Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Le Proc, Procureur de la Republique, the investigating magistrate, attended crime scenes and referred the investigations either to the local Police Judiciaire or Brigade Criminelle, the elite homicide branch. Murder usually went to la Crim. But before it got shoved on someone’s desk tomorrow, Aimee would prefer to explain her presence at the scene of the crime to le Proc.

“We go by chain of command,” Prevost said, managing to look bored and tired at the same time.

“I know,” she said. “My father was a flic. He worked at the commissariat at Place Baudoyer.”

“Et voila, you know procedure. And I know your relationship with Commissaire Morbier. I wrote it all down,” he said with a little yawn, a hooded look behind his eyes. “Le Proc’s come and gone.”

Great. Time to get Rene home. Chilled and pale, he slumped on a high stool.

She reached for her bag.

“I’m afraid there’s a few more things to clear up.” Prevost consulted his notebook. “Convenient, non, Monsieur Friant, parking your car near where the body was found? How do you explain that?”

Aimee leaned forward. “Alors, ever tried to park here at night?”

“Where’s the receipt for your meal at Chez Chun?”

She’d paid cash and run like everyone else. But she felt in her damp coat pocket. The jewelry box.

Prevost’s mouth turned down. “You do have a receipt, don’t you?”

“Phfft. I paid cash.”

Rene averted his eyes.

Prevost balled a sugar wrapper and downed his espresso.

Aimee shoved her empty demitasse across the counter. “Why are you treating us like suspects? Like we told you—”

“Dining with Madame and Monsieur Wu, a nice meal, Monsieur Friant,” Prevost interrupted. “Know them well, do you?”

Egging Rene on, Aimee thought. Pursuing the wrong link, while he should be trying to find the murderer. Typical.

Rene shook his head.

Prevost jerked his chin toward Aimee. “And you, Mademoiselle?”

“I met them once. Tonight.”

“But I’m disappointed.” Prevost’s brows furrowed. “Weren’t you going to tell me about this birthday celebration for Meizi Wu?”

Aimee stiffened. They’d questioned the waitress in the resto. How much did Prevost know?

“We’d like to talk with her,” Prevost said.

Did he regard Meizi as a suspect? She squeezed Rene’s thigh under the counter. Rene caught her look.

“So would I,” Rene said, his lips compressed. “Alors, during the soup course Meizi took a phone call and left.”

“So you know this man, the victim?” Prevost was quick.

Rene’s large green eyes widened. “But I never saw that poor man before.”

“Didn’t Meizi talk about him? His mistress, lover?”

Aimee’s hands trembled. The flics had found the wallet and alerted Prevost. Or he was fishing for information.

“What?” Rene glared. “A man wrapped in plastic doesn’t point to an affair of the heart.” Rene’s eyes filled with pain, and something else.

“But who’s the victim?” Aimee asked. His library card had told her his name and that he’d lived in the quartier. She wanted more from Prevost.

Prevost ignored her question. “Where did the Wus go, Monsieur Friant?”

Rene shook his head. “Like I told you, I don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t you question the woman from the tofu shop, the people in apartments overlooking the area, the shop owners?” Aimee shook her head. “Someone noticed. Called it in.”

A long-suffering look filled Prevost’s eyes. “We’re talking to all persons of interest.”

Wasting time, more like it.

“A man’s been murdered,” Rene snapped. “But you’re grilling us?”

Outside the clear circle in the steamed-up window, Aimee saw a police truck idling on rue Beaubourg. Moments later it cleared the way for the van from the morgue. A lone passerby watched. A sad end.

“More than one way to peel the onion in Chinatown,” Prevost said. “That’s what it’s about here.”

Meaning what, she wondered. “Did you find a weapon?”

“My job’s to ask the questions. Not you.” Prevost stared at Rene.

An unmarked van pulled up outside on the street, and three men emerged wearing sweaters, no coats. One yawned, stretched, and climbed back inside.

Her shoulders tightened. Now it fit together. “You’re conducting police surveillance in the area, n’est-ce pas? The murder’s connected?”

“Not for me to say,” Prevost said.

His gaze flicked over the men hunched at the counter and darkened. His thin lips tightened. He glared at her—a warning to shut up? One of the mecs at the counter half turned as if he were listening.

Turf issues? she wondered. Bad blood between competing forces? Had they stepped into the middle of a rat’s nest?

Aimee noticed Rene’s short legs dangling from the stool, his dripping handmade Lobb shoes. She caught the wince as he shifted. The damp exacerbated his hip dysplasia.

“Different rules apply here,” Prevost said. “Gangs, protection. The quartier’s infested with gangs and protection rackets. These Chinese glom together like sticky rice.”

His thinly veiled racism didn’t inspire much confidence. Probably a member of the right-wing France for the French party.

“Quite a generalization, Prevost,” she said. He spilled too much for a flic. Or he was warning them of the score. Why?

“Et alors? I’ve worked this quartier five years,” he said, his tone changing. “My wife’s from Shanghai; she says the same thing.” He thumbed the pages in his notebook. Wrote something. A professional demeanor now. He slid two business cards over the table.

“What avenues are you looking into?” Aimee asked.

“Too early in the investigation to say.” He stood and put his notebook in his coat pocket. “Tomorrow we’ll talk at the commissariat.”

She sensed something else. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. What was this surveillance?

The men at the counter smelled of RG, Renseignements Generaux, the hydra- headed intelligence branch on Ile de la Cite. Not known to cozy up with uniforms at the counter. But if they worked surveillance in Chinatown, had the murder muddied their surveillance? Or was it all connected?

• • •

OUT ON THE dimly lit street, she pondered Prevost’s insinuations. Was the murder retribution by a Chinese gang for stepping into the wrong territory? Or for a debt? A woman?

Meizi.

“Zut, Rene, the area reeks of surveillance. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“We’re going to find out, Aimee.”

“Us?” For once Rene, Mr. Play-it-safe, wanted to investigate something criminal? Talk about the shoe on the other foot. “You did notice the mecs at the counter, Rene.”

“No answer at the dojo,” he said. “It’s closed.”

“You think Meizi would go there?” she asked.