacket and put on a blue service jacket and a cap with L’eau de France’s logo of the Seine snaking across it. She struggled into the blue twill pants. Maybe she should try Morbier’s pills. Every time she quit smoking she felt it in her hips!

“OUI?” ANSWERED a reedlike man wearing an apron double-tied around his waist who stood at the concierge’s door. A burnt vanilla aroma wafted from the interior.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur, sorry to interrupt your dinner,” she said, setting down her tool bag. She handed him a card reading PLOMBERIE DELINCOURT 24/7 SERVICE.

From inside his hallway a television blared Questions pour un Champion, the quiz show on France3.

“Monsieur Figeac called about a blockage. He’s concerned about a compliance complaint.” She gave him a big smile, pushed the cap to the back of her head, and pulled a clipboard from her bag. “Tiens, he’s not home.”

“You’re the second one tonight.”

“Eh, do you mean the cleaners?”

“People coming and going like this is the Gare de Lyon!” The man untied his apron. He stared at her clipboard as if it were dirty. “Come tomorrow morning.”

“Sorry, Monsieur,” she said, “but if you could unlock the apartment, I can lock up after.”

Irritation clouded the man’s face.

Aimee shrugged. “Just doing my job, Monsieur. Don’t mind me, eh, a quick plumbing adjustment, then I’ll be gone.”

All she wanted was to get into Romain Figeac’s writing room and search the back wall panels for the tapes. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

She wished he’d hurry up.

He stood, not budging.

From the hall the pitch of the contestants’ shouts mounted to a frenzy. The concierge was torn between the finale of his game show and escorting her upstairs.

“Make it quick,” he said, glancing at his watch.

He wouldn’t let her forget it, she could tell.

“Is something cooking on the stove?”

He reached for a big key ring. “I burned the sugar instead of caramelizing it.” He shook his head. “A catastrophe with creme brulee!”

Aimee hefted her plomberie bag and followed him into the hallway to the staircase for the Figeac apartment. The concierge hit the light switch.

And then she saw the black smoke pouring down.

“Call the pompiers.”

He stood paralyzed.

“Hurry—there’s a fire!” she said, keeping the panic from her voice with effort. “Give me the keys. Vite, get help!”

He clattered over the parquet to his flat.

She climbed to the next floor, then crouched down in the hallway. From her bag, she pulled out her scarf, sprayed it with Evian aerosol, and, covering her nose and mouth, knotted it at the back of her head.

Praying it wasn’t too late to find the panels, she unlocked the door to the Figeacs’ apartment and crawled inside. But she didn’t get far.

An inferno of heat, flames, and smoke enveloped her, fast and furious, blinding her, as searing pain shot through her hands.

She jerked back, her foot caught on a burning chair, and she stumbled. Embers fell from the burning ceiling, showering her clothing. Her work shirt ignited. Flames licked her ears, singed her hair. Ripping her shirt off, she grabbed her plomberie bag and rolled on the floor, smothering the flames.

She had to get out. Crawling forward, she reached the door, struggled to her feet, turned, then heaved herself backward. Hard.

She landed in the hallway, her shoulder ramming the grillwork. No time to deal with it. Heat and smoke choked her.

She crawled, trying to ignore her burns, through scorching heat. Red-orange flames leaped, dense black smoke poured across the foyer. Her lungs hurt but she took as deep a breath as she could. She had to get out of the building.

Coughing, eyes smarting, blindly she made her way down the stairs, bumping into the concierge, who was crumpled against the banister.

Startled, she grabbed him. Had he been attacked? Quickly, she scanned the stairs but couldn’t see anything through the smoke.

She sat him up, bracing her wrists under his shoulder. Good thing he was thin. Her lungs burned. She had to pause on the cracked marble stairs to breathe even though each inhalation hurt. She heard the sound of glass popping and shattering as yellow-white flames shot from the windows.

Arson, she thought, as her mind grew foggy. Someone had set the apartment on fire … Christian Figeac? No, she reasoned. He’d make more if he sold the place.

Beside her, the concierge stirred. Aimee heard sirens outside. Who’d called the pompiers? The concierge? She heard hatchets chopping, saw the streams of water arcing