Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

“Oui?” He turned away. “Now?” He edged off his orthopedic chair. Flipped his phone closed. “Prevost wants me to sign my statement.”

Aimee stood up and reached for her coat. “Let me drive.”

“No need.” Rene gave a grim smile. “New developments, he said.”

“You think he’d share them after he treated us like suspects?” Aimee asked. How many times had she heard the same tired technique? “It’s a ploy.”

“He needs to know about the Wus.”

“Taken care of, Rene,” she said. She explained what she’d gleaned from the hurried look at Prevost’s reports in Demontellan’s in-box; Prevost, as chef de groupe, had convinced le Proc that his investigative unit of the Police Judiciaire knew the quartier, had language skills and informers for a more efficient investigation than la Crim. “In other words, Prevost talked his way into control of the investigation.”

“So?” Rene bristled.

“Even the tofu seller lied to Prevost, from the report I saw.” Aimee shook her head. “Doesn’t bode well. By now, after years in the quartier, he should have established rapport—run small investigations, know the prostitutes, the gamblers, the bartenders. If any were arrested, he’d have made deals with the prosecutor and turned them into informants.”

“But Meizi’s in danger.” Rene buttoned his Burberry overcoat. “This is his job.”

His job to protect a suspect who fled?

“Don’t count on it, Rene.”

But a cold blast of air came from the hallway as Rene slammed the door behind him.

“One must have a clear mind to discover the true path,” Saj said, a dreamy look appearing in his eyes. Not this again. “Disturbed auras cloud this room. Divisive forces,” he said. “We’ll channel clarity, meditate on the white light.” Saj unrolled his meditation mat.

“Like I’ve got time for that now?”

“Rene’s pulled by forces of samsara.” Saj nodded to himself. “You need it, Aimee.”

It couldn’t hurt. Right now she’d try anything. She pulled off her boots and sat down cross-legged. “The abridged version, Saj.” More her style to discover facts, links, and let them percolate.

“Lift your diaphragm,” Saj said. “Take a deep, cleansing asana breath.”

She took a breath. Another. Centered on the air filling her lungs.

“Focus on your pulse, the in and out, the area above your middle chakra.”

She closed her eyes. Saj’s exhortations on breathing, along with the whine of a siren outside on the street, faded.

Another breath. A humming resounded in the recesses of her mind, growing louder, pervasive. Sewing machines. The terrified girl folding hoodies. Mademoiselle Samoukashian’s words came to her: but there are always places to hide, to meld into the woodwork … Now it was the Chinese—blending in, working, hiding in plain sight. Just part of the daily bustle of the quartier.

By the time Saj sounded his gong, her mind had cleared. And she had a plan.

Saturday, 11 A.M.

“BONJOUR.” AIMEE SMILED at the stocky man puffing on a hookah in the reception cubicle in the hotel around the corner from the luggage store. “You’re Aram?”

He nodded and inhaled, the water bubbling. He exhaled a long plume of smoke, scrutinizing her with his close-set brown eyes through the haze. Fruit notes laced the thick tobacco aroma. Not unpleasant, but it would cling to her skin, her clothes.

Aram smiled back, his teeth gleaming. “May I help you, Mademoiselle?” About five-foot-eight. Brown, wavy hair; a sparse beard and thick jowls. Familiar, but from where?

“He’s expensive, your dentiste?”

“Not when his cousin eats my couscous every night on his security guard break.”

Her ears perked up. Nice gig. “And that’s where?”

Aram scratched his beard. “Vous etes du type curieux, non? Lots of your kind sniffing around here.”

She threw up her hands. “Can’t hide anything from you, Aram.” She pushed her detective prive card across the gouged counter. “Like it says, I work privately.”

Aimee had a business to run, and a missing Chinese woman to find before her partner went off the deep end. Worse, she was now caught up in helping the little old woman, Pascal’s great-aunt, to find justice. Those eyes. She shouldn’t have looked at his eyes.

“I shouldn’t say this, client privilege, et cetera,” she said, “but I think you’ve noticed him, Monsieur Friant. He favors velvet-collared Burberry overcoats. About this tall.” She raised her arm to her waist.

“A lot of people walk by here,” he said, pushing the hookah to the back of the office. “And if I have?”

“Confidential, of course, but a matter of the heart.” She gave a little sigh. “His girlfriend worked in the nearby luggage shop. She’s disappeared.”

He’d understand that.

“But that didn’t come from me,” she said. “Alors, I’m knocking on doors here. No one talks to me. Word is you’re connected. I’m prepared to pay.”

Aram grinned a white smile. He’d taken the bait. She reached for her wallet.

“This? You think I believe your little card? Cheap trick.”

Her hand froze in her bag.

“See, I have nice cards, too, like three-star hotels. Un mec prints them for me around the corner.” He fluttered his ringed hand, a dismissive wave. “Good luck knocking on doors, Mademoiselle.”

But she remembered now where she’d seen him before—the stark hospital emergency room, her cousin Sebastien’s faint pulse when he almost OD’d, the small-time dealers who informed for immunity. Aram. Only his teeth hadn’t been so white then.

“Now I wouldn’t like to crimp your drug trade,” she said, pulling out her wallet, “by ruining your evening delivery schedule and alerting the flics. Or tell my RG contact how you finance your cheap couscous.” She stared hard into his face. “But I could.”

He returned her stare, his dark eyes never leaving hers. The wall clock above the counter ticked. The sizzle of something frying came from the back window, which overlooked a shoebox courtyard and kitchen.

“Big talk, Mademoiselle. You’ve got nothing.”

“Want to chance it?” She leaned forward.

“I run a hotel,” he said.

“Once a dealer, always a dealer. But I should thank you,” she said. “No hard feelings. Best thing that could have happened to my cousin Sebastien, your old client. You ended him up in rehab. Six years now and he’s straight, runs his own business. He’s getting married, too.” She shrugged. “Zut, Aram, your sideline doesn’t interest me. It’s better we help each other.”

“Go bother someone else, Mademoiselle.”

“My client doesn’t trust the flics,” she said. “I don’t blame him. But the flics won’t leave Chinatown alone after last night’s murder.” She watched his eyelids flicker. “You know how set in their ways they get. One-track focus. Don’t you want them out of your soup?”

“So you think I know who killed him?”

“Do you?”

He shook his head. “Might have, as I told the flics, if I’d been working that day. Instead I had front-row seats.” He pointed to the Palais des Sports boxing match poster on the wall: The Mad Moroccan vs. Steel Punk. “Bought my tickets six months ago.”

“And who won?” She would check.

“The Mad Moroccan delivered.”

“I need to find Meizi Wu,” Aimee said. “I think she knows what happened.”