Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Nina at the Chinese church. She’ll help you.”

The young woman stood dumbfounded. Loud voices came from below.

“Or you want to get arrested in a drug bust?”

Without another word, the women rushed by her, stampeding down the hall.

Tso and Ching Wao made a staggering sum, she realized, considering all the women here and in the sweatshops. Aimee picked her way through the piled hoodies to a pantry. Under a skylight was a sink filled with hundreds of zippers. Beside it, Meizi, her ankle chained to the pipe on the floor. Like a dog.

Horrified, Aimee knelt down. “Meizi, are you all right?”

Meizi nodded, her eyes wide. “Something’s happened to Rene?”

Had she tried to protect him and failed? Aimee’s earlier suspicions evaporated.

“He’s a black belt, remember?” She smiled reassuringly.

Noises came from the attic. They didn’t have much time. Aimee pushed the door shut and kicked at the pipe under the sink. “We’ll talk later. First we need to get out of here.”

“But I can’t leave.”

After all this, Aimee had no intention of losing her. “Au contraire.” She kicked the pipe until it shuddered apart and lifted off the chain. For good measure, she took the broken segment of rusted pipe. If only she’d kept Tso’s knife.

“Tso’s coming back,” Meizi’s voice trembled. The chain was still hooked around her ankle.

“I took care of him, for now,” Aimee said, “but it’s the flics you need to worry about.” She glanced around. “Any screwdriver here?”

Meizi’s shoulders heaved. “They want to deport me?”

“Worse, Meizi,” she said. “You’re a suspect in Pascal Samour’s murder.”

“Who?”

“Don’t play with me,” Aimee said, some of her distrust returning. “The body in the walkway behind your luggage shop.”

Meizi shuddered.

Aimee tried the adjoining door.

“Non, Aimee. We’ll go out the skylight!” Meizi looped the greasy chain and tucked it in her pocket. “We sneak out that way all the time. That’s why he chained me.”

Aimee climbed on the sink rim, praying it would hold her, unlatched the skylight and propped it open with the pipe.

The slanted blue-gray slate roof overlooked the courtyard, which was filled with the flics. To her left were more skylights. Afraid of heights and up on a rooftop. Again.

Meizi grabbed a hoodie from the pile, and a Tati shopping bag with her things. “There’s a way over the gutter. Come on, Aimee.”

She could do this. Had to. Frigid air gusted over the rooftops. The cold slate froze her knees. Aimee kept her eye on Meizi’s back and the stovepipe chimneys ahead.

And then Meizi disappeared. Like smoke.

Aimee found herself poised over a hole in the tiled roof.

“Down here, Aimee!” Meizi shouted.

Aimee gripped the edge of a roof tile, breathing in rank odors of mildew, and dropped down, catching herself before she fell on a picture frame. She landed in a dim attic next to a half-sheeted piano.

She hit Rene’s number. No reception. They’d have to risk going to the cafe.

“Let’s go.”

But Meizi blocked the door of the small attic. “You can’t tell Rene.”

She wondered at Meizi’s stubbornness. If they didn’t get out of here … but she decided to play along.

“Do you want your parents caught in a raid?” she said. “Held at Vincennes detention center, checked for valid identity papers, their shop records audited?”

Meizi’s face blanched.

“They do have papers? And you?” She knew the answer, but had to get Meizi out of here. “Or are you illegal?”

The truth shone in Meizi’s eyes. Illegal. About to bolt. Aimee grabbed her shoulder. “I don’t care. But I can help you.”

“Help me? But you’ll tell Rene.”

He knew most of it already.

“Non, you will. Then I’ll introduce you to a lawyer specializing in asylum requests.”

Tears pooled in Meizi’s eyes. “No good. It doesn’t matter about me. Tso’s cousin threatened my parents, my family in China. One message and they’re—”

“So your parents aren’t here,” Aimee interrupted.

Meizi’s hand went to her mouth. Shook her head. “You don’t know the way snakeheads operate.” Sobs racked her shoulders.

Aimee’s mind went back to Madame Wu’s unsmiling face, Rene’s disappointment at the long hours Meizi worked. How the “parents” chaperoned her everywhere.

“They’re not your parents,” Aimee said. “You work for them, and this Tso controls you.”

“Tso controls everyone here, the ateliers in our building, the whole street.” Meizi took Aimee’s arm. “They keep me in the shop, speaking French, making a good face for the customers, the flics.”

Sirens whined outside. A questioning look appeared in Meizi’s large eyes. “What’s happening? Is this a raid?”

Smart. She was putting this together.

“I guess you want to find out the hard way,” Aimee said. “Or do you want my help?”

Meizi hesitated, then tucked the chain, which had fallen out of her pocket, into her jeans’ waistband and opened the door.

“This way,” Meizi said.

They ran down the corridor, descended three flights of the twisting staircase to the street door. “Out here.”

Aimee sucked in her breath. Cold, crisp air hit her lungs. Late afternoon light glinted off the damp cobbles. She could see the cafe. Perfect. They’d reach Rene …

A siren whined. Flashing red lights appeared from a police car. They had to get out of here. Now.

She grabbed Meizi’s hand, pulled her into the crooked passage. They ran past a woman shaking a tablecloth from her window and emerged on the next street. Panting, Aimee stopped and caught her breath.

Passersby in dark overcoats leaned into the wind, which rippled the red awnings of the belle epoque hotel across the street. She clutched Meizi’s arm and tried Rene again as they started into the lanes of traffic. She ran with her cell phone to her ear, just avoiding the Number 38 bus.

Faded gold letters on the facade advertised Hotel Bellevue et du Chariot d’Or. In the marble foyer, festooned with turn-of-the-century colored glass, she set her bag on the reception desk. “A double room, s’il vous plait.”

“No luggage?” The concierge, a middle-aged brunette with Slavic cheekbones, crunched her consonants.

“Does it look like it, Madame?” she said. “We missed our train.” Aimee glanced at the room tariffs posted on the wall. Old-world, all right; the kind of hotel that a few generations ago lodged patrons for the myriad theaters on the Grands Boulevards.

She set down the slimmer wad of Tso’s francs and showed her ID with its less-than-flattering photo and filled in the form. “We’re hungry. Room service available?”

The woman sniffed. “Bien sur, if you like omelettes a l’estragon.”

They took the groaning cage of an elevator to the second floor and navigated a maze of hallways to a bare- bones room facing rue de Turbigo. If Rene would answer his phone, she wouldn’t have to go back out in the cold. She ransacked her mind for the name of the cafe tabac; finally, it came to her—Cafe