Murder in the Sentier

that have deserted Paris for the cheaper suburbs.”

Rene expelled a burst of air in disgust. “Arrogant artists.”

“You can tell them how you feel at dinner.”

This was the Paris Aimee had grown up in … grimy and full of caractere. Where stalls of white summer Montreuil peaches perfumed blackened stone facades, where concierges sat fanning themselves in the doorways, exchanging gossip while cats slunk around their legs. And everyone said Bonjour on the street. Where the tang of pissoirs and Gauloises hit her on the corner coming home from school, cafe patrons argued philosophie, and the only phones were the ones in the cafe that took jetons. Where individuals made statements. Statements that were heard.

She and Rene stepped over crunching brick to a hole punched in the flat end of the building. Above them, the flat pignon, the wall, sliced Parisian style, held peeling wallpaper and traces of chimney flues’s snaking to the roof. Alongside grinned a three-story Barbarella caricature.

Inside, the worn marble staircase crawled with razor-thin men and young blondes. DEMYSTIFY ART was spelled out in multicolored floor tiles.

Renee’s eyes widened. “Junkies and debutantes by the look of it,” he whispered in her ear.

“Like the old days,” she grinned, “when the Sorbonne was interesting.”

“You liked those parties,” Rene said.

“But you were the one who got lucky.” Aimee leaned forward and saw a smile struggle across Rene’s mouth.

A few golden boys, day traders from the Bourse, stood looking embarrassed, holding their briefcases, loosening their ties.

They saw the birdcage lift was stranded between floors. Aimee groaned. Why had she worn leopard-print high-heeled mules instead of her red high-tops?

Rene jerked his thumb upward. In the corners of the steps were syringes and dead pigeons. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

By the time they had trudged up to the third floor, the crowd had grown more eclectic. Room after room held paintings, metal sculptures, and installations. The thrum of an electric generator powered the dim lights and pounding techno-beat. From the cavernous hallway came the sizzling crackle of cooking and the aroma of garlic.

A group of skinny models, working proletariat, and aristos sat drinking wine together at a long candlelit table. Conversation buzzed amid the clink of wineglasses. A man in tight black denim pants and a black shirt appeared. A slit-eyed iguana was draped over his arm.

“We’re Etienne’s friends,” Aimee said, unable to pull her gaze from the candlelight flickering on the iguana’s iridescent scales.

“Welcome, I’m Hubert,” he said, planting bisous on both her cheeks and Rene’s. “Ca va?” Hubert’s thin shoulders twitched.

She hoped he was keeping time with the music and not in need of a fix.

She dropped her scarf and bent to pick it up. Her shirt rode up, revealing the lizard design on her back.

“Nice tattoo! Nico?” Hubert asked.

Aimee nodded, and saw Rene’s mouth drop open.

“Take that place, just in time,” he said, sweeping them forward to a bench. She had the feeling she’d risen several notches in Hubert’s estimation.

A man with thick black hair wearing a corduroy jacket with leather-patched elbows made space for them. He gestured, his mouth full, toward a wineglass and poured from a carafe of red wine. He raised his glass. “Salut, mes amis,” he managed, then attacked a salade frisee pomaded with glistening avocado vinaigrette.

Etienne appeared in the doorway. He wore a skinny black T-shirt and frayed jeans, and swiped his shock of reddish brown hair across his forehead. In nonwork clothes, he looked more like Aimee’s bad-boy type. She didn’t see Christian.

“Bonsoir,” she said as Etienne joined them. “Meet Rene, my partner.”

“A pleasure.” He shook Rene’s hand. Then hers. His long fingers enveloped hers with soft, warm pressure, his lips forming a smile.

That wonderful smile. Her fingers retained his warmth after he let go.

Most likely Etienne enjoyed a steady income and visited his parents in the countryside on major holidays and weekends.

But he didn’t look boring now.

Opposite, their dinner partner was arguing with the woman seated next to him. “Five thousand francs … do I look loaded, Madame? Ask me when I win Thursday night at keno.”

“Didn’t Christian come with you?” Aimee asked.

Etienne shrugged. “I hoped he’d be here, waiting.” He sat next to Aimee. “He’s notorious for being late.”

She was aware of Etienne’s vaguely citrus scent, his long lashes, his muscular arms.

“I’m worried,” she said. “Christian’s been through so much.

Did he stay with you last night?”

Etienne shook his head. “Never showed up. I’m worried, too. He’s in financial trouble.”

“Financial trouble?”

Rene reached for a carafe and poured a glass for Etienne.

“Merci,” Etienne said. “Frankly, it’s beyond my scope. I just manage investments. But the back taxes and liens on his father’s estate have mounted up. It’s horrific.”

Strange, Aimee thought. Christian told her there was money. Lots of it.

“Maybe he is being held at the Commissariat again?” Rene asked.

“Doubtful, but he’s got to furnish them statements by Monday.” As Etienne turned his wine goblet, licks of candlelight danced over its surface. “I’m concerned. His father must have kept records. Christian was supposed to meet me at the bank. Then he called, said for me to meet him here.”

She was about to say Christian had pulled the same thing on them. She looked over at Rene. But Rene’s eyes were on the women dancing in the hallway. Their shadows, distorted on the water-stained wall, twitched and jumped to the techno music.

“Didn’t the Figeacs have an accountant?” She felt the pressure of Etienne’s leg, not unwelcome, as more people joined them at the table.

“Excuse me,” Rene said, getting up. He winked at Aimee and nodded toward the hallway.

“Our transactions were simple,” Etienne said. “He wrote checks.”

“But Christian called you his financial advisor.” Had this been one of Christian’s big ideas, as Idrissa termed them?

“A loose phrase.” Etienne’s smoke gray eyes probed hers, as if plumbing her psyche. Few men she’d met were so direct. It felt disturbing but nice. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what he told you.”

“Where could he be?”

Etienne looked down. “With Christian, well … it’s typical. He makes plans and doesn’t show up.”

Then her phone rang.

“Allo?” But the music swallowed the response.

It was impossible to hear. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. Then it hit her.

“Pardonnez-moi, I have to take this call,” she said, tearing herself away from Etienne.

In the next room, Hubert was holding court near large cubes of pastel Plexiglas. She hit the call-back button and got a gruff “Oui!”

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“What is this? Marie called. Georges here.”

A call from Action-Reaction … finally!

“What do you want?” Georges didn’t wait for her reply. “We’re leaving for Strasbourg tonight.”