Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

glimmer.

Scenarios played in her mind. Was this a simple case of Meizi cheating on Rene? Maybe complications arose, as they usually did. Wrong place, wrong time? Say Meizi used the Wus, whoever they were, for a front. But why? To wangle Rene into marrying her? To use him for citizenship?

Or could Meizi’s boyfriend, or the man who mistreated her, have threatened to hurt Rene?

Layered over that was the RG surveillance of the quartier. Did Samour’s murder connect? Why had Samour recommended Meizi for a job?

All Aimee had were questions.

• • •

AT LEDUC DETECTIVE, warm air and a floral fragrance greeted her. At least the office heat worked. Unlike last winter. She hung up her damp coat, put her scooter keys in her bag.

“About time,” Rene said, looking up from one of the three terminal screens on his desk. Beside him, Saj, their permanent part-time hacker and analyst, sat on a tatami mat with his laptop—his preferred mode of working. Despite the season, Saj was barefoot.

Aimee bit her lip, adrift on a sea of conflicting emotions. She was not eager to voice more suspicions of Meizi, fracture her crumbling image, or hurt Rene. Every part of her wanted to protect him.

“Those came for you,” Saj said, unfolding from his lotus position and gesturing to her desk, where a bouquet of lush rose-blushed hibiscus sat. Who in the world sent hothouse hibiscus in January? She opened the card, which came from the florist on rue du Louvre.

I’ll make up for this weekend in Martinique. Clear your calendar mid-February.

—Melac

Her heart jumped. Melac, Martinique, and sun. All in one?

Guilt worked wonders. The card fell from her hand.

Saj caught it. Grinned. Flashed the card for Rene to see.

“Road trip, Aimee?” Rene asked, his eyes narrowing.

Could she afford to take time off?

“We’ve got two projects for the end of the month,” Rene said, his voice strained, “and a possible third if we land the Sofitel security contract.”

Routine computer security surveillance. Nothing he and Saj couldn’t handle for a week. Had Meizi’s disappearance, compounded by his hip pain, made him irritable? Or did she detect a note of jealousy? For a moment guilt invaded her.

She couldn’t worry about that.

“Time to deal with that later, Rene,” she said, slipping the card in her bag. “We’ve got more pressing things to discuss. Let me get you two up to speed. First, the Wus are not who we thought they were.”

Rene’s face reddened. “Lies.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “You can’t prove that.”

She pulled out the copies of the fingerprint cards from her bag, spread them on Rene’s desk. “Matter of fact, I can.”

Rene leafed through the cards. Shook his head. “Who the hell are these people?”

“Illegal emigres, I don’t know,” Aimee said. “Meizi could be part of something larger.”

A hurt look wrinkled Rene’s brow.

“Think back to the map in Ching Wao’s office, the circles around cities,” she said.

“Maybe they’re part of a smuggling ring,” Saj said, lifting up a newspaper. “The front page today in Le Monde has an article on rhinoceros horn pirated from China. It’s prized for increasing virility.”

Saj and his daydreams. “Meizi cleaned toilets, for God’s sake,” Aimee said. “Who knows what else. Didn’t you notice her calloused hands, her bitten nails?”

A ping came from Saj’s computer.

“Got a hit.” Saj pointed to his terminal. “This Ching Wao seems to be a man of many talents.”

Maybe many faces. She brightened. From the keystroke recovery program he ran, she could see the telltale sniffing in the network. “Sniffing keystrokes, Saj? Nice high?”

Saj gave a sideways grin, pushed his dirty-blond dreadlocks behind his ears. “Network eavesdropping’s a nicer term, Aimee. Here’s Ching Wao’s wholesale pret-a-porter business on rue de Saintonge.”

Interested, Aimee leaned over Saj’s laptop. She remembered the frightened girl stacking cartons of hoodies. A connection?

“That’s all?”

“The beginning, Aimee.”

“Pascal Samour bought his great-aunt the exact green bag they carried at the luggage shop,” she said. “That’s the second connection between Meizi and the murder.” She set down the recommendation letter. “Now the third: Pascal Samour recommended her for a job at the museum where he volunteered.”

Rene snapped, “You’re implying Meizi was his girlfriend, that she led me on, two-timed me, non?”

Aimee averted her gaze. “Non, you’ve said it Rene.”

“How could Meizi, not much taller than me, murder a man? Or wrap him to a heavy wood palette with industrial plastic?” Rene’s voice trembled in anger. “Et puis, make it to the resto in time to order and be ready to serve us soup when we arrived without breaking a sweat?”

“I’m saying we find her, Rene,” Aimee said, keeping her voice even. “Find out why she ran away after receiving that phone call. But don’t you wonder why no one is who they say they are, why people’s identities change like cards?”

“You’re neglecting the dead man’s phone, assuming he carried one.” Saj pulled his dreadlocks back and tied them with a bandanna. “What if he called her for help? It’s close, you said. So she gets there and he’s being attacked.”

“We’re spinning theories until the autopsy reveals the cause and time of his death.” Aimee set her bag down on her desk and scrolled through her cell phone contacts for Serge, her pathologist friend at the morgue. But his voice mail answered. “Taking a personal day. If you need immediate consultation, contact admin affairs at 01 55 34 78 29.”

Great. Up the river without a paddle, until she got a hold of him. Unless …

Thoughts spun in her mind.

Saj reached for a steaming cup of green tea. “But what if the killer picked up the victim’s phone and called the last number he’d dialed—Meizi’s?”

“That’s assuming he had a phone, Saj,” Rene said, shaking his head.

“Say that call alerted her,” Aimee said, sitting down to think. Saj was just supposing, but his ideas weren’t completely wild. “Before she left the resto, Meizi looked back, worried. I don’t know how to explain it.” Aimee shrugged. “Say she ran by, saw or heard the murderer, then called it in?”

“But Meizi trusts me.” The hurt in Rene’s tone stung her. “She knows I’d do anything for her. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

Trusted him to a point.

Maybe the man Aimee had seen on the corner was her pimp. But she kept that to herself. Rene’s Glock bulged in his jacket pocket. He was ready to blast his competition.

Meizi lied about where she lived, what she did. Aimee had no doubt she’d strung him along. And her unsmiling parents?

Rene shook his head, adamant. “The flics found her photo, they suspect her. Of course she’s hiding.”

“But like you said, wouldn’t she call you for help? Try to explain?”

“There’s only one reason why she hasn’t called—she can’t.”

No work would get done until they found Meizi. Part of Aimee dreaded knowing; the other wanted to resolve this for Rene. Stand by him when it hit the fan.

The opening strains of something by Mozart trilled from Rene’s pocket. Hope filled his face as he clicked open his cell phone.