Murder in the Sentier

cadavres unit said, pausing with his two fingers on the typewriter. “You found the body and recognized her?”

He really meant how would she recognize an African, un noir.

“A him, it’s a man.” Aimee didn’t want to admit she’d been looking for Idrissa. Didn’t want to tell him why.

“Voila, a man,” the flic said. “Then how did you recognize him?”

“He’s well known in nouvelle griot music,” she said. “I’ve heard him with his partner at Club Exe.” The stale air and cigarette smoke made her nose itch. Itch for a cigarette.

“Let’s see, you give your address as 17, Quai d’Anjou on Ile St. Louis.” He pecked at the keyboard, not looking up. “What were you doing in the Sentier?”

She wanted to say None of your business. But in reality it was.

Flics could stop you any place, any time, demand your identification, and hold you on suspicion. Suspicion of anything.

“Going to get my nails done,” she said. She thrust her chipped red fingernails at him. “A disaster, eh? My friend has a nail salon.”

“Not much stays open this late in the Sentier.”

True. She thought quickly.

“But on rue Saint Denis, the girls stay open day and night, right? Who’s investigating the case?”

“Right now I am, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said, his tone bored. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the police judiciare takes charge and will confer with le proc,^* when she gets here.”

“Le proc, here? But that’s unusual,” she said. Normally, the flics submitted the evidence dossier to him or her at the Palais de Justice. Rarely did one get involved in investigation legwork.

“Unusual … good word,” said the flic, nodding in agreement. He scratched the back of his neck. “Life’s unusual these days. Especially with everyone on vacation!”

“The victim’s not a pute,” she said. “Nor a transvestite. He’s a musician!”

^*Procurer de la Republic—the state prosecutor.

“I’m glad we have your word for it,” he said, even more bored.

After ten minutes the flic gave her a typed statement to read. There were plenty of spelling and grammar mistakes. But she thought better of bringing them to his attention.

She was about to sign when loud shuffling sounds came from the corridor. A middle-aged man was escorted to the other desk in the small cubicle.

He gripped the frayed plastic armrest, then sat down with measured slowness. His ashen pallor contrasted with his grease-stained black fingers.

“Now if you’ll sign this,” the flic said, irritation in his voice, “you’ll have done your civic duty and I can end my shift, Mademoiselle Leduc.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Aimee saw the man’s body jerk. After she’d signed and looked up, she realized he was staring at her. Staring with disbelief.

Like Georges and Fredo at Action-Reaction.

Again a shiver went up her spine.

“Monsieur Pascal Ourdours, residing in Conflans, Cergy Prefecture,” said the blue-uniformed flic, reading his ID. “Pretty late for you to drive so far to your home, eh?”

“Not really,” the man said.

“Can you explain your reason for being on rue des Jeuners?”

He sat, rodlike. “Visiting friends, like I told the officer.”

“Did you see anyone running in that vicinity?”

But Aimee never heard his answer. The flic tugged her arm, indicating she should give up her seat to a miniskirted, blue-eye-shadowed middle-aged woman tapping her worn sandals.

“Vite, cherie,” the woman said. “My feet hurt.”

On her way out, Aimee searched for familiar faces. She heard the duty desk flic talking over a police radio: “Quiet night except for a homicide, two witnesses, plus the usual working ladies. That’s all, patron.”

So Pascal Ourdours was the other witness.

She recognized Edith Mesard, the new Procurateur de la Republique, striding into the Commissariat. As “La” Proc, Mesard had a lot to prove in the male-dominated system. Aimee wanted to renew their old acquaintance and get information.

“Madame Mesard,” she said. “Congratulations on your appointment to your position.”

Edith Mesard paused.

“Merci,” she said. Her voice quavered.

Aimee knew she’d had throat surgery. The woman sounded weak but her conviction record was strong. Strongest in the court.

Her gaze took in Aimee’s outfit. “Investigators are waiting, if you’ll excuse me….”

“Bien sur,” Aimee said. “Perhaps later, I’d like to talk with you.”

“Will what you say interest me, Mademoiselle … Leduc, isn’t it? I’m sorry but my days get filled by eight A.M. I reserve my time for victims, enforcement officers, and the court docket.”

Underneath the Rodier suit, graceful manner, weak voice, and aristo manners was pure iron—formidable, in a word.

“The information I have concerns the homicide victim,” Aimee said.

“Please give a statement,” Edith Mesard said, pointing a manicured finger to the cubicle.

“But I already have. Let’s say there’s a sensitive background,” Aimee said. A good Proc kept communication lines open for those who wanted to pass on information— hookers, the gay community, and illegal workers—but were intimidated by the flics.

“I don’t barter information, Mademoiselle, if that’s what you’re implying. In my job I must reveal my sources if it impacts the criminal proceedings.” She reached in her briefcase, then handed Aimee a card. “But you can access my direct line between seven and eight A.M. only.”

And then Edith Mesard was gone.

Outside the Commissariat on Place Goldoni, Aimee pulled out her cell phone and called Christian’s number again.

No answer.

No answer at Etienne Mabry’s either. In the dark Paris street, Lieutenant Bellan arrived. Behind him, a police car pulled up in the Commissariat parking place.

Lieutenant Bellan eyed her up and down. His wine-laced breath hit her square in the face.

“You again?” he said. His eyes were bleary. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Save your tired cliches for the bar, she wanted to say. He must have been celebrating.

“Boy or girl?”

“What?”

“Are you the father of a boy or girl?” she said. “Your wife was giving birth when my apartment was broken into.”

Something caved in his face. He stumbled on the cobblestones.

What happened? she wondered.

The other police had caught up with them. They exchanged looks.

“Lieutenant Bellan, you’re off duty,” one of them said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”

“Down’s syndrome, the doctor called it,” Bellan said, his speech slurred. “Where I come from they called them Mongoloids … half-wits.”

Oh God, no wonder he was falling apart.

“Forgive me, so sorry,” she said.