Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

OUT IN THE street, Aimee stamped the ice from her boots. She turned the key and pulled her scooter off the kickstand. Trying to avoid the slush, she zigzagged in the worn grooves of melting ice. A sputter, choking, and her scooter died. Out of gas.

Great. She flipped on the reserve tank, prayed she had a quarter of a liter and some fumes. She sloshed the scooter back and forth to get the juices flowing.

Again she sensed someone watching her. The shadow of a figure appeared on the pavement. An uneasiness dogged her.

Had Prevost followed her?

She whipped around. An old man, his collar pulled up against the cold, clutching a Darty bag, a Miele vacuum attachment poking from the top.

Get a grip. She needed to calm down, reason things out. Get back to Leduc Detective and show Rene the blue chalk diagrams.

Another scooter’s roar filled her ears. “Need help?” asked the helmeted figure, pulling over.

“Non, merci.”

But the rider pulled the helmet off. A fortyish woman, who shook her blonde curls and smiled. Kissed Aimee on both cheeks.

Did she know this woman?

“We’re going to Cafe Rouge. Behind you. We’re old friends.”

“Quoi? Who are you?”

A little laugh. “But a wonderful new hair color. Chic, I like it.”

She hadn’t been to the coiffeuse in six weeks. And then she felt her wrist seized in an iron grip.

Aimee struggled to shake the woman loose.

“What the hell … let go!” Panicked, Aimee looked around. No one on the street now.

“Stay calm. Cooperate.” Laughing now, the woman swiped the curls from her face with the other hand. “My instructions say we’ll sit at the cafe’s back table. They’re watching, so smile.”

This smelled bad. Security forces bad.

“And if I don’t?”

“A broken wrist. Unpleasantness.” She winked. “We wouldn’t want that.”

Not smart to struggle if they’d gone to these lengths.

“But my scooter—”

“Will be taken care of,” the woman finished.

The woman propelled her arm in arm, as if they were old friends, into the cafe. Grinning, a whispered aside. “Smile.”

Aimee sat down on the banquette under a beveled mirror. Before she knew it, the woman had disappeared and a man sat down next to her. She recognized Sacault, a member of the DST, Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the national security branch under the Ministry of the Interior. He wore a brown suit. Brown-eyed, hair to match. Anonymous. He’d pass for an accountant. Muscular, mid-thirties, not an ounce of fat on him.

Sacault snapped his fingers at the man behind the counter. “Deux cafes, s’il vous plait.” He turned back to her.

“Am I going to like the coffee here, Sacault?” she asked.

“Please listen. Ask questions after. D’accord?”

She suppressed a shudder. “Now I know I won’t like it.” She gestured to the man behind the counter. “Make mine a Badoit, s’il vous plait.” She glared at Sacault. “Whatever’s going on, you know that I only talk with Bordereau.” Her lap-swim partner, the only one she trusted in the DST. She’d helped Bordereau before. And he’d returned the favor.

“Bordereau’s busy,” he said. “I’m the one you talk to now. We employ watchers, handlers …”

“And tough blondes.”

He continued. “Consultants on all levels. This morning, we had a cast of consultants for four hours until you showed up. Imagine what that costs?”

The DST could afford it, and more. A drop in the ministry bucket to them.

“Like that’s my problem?”

“You didn’t know?” Sacault cut in. “Sad news. Pascal Samour, your friend, died serving his country.”

She gasped. Pascal worked for the DST. Her heart thumped.

“My friend?”

“Went to his flat, didn’t you?”

Now she understood why they strong-armed her. But how much did they know about her connection, his great-aunt? She shook her head, determined to keep her cards close to her chest. “Alors, I’m sorry about Samour, but there’s a mistake.”

“Samour worked on something important for the security of our country.”

She clenched her knuckles under the table. The project. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“We’ve got more resources than you, but we need the pieces you can offer in the investigation to find Pascal’s murderer.”

Since when did the DST concern itself with a homicide? Already she didn’t trust Sacault. But had Pascal worked for them? It boiled down to Samour’s project. Or Sacault was lying. Or both.

“I don’t understand.”

He paused. “I think you do.”

She didn’t want to understand. She scanned the cafe. Empty. A chill ran up her arm. It made some kind of sense.

“Pascal died for his country,” he said. “I’m to remind you that your father worked for the forces in a similar consultant capacity.”

“So the DGSE claimed. I don’t believe it.” She’d refused a work “offer” from Direction Generale de la Securite Exterieure military intelligence last month. Then, as now, she had no intention of taking them up on anything. “So you’re implying you at DST get in bed with the other big boys at DGSE when it suits you?”

He averted his eyes. Had she touched a nerve? A bitter rivalry existed between the DST and the DGSE, their military counterpart at the Ministry of Defense. Hatred described it better.

“For all intents and purposes, I liaise with the DGSE,” Sacault said.

It cost him to say it, she could tell. Napoleon’s design to pit various forces against each other worked to this day. Like so much of the little dictator’s centralization in France. “Too bad,” she said. “Not a partnership I’d relish.”

“Alors, you’re in place,” Sacault said, his mouth tight. “Don’t ask me why. We want you to continue.”

How much did he know? She held her question until the waiter uncapped the moisture-beaded bottle of Badoit, poured her a glass, and retired.

“In place? I don’t understand, Sacault.”

“Your connection to the Musee des Arts et Metiers.”

“Connection?” She sat back, felt a gnawing at her stomach.

“We know it’s not your thing,” His lips pursed. “Not something you want to do. But we need your help to bring Pascal’s killer to justice.”

“You’re right, Sacault.” She hit her fist on the table. “It’s not the way I work. No contract with the DST. Not my style.”

She pushed her chair back and stood up.

“But if you cooperate, this will open channels,” he said, plopping a white sugar cube in his espresso and stirring with the little spoon. His tone was everyday conversational. “Highlevel security dossiers with intel might be interesting to you.”

She froze. He swam in the big league, like his predecessor, Bordereau. Was he implying what she thought he was?

“Concerning my … my family?”

A brief nod. He glanced at his vibrating phone on the table.