AL05 - Murder in Clichy

other Cao Dai nuns in Paris. Unease filled Aimee. Where was Linh?

In the taxi back to the Clichy hotel, yellow lights reflected on the wet pavement in Place de Clichy. A line snaked out of the only tabac open at this hour. She called Martine.

“Martine, how’s your guest?”

“Asleep,” she said, her husky voice tired. “I checked. Tomorrow, I work at home and will keep my eye on her.”

“I’ll owe you double if you check out the Gulf of Tonkin’s untapped oil sources, and who looks like the leader in obtaining oil drilling rights.”

“You’re kidding, right, Aimee?”

“And those rumors that Olf’s an unofficial arm of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

“My piece on the European Commission’s in revision,” Martine said, “and I have to fact check twice before tomorrow’s deadline.”

Martine wrote investigative freelance for AFP—Agence France Presse—and Reuters now, too. She enjoyed it more than her editorship at Le Figaro or the doomed magazine Diva she’d spearheaded for a brief two issues, until Aimee had discovered her backer was financing Diva with laundered arms money.

“Nose around. You’ve got contacts in that world,” Aimee said. “There’s a Dom Perignon with your name on it. Isn’t Gilles’s birthday soon?”

“A magnum of Dom Perignon, did you say?”

Aimee groaned. Quick, Martine was quick.

“And those petits fours from Fauchon that he loves.”

“Deep background, Martine.”

She heard Martine yawn. “D’accord, the usual.”

Saturday Morning

NADEGE BLINKED. LIGHT CAME through the shutter’s slits and wavered across the floor. Her bag had vanished, her jewelry, and the old lady, too. She felt sore, itchy, and cold.

The old woman had slipped something into that liquid. Like something she’d heard making the rounds of clubs. A tasteless, odorless substance men put in women’s drinks, knocking them out and causing them to forget what happened after. But her head felt clear though she remembered drinking and no more.

Footsteps sounded below.

Had the old woman returned?

The wormholed armoire lay open, papers and old clothes strewn around. But her body wouldn’t cooperate. She rolled over and was face to face with the smudged baseboard.

“Where did she put it?” a loud voice was saying. “Thadee owes me.”

What did they mean? Thadee’s stash? Or the old key she’d found? But it had gone with her bag. And she hadn’t known what it opened. Her plans for flight had gone up in smoke.

Nadege crawled, her muscles protesting, and gripped the edge of the armoire. She must get inside, hide under piles of clothes. But she felt so tired. Her hand loosened, fell.

“Where the hell did she go?”

Nadege knew that voice. The Bonbon King. Panic gripped her. She owed him. She forced her legs, made them crawl. Somehow she got inside, curled into an embryonic position, pulled an old crocheted shawl over her, and closed the armoire door halfway. Like she’d hidden when she was small and her parents fought, trying to drown out her father’s accusations and her mother’s tears. But she never could.

Only her grand-mere’s warm arms that rocked her, and her inexhaustible supply of ginger candy, had made it better. For awhile.

Several men argued in the doorway. “We find her, grab the kid—”

One of them kicked the bedstead, then the old desk, splintering it to pieces. Nadege shuddered. He’d smash the armoire next.

Saturday Morning

THE VANILLA-HUED LIGHT, UNUSUALLY clear for November, haloed Rene’s head. Aimee blinked and opened her eyes wider. Everything fell into place. There was no fogginess or blurring. She breathed a sigh of relief and smelled something wonderful.

But where were they?

And then she remembered their Clichy hotel room.

“Your espresso’s getting cold,” Rene said.

“Merci.” She sat up, untangling her purple fishnets and Moroccan shirt.

“You mumbled something last night about running a virus check on the Olf account and duplicating log entries and emails before a meeting with de Lussigny later,” he said. “I’m printing them out now.”

“Fantastique. And good morning to you, partner.” She smiled, stirring two lumps of brown sugar into her cup. “How do you feel?”

“The mattress came with the hotel in 1830,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the bed. ”But after the hard earth in the air raid shelter, I loved it.”

“We can’t go back to the office.”

“Or my apartment,” he said. “Saj got us some new cell phones. He’s bringing my scanner later. Look at you. Nice outfit.”

She grimaced, checking the stitches on her arm. “Perfect for escaping through garbage chutes, playing in heavy metal bands, and also for attending elegant soirees.”

Rene swallowed his espresso the wrong way and choked. “Going to tell me about it?”

Aimee handed Rene a napkin and told him about Regnier’s suspension, her encounter with Blondel and Pleyet, Sophie, and the old Chinese grand-mere. She didn’t mention meeting de Lussigny.

“Blondel? How’s he involved?”

“Thadee owed Blondel; his henchman Jacky made my skin crawl,” she said. “Gassot’s hiding. Afraid. But I don’t know why. And I’m no closer to the jade. I need to discover Pleyet’s motive and what exactly the Circle Line is.”

“Aimee, if Pleyet once worked with Regnier,” Rene said, “stands to reason they’re in this together now.”

“But Pleyet intimated he’s surveilling Regnier,” she said. “And somehow, I buy it. He didn’t have to reveal himself last night. Or tell me about the past.”

Rene hit SAVE on his laptop.

“You mean about the Place Vendome surveillance? He could be leading you on. But how is that relevant? What you need to discover is who had the jade originally. Then you can question them.”

Good point! But so far she’d run into dead ends and silence.

“I e-mailed Thadee’s files here. Can you look them over? The Drouot won’t release the name of the consignor,” she said. “It’s in data storage on the ile de la Jatte. What’s important is, who wants it now? That should point to who killed for it.”

Rene rubbed his bandaged wrist. She noticed his right leg propped on the chair and pillows below his hip.

“Are you with me on this, Rene?”

He shrugged.

“No choice,” he said. “But be careful.”

She switched on her laptop.

“This might help,” she said. “I’ve got four digits of Lars’s password. If we get the rest, we can crack the Circle Line.”