AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

A few town houses down from her on the Ile Saint-Louis.

“Can you handle this, Rene?” She stepped into her semi-dried high heels, swiped lipstick over her lips, and blotted them with a piece of computer paper. “Copy the Mac’s hard drive and—”

“Why?”

She peered at her laptop. “With any luck, I’ll be able to corner de Laumain at the reception and find out what he has to say. First, I’ll get background on Alstrom from Martine’s young Turk journalist.”

“You’re leaving right now?

The dark blots of trees on Quai de la Tournelle swayed outside the window. The Ile Saint-Louis was a glittering cluster of lights just over the river. It wasn’t far and this wouldn’t take long.

“The Alstrom’s reception is right across the river. Let’s take the PC and leave together,” she said. Shadows had lengthened; the office seemed ominously deserted. “It’s not safe for you to work here alone.”

“I’ll leave as soon as I copy the Mac hard drive,” Rene said, rolling up his sleeves. “Go ahead. Just leave Vavin’s keys.”

MYRIAD DOTS OF light were reflected in the gelatinous waters of the Seine from Hotel Lambert’s tall windows, which were illuminated by glittering candles. Aimee passed the place every day. Once, long ago, the mansion had been owned by a Polish prince who had hosted recitals by Chopin. Now the tenant, a penniless baron and friend of the grand family who owned it, kept the place running and hosted select corporate receptions and celebrations.

Aimee’s heel caught in a crack between cobblestones as she caught the attention of the broad-shouldered man wearing a headset. Strains of a cello faded in the wind from the Seine.

“I don’t see your name, Mademoiselle.” His heavy-lidded eyes were dismissive.

“Check the guest list again, please,” she said, peering around his shoulder for Martine.

“Leduc, Aimee?” He shook his head. “Desole, Mademoiselle, now please move aside,” he told her, blocking the gate. A professional brush-off.

Martine appeared, breathless, flashing her press ID. “L’Express. Mademoiselle Leduc’s with L’Express, if you notice.”

He consulted the list again. “Of course.” He smiled, a smile that failed to reach his eyes, and waved her inside.

“Nice jacket. I saw one with feathers just like that at—”

“Plucked most of them off,” Aimee interrupted. “They made me sneeze.”

“Another find?”

“You could say that.”

Martine took Aimee’s arm, steered her across the courtyard, and up the curving entry staircase. They entered an oval gallery under a painted ceiling lit by flickering candles in crystal holders. Waiters with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres wove in and out among men in formal black-and-white attire and the occasional robed sheikh. Pyramids of fleurs de sucre—lavender and rose crystallized flower petals—bedecked the white-linen- covered tables. Aimee spied vintage champagne magnums and headed in that direction.

“Merci,” she said, accepting two flutes of champagne, noting the Dom Perignon label as she handed one to Martine and dropped a sugar-dusted rose petal in Martine’s glass. “But I still owe you,” Aimee said.

The fizzing velvet purred down her throat. Not bad. This crowd expected and got the best.

“Where’s your young Turk journalist?”

Martine scanned the groups of men in tuxedos conversing under a Louis XV chandelier that frothed with crystal. “Knowing him, upstairs with the big honchos.”

“No time like the present,” Aimee said. “I’ll fill you in en route.”

The walls of the wide staircase were crowded with a profusion of Flemish old masters, a lesser Rembrandt, a Corot, landscapes by Watteau, and a handful of Impressionist canvases. Better appreciated in a museum, Aimee thought, not hung in a hodgepodge on the wall.

“The owner’s great-uncle built the collection,” Martine said, awe in her voice. “In his heyday, he bought a painting every day.”

Aimee nodded. “But everything’s bequeathed to the Louvre now,” she said. “The baron, his tenant, rents the place out to help him pay the taxes.”

They entered the second-floor hallway, which opened onto oval Galerie d’Hercule, which was lined by rectangular windows, Corinthian columns, and stucco reliefs of Hercules’ exploits.

Aimee felt out of her league in this museum of a place. The talk around her was foreign, too. She caught snippets of conversation as they circulated. “Oil flow . . . black crude. . . . percentages.”

The L’Express journalist Martine guided her toward looked to be in his thirties. A shock of black hair nearly hid his darting eyes, and he wore a black jacket with a white shirt, but no tie.

“Aimee Leduc,” she said, extending her hand. “I’d appreciate it if you would let me see your notes.”

“Daniel Ristat,” he replied, enfolding her hands in his warm ones with a wide smile. “Get right to it, don’t you?”

She figured his smile and manner took him a lot of places. And he knew it.

“Guilty.” Next, she wanted to meet de Laumain. “Have you seen Monsieur de Laumain?”

He arched an eyebrow. “And you know the big players, eh? The old buzzard suffered an attack of gout. The disease of the rich.”

“Meaning?”

Ahead of her, a sheikh in a white robe, holding a glass of what looked like orange juice, walked by.

“Meaning that de Laumain left before I could interview him.”

Left after hearing of Vavin’s murder? She wondered who else she could question. They all oozed power and looked alike in their tuxedos. Even the sheikhs with their fruit juice resembled each other.

“But Deroche, Alstrom’s CEO, is standing right there.” Martine nudged her. Aimee noticed a smiling silver- haired man at the edge of the crowd, an executive who exuded authority even across the wide room. “And the press attache looks nervous.” Martine indicated a woman with short hair in a severe navy blue suit, publicite pin clipped to her lapel.

Aimee was about to say that the press attache’s nerves might be attributable to the murder of Vavin, Regnault’s publicity head, when the woman tapped an ivory-handled dessert knife against a champagne flute. “Attention, please.”

As the tinkle died, a hush descended over the well-dressed crowd.

“Monsieur Deroche, Alstrom’s director of operations, has asked me to convey to you his wishes for a wonderful evening.” The press attache flashed a bright smile. “He’d hoped to make the announcement that I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for. We expect that we will be able to make it tomorrow. However, I can tell you now that out of its continued concern for the environment and as part of its ongoing program to safeguard it, Alstrom has completed the dismantling of all its North Sea oil rigs in the Baltic. Its waste-management operations have been transferred to the La Hague facility and new sites will be explored.”

The attache waved her hand at Deroche, who raised his champagne glass. “Sante,” he said. “Enjoy . . . no one leaves until every magnum’s empty!”

Ripples of applause and laughter greeted his remark.

But both Martine and Daniel seemed amazed.

“Rumor says that the execution of the agreement between Alstrom and the government was postponed due to a bomb scare,” Daniel said, taking out a small notepad and jotting something down. “This sounds like a concession to the environmentalists.”

Aimee’s cell phone vibrated.

“Allo?”

“Turn around,” a man’s voice said. A familiar voice.

“Who’s this?”

“Face the windows on the north side.”

Bomb scares . . . all the bigwigs . . . a sniper? A frisson of fear rippled over Aimee’s skin.