Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saint-Martin, the name of the street it was on.

Aimee dialed the black melamine rotary relic room phone, but only got Reception. “Mademmoiselle, could you look up a listing for me?”

The receptionist sighed. “That’s five francs extra.”

“Connect me,” Aimee said, then added, “s’il vous plait.”

A man’s voice answered. “Qui?”

“Monsieur Friant, s’il vous plait. He drank a brandy at your counter not twenty minutes—”

“Ah, le petit!” he boomed. “Why didn’t you say so? And you’re the secret agent. The butcher needs that coat back.”

“And if I talk to Monsieur Friant, he’ll get it.”

“Attends.” Banging as he dropped the phone. Crunching in her ears.

“What have you done, Aimee? The place is crawling with flics.”

“Try to answer your phone sometime, Rene. Damn irritating.”

Pause. “I’ll reinsert my SIM card. The phone fell during my … altercation.”

“Tso’s taken care of, for now.” She looked at Meizi, who sat in the room’s only chair, fingers tensed on the armrests. “Someone wants to talk with you.”

“Meizi … you found Meizi?”

“Room 22, second floor, Hotel Bellevue et du Chariot d’Or. Around the corner, on rue de Turbigo. You can’t miss it.”

Aimee checked her face in the mirror over the lavabo, her raccoon eyes. A mascara mess. She splashed water on her face, rubbed off the smudges, lined her eyes with kohl, and applied lipstick. Then poured Meizi a glass of water and took out her lock-picking kit.

She knelt down, examined the lock chained around Meizi’s ankle, and chose a double-edged snake rake from her kit. With a swift jiggle the lock opened. Meizi rubbed her ankle.

“Now you’re going to tell me about your boyfriend, Meizi.”

“But Rene’s my boyfriend.” Meizi’s eyes batted in fear.

“I think you have things to tell me about last night,” she said, smoothing the duvet. “Why you disappeared from the restaurant. Why I saw you wearing my hat on a street corner. Why that man pushed you.”

Meizi’s lip quivered. She eyed the door. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you will, and before Rene arrives in five minutes.” Aimee pointed to her Tintin watch. She handed her the water glass. “I won’t let Rene get hurt, Meizi. You’re going to tell me what’s going on.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then take a drink and explain it to me.”

Meizi’s hands shook. “It’s my family. Non, I have to go.”

“Go where?”

Meizi squirmed, terrified and shaking. How could she make Meizi open up?

“There’s a surveillance operation in the quartier. Plainclothes in cafes,” Aimee said. “In parked vans, wiretapping the shops, the ateliers.”

She knew the first part was true. Had seen more vans this morning. Figured the second part was close.

“But if I don’t work off the debt, my family’s dead,” Meizi said. “If I don’t cooperate, they send me to Marseille.”

“Marseille?”

“That means, you know …” Meizi’s voice lowered. “To be a … prostitute. Truckers at the highway rest stops, massage parlors in Aubervilliers.” She shook her head. “I hear stories. Girls don’t come back.”

No brothels anymore. Everything was mobile; girls switched and moved at a cell phone call’s notice. An ongoing headache for vice, according to Melac.

An idea formed in Aimee’s mind. She took Meizi’s hand, squeezed it. “I’ll help you,” she said. “After you tell me about Pascal Samour’s murder.”

Meizi blinked, thought. Took a sip of water. “The funny Frenchman with red hair?”

“You knew him, non?”

“He eats … ate at Chez Chun all the time. That’s all.”

Frustrated, Aimee leaned forward. The bedsprings creaked. “Quit lying. Samour recommended you for a job at the Musee.”

“Vraiment?” Meizi brightened. “He offered, but I never thought he meant it.”

“And that photo he carried of you?”

“Photo?” Meizi’s brows knit.

“The photo of you in the shop.”

She nodded. “That’s right. I remember his friend had a new camera, he played around, took some shots.”

His friend? “Do you remember this friend’s name, what he looked like?”

“But that was two weeks ago, maybe. Lots of people come in the shop. I don’t remember.”

Aimee stored that for later. Now she needed to take advantage of the few minutes before Rene arrived.

“Think back to last night, it’s important,” she said. “Tell me what happened. The phone call.”

Aimee saw a blossom of blood appear on Meizi’s bitten lip. How she glanced away.

“I don’t want Rene hurt either, Aimee.”

“Alors, tell me the truth. The dead man’s great-aunt deserves to know, don’t you understand?”

“The flics make controls,” she said, “stop people in the Metro, on the street. Check for identification, the carte de sejour.”

“So the call was to warn you?”

Meizi nodded. “I had no ID. Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Someone borrowed my card. We share. So I ran.”

“But behind the shop you saw the killer.”

“Killer? I ran away from the flics,” she said. “Tried to reach les tampus, the girls in Belleville who’ve paid off Tso and work legally. But their room’s empty. Gone. I had nowhere to go.”

“Maybe you saw and didn’t know it,” Aimee said. “Think back, Meizi. The street, it’s dark, cold, snowing.” She did her best to lead her. “You’d left your coat in the resto, but the caller tells you to run, you’re afraid, you turn the corner, and then …”

“Noises like ripping plastic,” Meizi said.

The killer would have worked fast to subdue Pascal and then wrap his head in plastic. Aimee couldn’t stop herself from picturing those eyes.

“What else, Meizi?”

She hesitated. “A homeless man sleeps behind the shop on the back steps. He sings, that’s all.”

Aimee remembered the man, too. How the first-responder medics called him Clodo.

“I think you’re smart, Meizi,” Aimee said. “So smart you want me to think Clodo’s involved. But I doubt it.”

Meizi fingered the duvet.

“Tso’s men murdered Samour, non?” Aimee said. “Under Ching Wao’s orders. You witnessed them and they threatened you.”

“The snakehead’s cousin?” Meizi’s mouth opened in surprise. “But Tso’s afraid of the tax men. So’s Ching Wao, with all his Mercedes. The unreported earnings from their protection rackets. It’s about money.”

Money. Like always.

“No one dies in Chinatown,” Meizi said.

“What do you mean?”

Meizi took a long gulp of water. “A valid carte de sejour is valuable. They sell them.”