“Who?” His gaze strayed to her wallet.
Don’t play with me, she wanted to say. She hoped she’d hooked him and just needed to reel him in.
“As I said, from the luggage store.” She paused. “She may use another name.”
“No one is who they say they are, Mademoiselle.”
She nodded. “True. About five feet tall, black ponytail.”
“Generic. Look on the street. Describes a good quarter of them.”
She pulled her wallet back. “I’ve got more details. First I need to know if you’re interested.”
He met her gaze. “Five hundred francs interested.”
Expensive.
“Two fifty up front,” she said, “the rest when I find her.”
“I can’t guarantee …”
Aimee slid the francs over the counter. “She speaks good French.”
“Narrows it,” he said, pocketing the francs.
“She’s part of Ching Wao’s cleaning operation in the thirteenth arrondissement,” she said.
“Ching Wao’s gone.
“Tell me something I don’t know, Aram. When I got there, his tea was still warm.”
A gleam of admiration flashed in Aram’s eyes. “
“And a way in?”
“That’s extra.”
ANXIOUS, RENE LOCKED the door of his Citroen on a side street near Leduc Detective. Prevost had been called out. Rene had given his statement to a sergeant who’d turned a deaf ear to his questions. So far no one from the dojo had heard from Meizi. After obtaining the address of the property management agency that had rented the space to Ching Wao, he found the office closed for the weekend.
Meizi didn’t answer her phone.
He stepped over an icy puddle in the cobbled street. And slipped. He grabbed the wall, a sharp pain shooting up to his thigh. Rene hated days like this, the permeating dampness. He longed for his hot water bottle and an Epsom-salt bath, the only relief. He glanced down narrow, congested rue Vauvilliers, thinking of the long three blocks to reach Leduc Detective.
His mind went back to the e-mail his friend Marcel had sent him last night from Silicon Valley.
Not for the first time, Rene wondered why he slogged through damp, cold Paris when he could be enjoying the beach and sun, the chance to bite into a new field as it developed. Join the ground floor of these start-ups. Mountain View … where the hell was that, and how far from the beach?
But he knew the answer.
He trudged ahead, concentrating on avoiding the ice, the slush, the slick pavers. He turned the corner and found his way blocked by a delivery van. The chill blast of wind cut Rene’s cheeks and sent shooting cold up his legs. Why hadn’t he taken a taxi?
Then he realized he’d circled back the way he’d just come from in this warren of streets. Right back to his parked car.
Or his feelings for her, which simmered just under the surface—until he met Meizi. Meizi gave him happiness he’d never known before. Or would give him, at least, over time, once her parents warmed to him. But she’d forgotten his ring on the table.
Had she dumped him, just like that? A horn blared, interrupting his thoughts. His phone trilled in his pocket.
Meizi. Excited, he hit answer.
“Are you all right?” he gasped.
“As soon as you give me a clue concerning the spyware tracking popping up on your desktop, Rene,” said Saj.
Disappointed, he stood on the damp pavement in the slush and biting cold.
“Network it to your terminal, Saj,” he said. “Have you dug up anything on Ching Wao’s business license?”
“A common name, it turns out.”
“So let’s narrow them down.”
Time to get to work.
HALF AN HOUR later, after a plate of spiced lamb couscous, Aimee sat at a Formica table in a back nook adjoining the hotel’s kitchen.
“There are only three addresses on the list,” Aimee told Aram over her tiny glass of sweet mint tea.
“Be happy you’ve got that,” he said.
“Pretty expensive, Aram.”
“So’s the payoff I make to stay open. Factor that in.”
“Protection money?” Aimee pulled out her tube of Chanel Red, swiped her lips.
“At first I refused, but fires in my kitchen changed my mind.”
“You’re not saying the
“Chinese mafia,” Aram interrupted, lowering his voice. “I pay, like everyone on the street. They extort, kidnap shop owners’ kids if they don’t pay. Demand the gold bars under the bed and a cut in the business.” He sipped his tea. “The quartier’s wrapped up tight, all ‘in-house.’ ”
No wonder the
“And the girls?”
“I don’t know, don’t ask.”
“For the meal, Aram.” She slid ten francs over the table.
But he shoved the money back. “I invited you.”
He smiled. Again that white smile. “No one sees. No one hears anything. The usual.”
“Let me understand this. You’re saying if someone did witness the murder, they—”
“Shut their mouths.” He sliced his index finger across his neck. “
She suppressed a shudder, picked up her bag and pushed back her chair from the table. Paused at the distant look in Aram’s close-set eyes.
“That incident with your cousin, not my doing,” he said. “Just so you know. The hard stuff, not my thing.”
She believed him. “But I’m proud of Sebastien. He heeded the wake-up call.”
“Not many do.” And from the downcast look, she realized Aram knew of what he spoke.
AIMEE HEADED HER scooter up rue des Vertus, past the Tai Chi practitioners in the Square du Temple, where denuded trees shivered in the wind. Across from Eglise Sainte Elisabeth, she turned right at la poste, whose grilled doors were open to a line of seniors snaking out to the street. Lining up for their monthly pension checks. Even in this weather!
A few brave brasserie patrons sat outside on rattan chairs under flapping awnings. Here the one-way streets
