AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

his head, frustrated. He had to make her understand. “It’s true. I never realized.”

Marie-Dominique’s eyes blazed. “Didn’t realize the Armata Corsa was outlawed? After you left our island, the Armata Corsa plastered the walls with posters protesting the atrocities and with pictures of you.”

“But I had nothing to do with it. I only went to one meeting.”

“Your picture was on the posters,” she said.

So that had been the reason his mother had put a ticket for the overnight ferry to Marseilles in his hands and insisted he leave that very night. “I won’t lose another son,” she’d said. Meaning neither to the vendetta, the gendarmes, or the evil eye cast by the mazzera, the sorceress crone who dwelled high up on the mountain. No one disputed the mazzera, least of all his longsuffering widowed mother, who was convinced the evil eye had marked him. Sardinian by birth, his mother was still referred to by his grand-mere as “the foreigner” after thirty-five years on the island. She had ignored his reluctance, overridden his arguments that fleeing would be taken as an admission of guilt.

He’d waited tables in the Marseilles vieux port, deejayed using a friend’s cheap equipment, scraped by, and survived. A year later he’d moved to Paris. He’d bought turntables; it was a bare living.

“I wrote you letters explaining that I had to leave,” he told Marie-Dominique. “But they all came back, unopened.”

She looked away.

A flic in a blue uniform brushed by him, stopped, and took in Lucien’s black denims and worn boots. “Follow me, we’re questioning the staff in the kitchen,” he said.

“But, Officer, he’s our guest,” Marie-Dominique told him.

The flic raised his eyebrows and shot a pointed look at Lucien. “Of course, Madame. Please, join us in the salon.” He continued into the kitchen.

Lucien braced himself. Corsicans enjoyed “special treatment” during questioning at the Commissariat. Like his friend Bruno, who’d returned with a broken arm. The recent Separatist attacks had put the flics on edge. If they discovered he had no ID and lived on illegal, unreported wages from his DJ gigs, they’d take him in.

But if he left without signing the contract Conari had offered . . .

“I forgot my carte d’identite, Marie-Dominique.” He glanced toward the salon. Felix stood with Yann in a knot of men, speaking with the commissaire. A loose line of guests had formed by the drinks table.

He edged closer to her, whispering. “Marie-Dominique, I can’t talk to them right now.”

Her eyes widened. “So you’re still on the wanted list?”

“Show me a way to leave, please,” he said. “Speak with Felix, tell him I’ll sign the contract tomorrow.”

“But what if—”

“No time to explain. Help me.”

“Consistent, if nothing else. You’re running away, Lucien. Again.”

“It’s not like that. Please, help me.”

Marie-Dominique shook her head.

A door flush with the paneling was opened by one of the catering staff who was sweating as he carried a huge copper saucepan.

It must lead to the back stairs.

“Don’t get Felix in trouble.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’re still involved with the Separatists, aren’t you? Still yearning to ‘liberate’ Corsica.”

As far as he was concerned, if it hadn’t happened in two thousand years, why now? She had him all wrong. Two hundred years ago, Pascal Paoli had taken power and, instead of making himself king as others had done, outlawed slavery, organized elections, and gave women the vote. Novel ideas for his time, for any time. Corsica had been a democracy briefly until Paoli was overthrown and its army destroyed. In 1768, Corsica was sold to the French for a million francs.

True, once he’d believed in a free Corsica and had joined the Armata Corsa. But when he saw the Mafia tactics of the faction-ridden group, he’d wanted nothing more to do with them.

“What you really mean is I don’t belong here,” Lucien said. “Not in your life, not in this chic milieu,” he said, his hurt flaming into anger. He pounded his fist on the door. “But neither do you, Marie-Dominique. You’ve changed but I know you’re still the same inside. I’m going. Tell Felix I’ll contact him later.”

He opened the concealed door, and shut it with a bang.

Tuesday Morning

AIMEE LEANED AGAINST the slick tiled Metro wall, cell phone to her ear, and clicked off. Hopital Bichat refused to give her any information about Laure. On top of that, the flic guarding her still hadn’t called. Burnt rubber smells from the squealing train brakes filled the close air. She punched in another number.

“Brigade Criminelle,” a voice said after ten rings.

“Last night, Officer Laure Rousseau was injured and taken to Hopital Bichat; I’d like to know her status.”

“Let me consult,” said a brisk, no-nonsense voice.

In the background she heard footsteps slapping across the tile.

“Allo? Who’s calling?” asked the voice.

“Aimee Leduc, a private detective.”

“You’ll need to inquire via the proper channels.”

“Aren’t I? I’m concerned. As I told you, she suffered an injury.”

“She’s in garde a vue,” said the voice.

Already? It was not yet eight in the morning.

“Check with her lawyer,” the voice said.

“Who’s that?”

“A Maitre Delambre is handling this case. That’s all the information I have.”

It sounded as if Laure had been given outside representation. Unusual in these circumstances. Good or bad? Surely, a good sign, Aimee thought, gaining hope. But how long would they keep Laure in a holding cell? She consulted the directory at the phone booth in the Metro, found the lawyer’s number, and called him.

“Maitre Delambre is in court until noon,” said his answering machine.

“Please, have him call me, it’s urgent, concerning Laure Rousseau,” Aimee said and left her number.

Too bad she’d let Rene Friant, her partner in their agency, take the morning off. She could use his help now.

She pushed open the swinging doors of the Blanche Metro. All the way up the stairs crowded with winter- coated commuters she pictured Laure, disoriented, with her bloodshot eye, hunched over in a cell.

On the wide, shop-lined Boulevard de Clichy by the Moulin Rouge, its garish neon now dark, plumes of bus exhaust spiraled into the air. A straggling demonstration blocked the street as loudspeakers shouted, “Corsica for Corsicans!”

Waiting passengers stood on the pavement with that particu- lar patience of Parisians, the collective shrug of acceptance reserved for slowdowns and strikes. Newspaper banners plastered across the kiosk read STRIKE IN CORSICAN CONTRACT DIS-PUTE. Another said ASSAULT ON ARMORED CURRENCY TRUCK LINKED TO ARMATA CORSA SEPARATISTS.

She saw a peeling poster on a stone wall bearing a call to action and the Armata Corsa Separatist trademark, the tete de Maure, a black face with white bandanna, in the corner.

The strident Separatist movements in Corsica took center stage these days, elbowing out Bretons demanding school instruction in Gaelic and ETA, Basque Nationalists, car bombings.

Right now, Aimee needed to speak with the person in the apartment with geraniums in a window box to