Murder in the Sentier

“A concerned neighbor,” he said. “But you’re the best one to let us know what’s missing.”

“Commissaire Morbier’s in charge?”

If the flic was surprised at her knowledge he didn’t show it.

“Lieutenant Bellan’s on robbery detail,” he said. “We just got here, Mademoiselle. It was like this—the door wide open, but no lights on. Sorry for the shock.”

She studied the man, saw his shoulder stripes. He was more informative than most, downright human.

“You look familiar, Sergeant.”

“Helier. I worked under your father briefly, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Before he retired. I was proud of the opportunity.”

Now she remembered. “Of course, Sergeant, thank you for your kind words. Aren’t you from Quimper in Brittany?”

He nodded, a big smile on his face.

Her father always said the best biscuits came from there. He’d buy them from Fauchon for a treat.

“Mademoiselle, this way, please!” beckoned another flic from her kitchen.

As she passed Sergeant Helier, he covered his mouth. “I didn’t believe what they said,” he said in a low undertone. “Never. He was a good man.”

Before she could reply or ask what he meant, a flic holding a squirming and barking Miles Davis approached her. Miles Davis yelped and jumped to the parquet floor.

“Merci. Where was he?” she said, opening her arms and catching him.

The flic rolled his eyes. “Locked in the bathroom.”

“Tiens, furball,” she said, ruffling his ears and smoothing the hair from his eyes. His chin dripped. “Drinking from the W.C.?” Miles Davis whimpered. “Of course, you were thirsty and someone bad locked you inside.”

“How did they get in?”

“Forced entry, front door.”

She expected to see furniture turned over, papers strewn about, and linens ripped up. But apart from the flics dusting for fingerprints, nothing appeared disturbed. She checked the high-ceilinged dining room, the corner converted to her home office. Her computer, the zip disks, and floppies, appeared untouched. She did a quick scan of her bedroom, the guest room, bathrooms, the unused parlor piled with her grandfather’s auction-find furniture, the morning room, and her father’s old bedroom.

Even her Fendi tote bag hung from its hook in the hallway. The sheen of dust in the unused rooms lay undisturbed … for once her lack of housekeeping skills was useful.

Nothing seemed unusual except the sugar spilled from a canister in the kitchen. Clumps of brown sugar trailed over the blue tiles.

“A thief with a sweet tooth?” said a voice behind her. “Or scared off by the neighbors?”

She’d thought the same thing, and turned around to a grim-faced Lieutenant Bellan.

“We meet again, Lieutenant Bellan,” she said. “Isn’t the 2nd arrondissement your turf?”

“Par l’habitude,” he said with a shrug. “Vacation schedule, we’re consolidating services. Which means most of the robbery detail lies on the beachfront at Biarritz while we sweat in Paris.”

She nodded.

“You know the drill,” he said. “We make a report, you come down to the Commissariat tomorrow, sign it. And stay somewhere else tonight.”

He seemed downright affable. And tired. Big bags under his eyes. He glanced at his watch. “My wife’s gone into labor … number three, shouldn’t take long. If you’ll excuse me.”

“One thing, Bellan,” she said. “What’s the case against Christian Figeac?”

“Confidentiality laws forbid me to talk about that inquiry, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said. The pager clipped to his wrinkled jacket pocket beeped.

“Confidentiality?” She shrugged. “Looked like harassment to me.”

He consulted his beeper. “Zut! I better hurry,” he said, passing her and going down the hall. “Baby’s crowning.” Bellan shut the door behind him.

She knew she was in danger and her hands shook. She’d been hit from behind at the fire, her office phone tapped, and now someone had violated and invaded her apartment.

After she gave her statement to the flics, she punched in Martine’s number.

“Allo,” came Martine’s breathy voice after one ring.

“Got a couch Miles Davis and I could borrow tonight?”

“Sounds like a perfect ending to a horrible evening,” Martine said. “Any reason why? Not that you need one.”

She told Martine about the break-in.

“Tiens, you better stay here,” Martine said. “Hop on your Vespa. Now.”

Aimee navigated her way to Martine’s apartment in the exclusive 16th arrondissement, overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. She avoided the notorious transvestite traffic in the bois, which could be quite active on a summer night.

The concierge of Martine’s Belle Epoque building yawned and pointed for her to park the scooter in the courtyard. Backlit stained-glass windows illumined the plush red runner that carpeted the apartment stairs. She carried Miles Davis in his straw basket over her shoulder, hoping Martine hadn’t acquired a cat since her last visit.

“Entrez.” Martine greeted her in a form-fitting coral tube dress, walking awkwardly on her heels, blue foam separators wedged between her toes. “Giving myself a pedicure.”

“Don’t you usually get that done?”

“Not if I’m waging nuclear war with Jerome and waiting for you,” Martine said. She led Aimee into the high- ceilinged white-and-gold trimmed salon with carved wood boiserie and gilt cornices. “How’s Miles Davis holding up?” She nuzzled his chin and palmed him a biscuit. “You two can stay with me as long as you like.”

“Merci, but after I fix the locks at my place, we’ll be fine.”

This flat was big enough for an army but Aimee didn’t think Jerome would appreciate their visit. He’d inherited it from his aristo family who were long on name but short on cash. His ex-wife had supplied that, but liked modern skyscraper living in La Defense better.

“Don’t be silly,” Martine said. “In this museum, you can have your own wing.”

She gestured to a drinks cart loaded with decanters and bottles, then handed a champagne flute to Aimee.

Martine popped the cork of a Pol Roget, then poured the golden bubbled mixture. They clinked glasses and Aimee hoped she hadn’t spilled any on the jade, peach, and white Aubusson rug.

“Are we celebrating?” Aimee asked. “Come up with anything I should know?”

Martine gave a small shake of her head as she blew on her toes. “Voila. Did they take anything?”

Aimee knew Martine too well not to notice her evasion.

“If they did, it’s not obvious,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll check.”

“You’ve been busy,” Martine said as she poured them another drink. “What about the Bourse hunk you met?”

Leave it to Martine to zero in on men.

“He wanted to meet at Rouge but I missed him.”

Martine looked up, horror on her face. “So exclusive … he invited you there?”

She said. “Anyway, he left with a woman, c’est la vie. So I checked out Romain Figeac’s burned-out apartment.”

“But he invited you!” Martine clinked her glass to Aimee’s.

“Why scour Romain Figeac’s apartment?”

Aimee told her what had happened so far: Jutta’s murder, Christian Figeac hiring her, and the lead provided by Georges, from Action-Reaction.

Martine listened. “But you’re in danger, Aimee. I think you should leave it alone.