AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

lights in a construction site at night, and a sour taste in her mouth about Ludovic Jubert.

“Felix, what’s going on?” Lucien asked.

Conari gave a deep sigh. “I’m concerned, too,” he said. “Petru hasn’t returned my calls.”

“Petru tried to incriminate me. And he’s been following me.”

“You’re serious? He threatened you, Lucien?” Conari shook his head. “Petru’s a hothead, he gets out of line sometimes. But this sickens me.”

“Out of line, Felix?” Lucien said. “He planted information at the recording studio to tie me to the terrorists and then alerted the police.”

“So Marie-Dominique told me,” Conari said. “On the outside she’s a sparrow; inside, a protective hawk, like all the Vescovatis women.”

A vein pulsed in Lucien’s forehead, just visible under a black curl. So Conari’s wife had warned Lucien.

“Why, Felix?”

“Ask him,” he said. “Ever since Marie-Dominique phoned, I’ve tried to find him. There’s some misunderstanding. But don’t worry, I’m going to salvage the deal with SOUNDW-ERX.”

“I thought Kouros pulled out.” Lucien’s mouth tightened.

“Lucien, my boy, we signed the contract!” Felix said. “Look on the bright side.”

Lucien shook his head. “But Kouros didn’t sign it.”

“His handshake’s his word, remember, Lucien?”

“Not if there’s any taint of the Armata Corsa. He made that clear.”

“We have a contract, Lucien,” Conari said. “I’ll get you into the recording studio as soon as I can. Right now, I have to concentrate on my construction contract.”

“How long has Petru worked for you?” Aimee asked.

“Six months or so. He does odd jobs,” Felix Conari said. “His cousin married my sister. He’s from a different clan than Marie-Dominique.”

“Does that explain him turning on Lucien and sabotaging his recording deal?”

“Corsican hotheads make no sense to me, Mademoiselle,” Conari said. “I married into a family and I try to help people like Lucien when I can. But ancient wrongs don’t interest me.”

“Was one of his little jobs to cover up the shooting of a flic on the rooftop opposite yours during your party?”

Conari’s eyes widened. “Petru? You think he shot someone? No, he was serving at dinner. At the table. You saw him, Lucien. We all did.”

“A witness heard men speaking Corsican on the roof,” she said.

Felix Conari shook his head. “In that howling storm?”

“I think the police will be interested, Monsieur Conari.

Especially if they learn you’ve employed a suspected Corsican terrorist.”

Lucien’s hands twisted on the grip of his music case.

“Terrorist? Petru? There’s a mistake. Maybe some macho posturing. . . .” Conari pulled his lower eyelid down with a fingertip, an old-fashioned gesture meaning, Who are you trying to kid? “I want to help but I have no idea why he’d plant false information. My wife could have misheard.”

“Yet you said he’s disappeared.”

“We have to straighten this out.” Conari took his cell phone, hit the speed dial. “Petru, I’m back, we must speak,” he said. Then Conari snapped his cell phone shut. “I got his voice mail. The moment he calls me, I’ll let you know.”

“His number?” she said. She was programming the number into her cell phone as Conari showed it to her.

“Does he live in your apartment?”

Conari shook his head. “Petru lives somewhere in the quartier.”

“Don’t you know where he lives?”

“He just moved, but he has been secretive about a lot of things,” Conari said. “When I think about it, it is odd.”

“Where did he live before?”

“Near Place Froment, above a Turkish grocery,” Conari said.

“Something more specific, Monsieur Conari?”

“We picked him up there once,” he said. “I waited in the car by the cemetery wall. Let’s see, I remember my driver fetched him. The shop had everything—food, hookahs, even Turkish videos.”

Lucien hitched the backpack onto his other shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a gig, Felix.”

“Lucien, believe me. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’m sorry for what happened. Petru’s got a temper. But to fly off like this? I don’t understand.”

“Where were you, Monsieur Conari?”

“I’m negotiating with the Ministry. It’s difficult with these Separatist attacks aggravating the situation.”

Wasn’t everything blamed on the Separatists? And he still hadn’t answered her.

“Where were you, Monsieur Conari?”

“The isle of beauty,” he said. “Corsica.” He let out a sigh.

The priest beckoned to Conari.

“Excuse me, I must thank the padre.”

“LUCIEN, WHERE exactly did you see those lights?”

Aimee stood shivering before the building on whose roof Jacques had been shot.

Lucien pointed. “The lights came from over the railing. You can see the hole from here.”

“Where?”

He put his hands around her waist. Strong hands. And lifted her up. Only an inky black hole fringed with frost met her gaze.

“Dots of moving lights,” he said.

A tunnel?

He set her down. His hands rested on her hips a moment too long.

“Tomorrow, I’ll sniff around Petru’s old place if I can find it. Meanwhile, if he reappears, call me.” She handed him her number. “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Against my principles,” Lucien said.

Annoying, and it made him difficult to reach.

“If Petru gets in my way, I’ll take care of him.” Lucien shouldered his bag. “I’m really late for a job.”

“Look . . .”

“Leave a message with Anna at Strago.”

“I already did.”

“Just a word of advice.” He paused, his face in shadow. “A girl like you ought to stay away from types like that mec.”

Angered, she stepped back. Her heels sank into the slush.

“The mec with the knife? You think I invited it? He chased me,” she said. “And threatened me, after I found Zette, the bar owner, garroted. Another Corsican.”

The crash of a can and the screeching of a cat came from over a wall. She paused. “Your type’s the one I should watch out for.”

And then his hands encircled her waist and he was kissing her on both cheeks. Soft kisses. Warm and lingering. She took a deep breath, enveloped in his warmth and the wet tang of his leather jacket. There was the cold promise of snow in the air.

“Especially my type, detective,” he breathed in her ear.

She watched until the shadows swallowed him and the echo of his footsteps faded, still feeling his warmth on her face.

Thursday night

LAURE TRIED TO SCREAM. Only garbled sounds came from her mouth. The green walls looked different,