AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

Aimee nodded. “Good memory, Rene. He is the consultant to Conari’s construction firm. He found a diagram, like a floor plan, in a nearby Dumpster.”

“Since when do systems analysts work with contractors?” Rene took out a linen handkerchief with his initials, RF, embroidered on the edge, and blew his nose. “The sure way to catch a cold, coming out of the Metro to a hot office!” He blew his nose again. “Conari’s firm must have Ministry contracts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Having a systems analyst is a government requirement. Look in the guidelines. We’d need one, too, if we did Ministry work.”

“Rene! You’re not suggesting we angle for Ministry work?”

Before he could answer, she pointed to the piles of paper on her desk. “Look, we have work, and will have more work from the proposals we’ve sent out. You know our problem’s with negligent clients who take forever to pay.” Corporations were notorious for delaying payment to independent contractors.

“It’s either collect or do a creance,” Rene said. “Which invites another kind of trouble.”

She knew all too well that the creance, a loan made by a bank against the borrower’s pledge of accounts receivable plus a ten percent commission, spelled trouble. When a bank collected, firms would notice and figure it reflected Leduc Detective’s financial difficulties.

“True, Rene, but we’re not there yet.”

Not quite. She took a deep breath, counted to five. They had to get back on track. She drew a quick sketch, replicating the diagram she’d turned over to Bordereau.

“Look at what Yann’s diagram showed. Supposedly, the bombs were set here, in the Mairie, by Corsican Separatists, where there are Xs on this diagram.”

Rene’s mouth dropped. “Bombs?”

“Defused before they could go off. My DST contact confirmed it. What if Jacques had an informer who knew about the plan or—”

“Defused when?”

“Sunday night.”

“Jacques was murdered Monday night,” Rene said. “Nice try.”

Deflated, Aimee stared at the map. Thought hard.

“Correct.” She wouldn’t give up that quickly. “Suppose Jacques knew of a backup terrorist plan and met an informer to try to discover the next target. My DST connection also mentioned a data-encryption leak,” she said. “Suppose there’s a connection.”

“Flics don’t buy suppositions,” Rene said.

Aimee nodded.

“I fished around for Big Ears and data-encryption leaks and found Frenchelon. Want to help me?”

“Ask Saj,” Rene said. “Last year, he designed those ‘nasty little ciphers,’ as the Ministry called them, to retool security in the Bankverein Swiss bank scam. Remember?”

Bankverein Swiss had lost millions of francs to hackers but kept it quiet to avoid customer panic. And covered it with their reserves. A mere dent, financial analysts concluded, in the bank’s hefty assets.

She’d call Saj later.

Rene took the Varnet folder. “Shall I follow up with a visit?”

“Before they change their mind? Good idea. Take this contract form with you and sign them up.” She paused. “What happened with your date?”

He looked away. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Meanwhile, here’s the refund notice from the tax office. Finally!”

“Bravo, Rene!”

He surprised her all the time. It had taken a year and Rene’s tenacious determination to wade through paperwork issued by a string of offices to obtain their refund.

“Don’t celebrate yet. Now I have to reach the bureaucrat who dispenses refunds. He’s been out with gallbladder problems. But then we will be able to afford the new laptops we need.”

She stood up and hugged him, caught the pride in his eyes and the pink on his cheeks before he turned away. Rene blushing?

“Get the refund, partner, and they’re yours. And more. You can impress your girlfriend.”

“Then I better get going,” Rene said, reaching back for his coat.

“Me, too.”

Out in the hallway she realized she’d forgotten to stop at the accounting firm next door for an envelope that had been left there according to the delivery notice.

“Go ahead, Rene,” she told him.

“How are you, Diza?” Aimee said to the receptionist. “Got something for me?”

Diza, wearing a tight green wool skirt, fuchsia floral-print silk shirt, and knockoff agnes b. jacket, balanced a tray of espressos from the cafe below. Though she was in her forties, she dressed young and carried it off. Most of the time.

“On my desk, Mademoiselle Aimee,” she said, grinning. “Coffee time for the boys.”

The “boys” she referred to were none of them under sixty.

Aimee slit open a manila envelope with her name printed on it in block letters. Several grainy black-and-white photos fell out. The kind made at night with a long-distance telephoto lens. They showed two women standing on a street. She looked closer and recognized Cloclo and herself in conversation. Her stomach clenched. Two more photos showed Rene with a woman with spiky hair. Herself or . . . ?

“Such a nice photo of you and Monsieur Rene,” Diza said, peering over her shoulder. “You two were having fun. That’s good. Nice to see Monsieur Rene smiling.”

“Alors, Diza, it’s not me.”

“Looks just like you, Mademoiselle Aimee,” Diza said.

“So she does, Diza,” Aimee said, nonplussed. Spikey hair, heels and all: Rene’s new girlfriend, Magali, resembled her!

“Diza, how did this envelope arrive?”

“By messenger. You know, the ones who ride like madmen on their bikes. One almost ran me over yesterday.”

“Can you describe him?”

Diza grinned. “Let’s see, black cap, down jacket, you know the big kind that puffs out, jeans. Like all of them.”

“Yellow teeth?”

“Come to think of it,” she said, dropping a sugar cube into one of the espressos, “yes.”

The mec from the phone booth who’d chased her through the Marche Saint Pierre! The photos meant, We know who you are and we’re watching you.

Aimee ran down the stairs out onto rain-slicked rue du Louvre. She caught Rene before he stepped into a waiting taxi at the curb.

“Rene, look at these photos. We’re being watched.”

Rene set his briefcase on the taxi seat and thumbed through them, a tight smile on his face.

“I didn’t think stalkers went after men,” he said.

AIMEE PACED in the cavernous marble-floored Tribunal. It was crowded with scurrying lawyers, their black robes trailing, and with defendants knotted in earnest discussion; the smell of cold stone and wet wool lingered in the corners. She peeked through the oval window of the courtroom’s oak door. Four robed judges sat on a dais— more oak—one leaned back, her eyes closed.

A minute later, Maitre Delambre came through the door. His cheek was swollen and his arms loaded with dossiers. He’d survived the dentist’s chair, it seemed.

He pursed his lips when he saw her.

“Those mecs are still following me,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort.