AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“Know what it means?”

He shook his head. “I’ve grown up here. My father read Chinese; in some ways he never left Indochina. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“It’s the character wu, for shaman,” she said.

Did he know about the disks? All she saw on his face was concern.

“Your godfather, Dinard, put a set of jade figures up for auction,” she said. “Then withdrew them. But it was Thadee that gave them to me to deliver to a Cao Dai nun. They were stolen from me. What does it mean?”

“You surprise me all the time,” he said, taking a big gulp of vodka. “But I’m sorry you had to find my godfather’s body.”

Sorry?

“It’s his poor wife I feel sorry for. And Thadee.”

De Lussigny raked his fingers through his hair. “She loved him. What about you, Aimee. Why don’t you trust me enough to explain to me how you’re involved?”

“I don’t know you,” she said.

Or anything.

She felt his hand on her thigh, surprised that such a suave man would make such a move at a time like this.

“We can change that,” said de Lussigny.

He kissed her. Warm, moist lips. Startled, she pulled back.

He kissed her again. Just right, lips a bit open. Nice kisses.

“Non,” she said, pulling away.

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

A barge pole wouldn’t be long enough to keep him at a safe distance.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “The only way to react to death is with life.”

His eyes searched hers.

“But I had no idea you felt this way,” she said, uncomfort- able. His godfather had been murdered, yet all he wanted was to get into her pants!

She wondered at the connection he’d made to her, that she knew nothing about. His fantasy? The soft jazz in the background, the dim lighting, the half-full glasses of vodka and white Egyptian cotton duvet of the bed conspired against her. She’d better turn to business, then leave, before she did something she’d regret.

“Lena and I are in the midst of divorce proceedings,” he said. “And, believe it or not, I don’t do this often.”

She doubted him, determined to ignore the way his lips had softened on hers, the aura of power and trace of vulnerability that textured his voice. She must keep in mind that he was a powerful and devious insider. Not her usual bad-boy.

“I can’t,” she said.

He pulled his hand back. Irritation shone on his face as he combed his hair back with his hands. “So what do we do?”

“We talk business,” she said, reaching for her vodka glass. Trying to keep her hand steady.

“Bon,” he said, checking his watch, stifling a yawn. “You already gave me the reports.”

She stiffened at his dismissive gesture.

“I want to know about PetroVietnam.”

“Aren’t you the one supposed to give me information?”

Arrogant bastard.

“I want to know why you asked me to monitor the Chinese bids. And why the various bids have disappeared.”

Surprised, he sat forward. “Who says that?”

“I checked, and they’re not here. All records of the bids disappeared from the file and that means—”

“It’s on someone’s desk under a pile or it’s in intra-corporate mail,” he interrupted. “And a camel walks faster than that.”

Or someone had gotten a hidden kickback. But how to word it with tact?

“Convince me. Put a trace on it.”

“You’re on a fishing expedition,” he said.

“Whoever has the bids, wants to keep them secret. Private. Not to point fingers, but what if someone got a payoff? I can help you more if I know the truth.”

He sat back on the couch. “You really do want to talk about business.”

“Find the bids. If they’re in intra-corporate mail, then you’re right. Otherwise, I am.”

“D’accord,” he said, his look pensive. “I will. But I still want you to monitor the Chinese.”

“You still haven’t given me a reason.”

“Haven’t you figured it out? We want to match their bids for drilling rights in the Tonkin Gulf.”

She stood.

He treated her as he’d treated her before. Like a professional. As she reached for the hotel room doorknob, she met his hand reaching for it at the same time.

“Excusez-moi.” His hand recoiled.

“Au revoir,” she said. They were standing so close.

He kissed her again. That soft warm mouth. His hands cupped her face, stroked her hair.

She pulled away, opened the door, and left. Outside in the hushed carpeted hallway, she ran, her knees shaking.

Saturday Night

IN THE REAR BOOTH of the cafe below Leduc Detective, Aimee pulled off her Nicorette patch and lit a Gauloise. Her smudged red lipstick was all over the small espresso cup. She slumped, kept her head down, and took a deep drag.

“Why the long face, mon americaine?” Zazie, the ten-year-old daughter of the owner asked. Juliette was nicknamed Zazie because she’d begun using strong language at an early age. Her mother complained to Aimee that she’d inherited her grandmother’s mouth. Zazie scratched her red curls, set her magazine on the counter, and steamed herself a cup of warm milk. “Can I sit with you? I like your lipstick.”

“It’s Stop Traffic Red. But isn’t it past your bedtime, Zazie?”

Zazie’s family lived above the cafe. “I had a bad dream,” Zazie said, rubbing her eyes. “I want to show you something.”

“Fine. And then to bed.”

She thought about de Lussigny. Lust wasn’t love. And it didn’t work when you wanted to forget about someone—someone like Guy.

“Look at this,” Zazie said. “That man in the big car who gave you a lift, Aimee, remember? When your eyes were bad that day?”

Aimee nodded. De Lussigny. She’d like to forget.

“He came in for a Perrier. He’s in the magazine maman buys. Regardes-toi-meme?” she said, with an admiring gaze. “I didn’t know you knew famous people, I’ve been waiting to show you. Look Aimee!”

Zazie turned the pages of Voila, the tabloid magazine that featured celebrities and photos of aristocrats’ parties. And there he was, tuxedo-clad, hair brushed back, both arms around young women. Julien de Lussigny.

“Good memory, Zazie.”

Well, no surprise there. He hadn’t gotten lucky with her but . . . She studied the caption more closely.