AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

Commissariat. . . .”

“Bibiche!”

Aimee froze. Laure’s hair was matted and wet, a large knot welled on her temple, the white of one eye was discolored with blood. “Poor Jacques . . . who’ll tell his ex-wife?” she asked as she tried to stand and slipped on the wet floor.

An officer steadied her. “Sorry, Laure, you know I have to do this and report anything you say,” he said.

“Report what she says?” Aimee repeated, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. “Laure needs medical attention.”

The flic turned to Aimee, irritated. “Who gave you permission to talk, Mademoiselle?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“Then you should know better,” he said, nodding his head at the man beside him. “Run this woman’s ID. Why hasn’t someone bagged her hands for gunshot residue?”

Edith Mesard, La Proc, the investigating magistrate, entered wearing a black cocktail dress under a fur stole. She stamped the snow from her heels. Procedure dictated that in dicey situations she arrive at the same time as the Brigade Criminelle. “Desole, Madame La Proc,” the flic said.

Aimee stepped forward.

Recognition dawned in Edith Mesard’s eyes. “Mademoiselle Leduc.” She sniffed, then frowned. “Light a match to your breath and the building would go up in flames.”

Before Aimee could respond, La Proc cleared her throat. “Give me the details, Inspector. How does it come about that a flic shoots another flic on a slippery zinc-tiled roof in a snowstorm? Convince me.”

“We found her weapon on the roof.”

“Was it next to her?”

“The officer in question lay on the scaffolding below,” he said, abashed. “Her gun lay next to Jacques . . . the victim.”

“Merde!” La Proc said under her breath, pulling out tennis shoes from her Vuitton bag.

“What? Are you accusing Laure of shooting her partner?” Aimee said. “That’s absurd.”

“Or maybe you shot him, Mademoiselle?” said the inspector.

Panic coursed through her.

“Take her statement at the Commissariat!” Edith Mesard said, before climbing out the window.

The flic shoved Aimee forward and down the stairs.

The few bystanders in the narrow street—an old woman, her bathrobe flapping under her overcoat; a man with tired eyes in a blue-green bus driver’s uniform—were illuminated by the blue rays of the revolving SAMU ambulance light. Morbier stood by an old parked Mercedes, its roof flattened under the weight of the snow. A tow- truck driver had hitched Jacques’s green Citroen to his truck.

“They’ve got it all wrong, Morbier,” Aimee called out.

“Move along, Mademoiselle,” said the flic, pushing her toward the blue-and-white police van.

“Just a moment, Officer,” Morbier said.

The officer raised his eyebrows, eyeing first Morbier and then Aimee’s black leather pants, down jacket, and spiky hair.

Morbier flashed his ID. “Give me a moment.”

“Bien sur, Commissaire,” the flic said, taken aback.

“What mess have you gotten yourself into this time, Leduc?” Morbier asked, his breath misting in the freezing air.

“You got that right, Morbier. A terrible mess.” She gave him a brief account.

Morbier listened, pulling out a Montecristo cigarillo, cupping his hands, and lighting it with a wooden match. He puffed, sending acrid whiffs into Aimee’s face, and tossed the match into the snow, where it went thupt. When she finished he shook his head and looked away, silently.

Why didn’t he say anything? “Morbier, help me convince them. . . .”

“Might as well teach rocks to swim, Leduc. There’s procedure. You know that. Do the drill. You’re a suspect, shut your mouth.”

“Shut my mouth?”

“Until you give your statement,” he said. “Be smart.”

She controlled her horror. Of course, he was right. She’d explain, diagram her route, show that Laure couldn’t have killed Jacques.

“Laure wouldn’t shoot her partner after practically the whole police force had seen them together in the cafe!”

Morbier flicked his ashes, they caught in the wind. “And witnessed their fight and your meddling,” he said.

She’d forgotten about that public scene.

“You’ve got clout, Morbier,” she said. “Use it.”

For once, she hoped he’d listen to her.

The flic grabbed Aimee’s elbow in an iron grip. “I’m sorry, Commissaire, the van’s waiting.”

“What a night for this to happen!” Morbier expelled his breath with a noise she recognized for what it was, resignation underlaid with the steel note of authority. A mode he’d perfected. Voices drifted from above them. Lights glowed from the building’s roof.

Aimee noticed a black-leather-coated man, a pack on his back, standing in a doorway. He watched them intently, listening, as if gauging the situation. Could he have witnessed the shooting?

A battered Renault Twingo skidded to a halt beside the white morgue van. Several men jumped out, cameras in hand or on straps slung over their chests.

“The press! Excuse us, Commissaire; allez-y, Mademoiselle.”

The flic bundled Aimee away before she could point out the possible witness to Morbier. He shoved her into the police van, handcuffed her wrists to the bar behind her like a criminal. She slipped on the floor, which had been salted to slow a prisoner’s traction if he aimed to bolt. She felt each cobblestone as her spine jounced against the hard seat and the van headed, siren blaring, into the night.

Monday Night

AT THE BARK OF A GUN above him, Lucien Sarti had jumped and ducked into a blackened stone doorway. A reflex. Knots clenched his stomach; he wanted to melt into the stone.

He worried about crossfire. Relentless sleet pelted the buildings. Peering up the curving street, he saw no one else on the glistening icy surface. Then clumps of snow fell from a scaffolding above and crumbled on the cobblestones. He saw movement, heard thuds.

Lucien moved back deeper into the doorway, pulled his black leather coat tighter, waited. He brushed the snow from his curling black hair. Given his history, the best thing would be to leave. Run, get away. But his big chance lay a stone’s throw off, just around the corner.

His luck!

The warren of nineteenth-century soot-stained buildings and twisted mounting streets reminded him of rue du Castagno in Bastia’s old port. But instead of sun-baked stone, the sirocco whipping from Africa, and old women knitting on their stoops, the steep stairs ahead held clusters of new snow, gusts of wind, and prostitutes who’d stepped into the shadows.

He waited until he saw flickers of light and heard the wail like a cat in heat and then sirens. As he was about to run across the street, the door behind him was opened by an old man leading a Westie on a leash.