Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

“I shouldn’t do this,” said the young bus driver, taking a look at her and shaking his head. “Either you’ve escaped from an eighties punk party, or you’re making a getaway.”

“The latter, merci,” she gasped, holding her sleeve to her bloody nose, and fed her ticket in the machine.

At a window seat, her shoulders heaving, she scanned the street. No one. Her hands trembled as she fingered the camel-colored thread caught in her fingernail. The thread from the attacker’s coat. The man who ran in front of Martine’s car.

In her apartment, after a hot, steaming bath, she applied arnica to her wrists and antibiotic cream on the cuts on her face. Prayed she had enough concealer to cover them tomorrow. Then she huddled under the silk duvet, the raw pain dulled with Doliprane.

For a moment it had seemed so close. Pascal’s obsession with a fourteenth-century document. The connection right before her eyes. But that and a ticket got her a bus ride.

The killer had attacked her. That meant she was getting close. Too close for comfort.

Let it simmer, her father always said. Then, step by step, fit the pieces together. But at least she’d found a piece of Pascal’s puzzle.

Tomorrow she’d scout out Becquerel’s connection, find something.

She felt the empty space beside her, the depression in the mattress where Melac’s leg should have been twined with hers. His scent remained on the sheets, on the towels in her bathroom. His half-squeezed toothpaste tube of Fluocaril lay by the sink.

Miles Davis’s wet nose nuzzled her ear. His tail flicked the duvet until he settled in the crook of her arm by the laptop. She had her man, four legs and all.

Did the DST really have info about her mother? She booted up her laptop and hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys. She chewed her lip. Only one way to find out.

She typed in the website address from the matchbox. A page popped up on the screen: a typewritten copy of an MI6 surveillance report dated five years before. The heading: Sydney/Sidonie Leduc aka Lampa. Subject sighting location—Merjoides Hotel, Istanbul, lobby. Meeting with known arms dealers ___ ___. The names had been blacked out. No photos. Duration of incident: seven minutes. A seven-minute sighting in a hotel lobby.

A five-year-old report and it told her … what? Maybe there was nothing else to tell. The DST set up a website, as Martine had said, and fed old reports to hook her.

The sharp pang of longing hit her. If her mother had been alive five years ago, why hadn’t she ever contacted her?

Just once.

Sunday, 8 A.M.

AIMEE INHALED THE algae-scented wind, watching wavelets crest on the Seine below. The oyster sky mirrored the gray-tiled rooftops overlooking the quai. No snow, the ice had melted, as the homeless man had forecast. Perfect for a wool coat, scarf, boots and a chocolat chaud.

Miles Davis’s leash tugged her toward the damp stone steps leading down from Quai d’Anjou. He did his business under the bare-branched lime tree. Like every morning.

Her phone rang.

“Got dinner plans, Leduc?” her godfather Morbier asked.

A bolt of surprise shot through her. But she had a rendezvous with Jean-Luc. Vital for information on Pascal.

“Matter of fact, I do.”

“Another bad boy, Leduc?” He coughed. “Given up on Melac? Non, I don’t want to know. Lunch tomorrow, d’accord?”

“Anything to do with why you haven’t returned my calls, Morbier?”

She debated telling him about the attack last night. But that necessitated telling him about Pascal’s murder, the DST, her mother.

His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“See you at 1 P.M., Chez Louis.”

A three-star Michelin resto? “It’s not my birthday.”

Pause. He cleared his throat again. “It’s been a while, we should talk.”

Talk? Morbier, the original clammed mouth? This sounded serious. Or was that a trace of guilt she sensed? She could use that to her advantage.

“But you can bring me a present. The Hotel-Dieu report on Clodo, a homeless mec, thrown on the Metro line last night.” God willing he’d made it through the night. “Can you arrange for me to visit him tomorrow, Morbier?”

“What’s this Clodo got to do with anything?” Pause. “You’re not inviting him to lunch?”

“Not in his condition.” Let him wonder.

“No promises, Leduc.” He clicked off.

As always, he kept her wondering. He’d engineer repayment. Nothing came free from Morbier.

She stared at the torpid gray currents. Morbier was the last link to her parents. Her only family now, besides her cousin Sebastien and Rene. Morbier had been her father’s first partner. The only one left who’d known her American mother. Not that he’d talk about her. He’d avoided Aimee’s questions for years.

She was bending down to scoop Miles Davis’s morning contribution into a plastic Printemps bag when her eye caught on the trash bin. Another matchbox was visible under the metal lip. Apprehension rippled through her shoulders.

They watched her, knew her schedule, her movements. If they were so good, why hadn’t they prevented her attack last night? She bit her lip. Before she defeated them at their own plan, she needed to discover it.

She dropped the plastic Printemps bag in the bin at the same time as she slid the matchbox in her pocket. Comme d’habitude, she left Miles Davis with Madame Cachou, her concierge, and followed her morning routine. Hitching up her leather skirt and black lace tights, she climbed on her Vespa and scootered across arched Pont Marie, the wind hitting her cheekbones. By the time she parked her now debugged scooter on rue Bailleul, she had a plan. Instead of turning to Leduc Detective’s door, she stopped at the red- awninged corner cafe.

“Un double, Aimee?” Zazie, the owner’s redheaded daughter, asked.

“Make it un double chocolat chaud.” Aimee’s smile turned serious. “You’re not at school, Zazie?”

“It’s Sunday, Aimee.” Zazie made a face as she knocked out the coffee grinds with a loud thump. “We let Papa sleep in. Not everyone works all the time like you do.”

Everyone else had a life.

“I’m in the lycee now,” Zazie said, “or did you forget that too?”

And grew up. It felt like yesterday that Zazie had to stand on a stool to serve from behind the counter.

“Of course not.” How could she have missed Zazie’s touch of mascara and blush, and her red hair now tamed with clips?

“Nice blusher,” Zazie said. “New tone?”

Aimee nodded. At least her makeup covered the cuts.

At the counter stood several suits and an older couple arguing over last night’s game show, Questions pour un Champion. Two men in windbreakers entered, accompanied by a rush of cold air. They took a table by the window overlooking rue du Louvre, read the menu with studied preoccupation. Too obvious on an early Sunday morning. Even on a bad day her surveillance skills were better than theirs. What did this cost the government?

“Merci, Zazie.” She sipped her chocolat chaud and left ten francs on the counter. “Your mother working the accounts this morning?”

Zazie nodded. “Bien sur.”

“I’ll just stop by, eh?”