AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

Zoe Tardou clutched her flannel nightshirt, pulling it tight around her. “Why question me, why not that pute on the street?”

Aimee didn’t remember seeing a prostitute on the street. “What pute?”

“The one who hangs out around the corner. The old one, she’s in the doorway all the time. Ask her.”

“What does she look like?”

“You know the type, lots of costume jewelry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you must leave.”

At least she had someone to look for now.

WITH RELUCTANT steps Aimee retraced the route she and Sebastian had taken. She pulled out her cheap compact Polaroid and took photos of the hall carpet, skylight, and the broken lock.

Outside, on narrow rue Andre Antoine, passersby scurried, late to work or school. She walked to the doorway of the building opposite. No prostitute. Disappointed, she tried Conari’s number.

“Monsieur Conari’s out of the office,” his secretary said.

All the reasons she’d hated criminal investigative work came back to her. Half the time potential witnesses were out of town, or at the doctor’s, or the hairdresser’s, and tracking them down took days. Leads turned to dust. Evidence deteriorated.

But Laure needed help. Now.

“When do you expect him?”

Aimee heard phones ringing in the background.

“Try again later.”

AIMEE OPENED the frosted-glass-paned door of Leduc Detective, ran, and caught the phone on the second ring. Gray light worked its way through the open shutters into a zigzag pattern on the wood floor. She nodded to her partner. Rene’s short arms were full as he loaded paper into the printer.

“Allo?” she answered the phone, at the same time grabbing the ground coffee beans.

“Mademoiselle Leduc? Maitre Delambre here, Laure Rousseau’s counsel,” a high-pitched male voice said.

Thank God. But he sounded young, as if his voice hadn’t changed yet.

“I’m between court sessions so I’ll get to the point. We have reservations concerning your involvement in Laure Rousseau’s case.”

“Who’s we?” Aimee said, catching her breath. “Laure asked for my help.”

“The police investigation has been comprehensive and thorough,” he said.

He not only sounded young, but as if he needed to show he was in control. She hit the button on the espresso machine, which grumbled to life.

“So comprehensive, Maitre Delambre, that they haven’t yet questioned the inhabitants of the building opposite or investigated a broken skylight?”

“That’s the investigating unit’s responsibility,” he said. “And just how would you know this?”

“As I said, Laure asked for my help,” she said. Better to explain and try to work with him. Not alienate him. “We’re childhood friends; our fathers worked together in the police force.”

“You have admirable intentions, I’m sure, but your involvement won’t help the case or be looked on as anything but meddling.”

In other words, back off.

“I’m a private investigator,” she said, figuring it would be better not to mention that computer security was her field. “That’s what I do. You don’t even seem interested to learn that there may have been an eyewitness.”

“Of course the police questioned all the people in the area,” he said. “I’m sure they’re aware of anything pertinent and will have it in their report.”

“I’d like to see this report and discuss this further.”

“As I told you—”

“Laure hired me and it’s in her best interests that we work together,” she said, stretching the truth. “But, naturally, it’s your call.”

Thick bitter steaming coffee dripped into the small white demitasse cup next to her.

“Meaning what, Mademoiselle Leduc?”

“Would you rather I turn over my findings to you or directly to La Proc?”

Pause. “I’ll discuss this with my client,” he said.

“Look, I found her concussed and injured. That should be in the report. Jacques’s pockets were inside out, they’d been searched. Since the flics don’t reveal information to outsiders, can you find out what the police report says?”

The shuffle of papers was her only answer.

“I’d like to visit Laure.”

He took a breath. “It’s questionable whether they’d allow you to see her.”

“I’d need to get a pass and letter from you, wouldn’t I?”

“Let me check into that.”

Noncommittal, avoiding a flat no. But she wouldn’t let it rest.

“I’d appreciate that and seeing the crime-scene report,” she said. “Including the lab findings. I’m concerned about the gun residue Laure said they found on her hands. Of course, there’s some mistake.”

“Lab turnaround time is from six to eighteen hours,” he interrupted.

“So you could have it by this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”

She hung up and plopped two brown-sugar lumps into her espresso. A hot drop landed on her finger and she licked it. As she had feared, Laure had been assigned a lawyer from the bottom of the barrel.

Rene climbed into the orthopedic chair customized for his four-foot height. She noticed his new double- breasted suit and freshly manicured nails as he bit the glazed puff top off the religieuse, an eclairlike pastry. The shape had ancient origins and was supposed to resemble a famous convent deaconess from the fifteenth century.

“Like one?” Rene pushed the pastry box across the desk.

Why not? Did it matter anymore if she fit into that little black dress, a vintage Schiaparelli she’d discovered at a church sale?

“Merci,” she said, walking to his terminal and exchanging the espresso for a coffee-cream-filled eclair. “Remember my friend Laure?”

Rene nodded; he’d met her the year before.

“She’s in trouble.”

“So I just heard,” he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “Did she really hire you? You’ll get a check?”

Aimee hesitated.

“I don’t like this already,” he said. “We do computer security, remember?”

He gestured to her desk, a pile of proposals by her laptop. “That should keep you busy.”

“I owe her, Rene,” she said. “She’s been set up.”

“And you know this for sure?” Rene stirred the espresso, his green eyes on the beige froth lining his demitasse cup. “It would be refreshing to get paid. Make for a nice change, Aimee.”

“No argument there,” she said.

If only their clients paid for their computer security on time! She perched on the edge of his desk. Walnut furniture oil, dense and heavy, stained her palms. He’d been cleaning again!

“Shooting her partner on a roof doesn’t make sense, Rene.”

“What do you actually know?” Rene’s green eyes narrowed.

She sipped her espresso and explained what had happened.

“This sounds like an accident,” Rene said. “Perhaps Laure tripped in the snow and her gun went off.”

“Manhurins are designed to prevent that,” she interrupted. “The securite de shock keeps the hammer from descending accidentally. Impossible.”

Rene pulled his goatee. “Internal Affairs will conclude it was an accident, won’t they?”

“Rene, I found her unconscious and Jacques shot. . . . His heart responded briefly, but it was too late.”