Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

In the bathroom she applied arnica to her bruises and antibiotic cream to the still-stinging cuts on her face, then a heavy dose of concealer to the bump on her forehead. In her armoire she found the little black vintage Chanel, still in its plastic dry-cleaning bag. On her way out she grabbed her long copper coat and hailed a taxi down on Pont Neuf. She touched up her mascara on the short ride.

The driver let her off at Place des Vosges. Her red-soled Louboutin heels echoed under the dark, vaulted arcade. Several black limos double-parked, as unobtrusively as possible, waiting for the dining ministers inside.

She’d discovered part of Samour’s project. Too bad she hadn’t found all the DST wanted. But tomorrow she’d make a deal with them. Ignore the hollowness inside. Right now she needed Morbier’s help to fine-tune her dealings with them. To find the killer.

The tuxedoed maitre d’ glided her past late-night diners to a secluded corner table. Morbier was sitting there, drinking something red. His basset-hound eyes were ringed with deeper circles than usual. His jowls sagged. The corduroy jacket with elbow patches and the crumpled tie looked even shabbier than usual. Xavierre’s death had hit him harder than she’d thought.

“A three-star Michelin resto without reservations? You’ve come up in the world, Morbier. Or you’ve got something on the maitre d’.” She summoned a smile. At least the Doliprane was working.

“A little of both.”

A waiter appeared with a deep bow.

“Mademoiselle, un aperitif before ordering?”

She glanced at the bottle of Burgundy on the table. Wine and Doliprane? “That looks fine.”

“She’ll have what I’m having, Paul,” Morbier said, reaching over to pour her a glass from the half-full bottle. “I’ll do the honors. We’d like a little quiet, if you don’t mind.”

“Oui, Monsieur le Commissaire.” He bowed again, more discreetly this time, and vanished.

Aimee clinked her glass to Morbier’s. “Call me impressed. His first bow almost scraped the floor.” She hesitated. Didn’t know how else to say it. “Grieving takes time, Morbier.”

“So the world tells me, Leduc.” He waved his hand, then stared at her. “What happened to you?”

So her makeup hadn’t done its job? Her hand paused at her temple. “Stupid. I ran into a lamppost.”

“Anything to do with the roundup near Arts et Metiers?”

He’d heard.

She nodded. “It got messy,” she said, fingering the white linen napkin on her lap. “A major casualty.”

“Not what I heard,” he said. “They’re calling it a success. Weren’t you involved?”

“Rene’s girlfriend didn’t make it,” she said. Bit her lip. “But that’s part of why I’m here.”

Again he waved his liver-spotted hand. “We’re here to eat. For once. This place costs the earth.”

“You’ve called in a favor, more like it,” she said, “or the maitre d’s your informer.” She noticed the burgundy spots on the lapel of his jacket. “Killed half a bottle already, I see.”

“I’d like to enjoy it, Leduc. Looks like you could do with some food in your stomach.”

But she told him anyway. And about Pascal Samour.

Morbier pulled out an unfiltered Gauloises. Cast a warning glance at a waiter, who had promptly appeared with a lighter, then lit it with a matchbox from his pocket.

Aimee stared. Why hadn’t she seen it? Stupid again.

“All these years you’ve worked with the DST and never told me?” she said, controlling her voice with effort. “Shame on you, Morbier.”

Shock painted his lined brow. “Where does that come from?”

“A little under-the-sheets time with the DGSE too? Too bad the DGSE agent success rate is only twenty-eight percent.”

He blinked. She’d surprised him for once.

“I thought their rate was thirty-two percent.”

Her turn for surprise. And then it faded.

“Your leaked report’s more current than mine,” she said. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my contact instead of Sacault tonight.”

“The lamppost knocked you harder than you thought,” Morbier said. “Not my people at all. The opposite.” Shrugged. “There are things I need to tell you.”

Something in his voice made her sit up.

Two plates of white asparagus dotted with caviar appeared. He paused until the waiter backed away.

Morbier pushed his cell phone toward the wineglass, tucked his linen napkin in his collar. A member of the proletariat like him would enjoy a three-star resto in his own way. He speared an asparagus tip with his salad fork.

“Eat while it’s hot, Leduc,” he said, glancing at the other diners.

“Asparagus is served cold, Morbier. So you wanted to have dinner, eh? Talk?”

He nodded. Always a good liar.

“Then convince me.”

“You’re more than unusually feisty tonight.” He glanced at her untouched plate.

“Murder does that to me.”

“Homicide’s not my turf. Not anymore, you know that.”

She stared at the white asparagus. Couldn’t eat. Her stomach churned. She heard a choking, looked up.

Morbier paled. Swallowed several times.

What was wrong with him?

She saw an uneasy flicker in his basset-hound eyes.

“Got a stalk stuck in your throat?”

He shook his head.

“Lift your hands up in the air,” she said.

“Leduc, keep my eye contact. In a minute or so, drop your napkin. Glance at the fourth table, the couple sitting over a bottle of Vouvray.”

She dropped her linen napkin, turned as she reached down for it.

“Him or her?”

“Operatives of this caliber work in couples. Better cover.”

Now she had a lump in her throat.

“This vintage comes from a northern vineyard,” he said, all of a sudden. “You can taste the terroir, the rich soil.”

Morbier knew as much about vintage as a street cleaner.

“The terroir? We’re not describing vine-growing conditions in sandy or acidic soil here, but people.”

“Lower your voice, Leduc.” He leaned closer. “Certain branches have expressed great interest in you. I don’t know what pot you’ve stirred up …”

“It’s what I’m doing at the Musee des Arts et Metiers,” she said. “Or not doing, as I told you. But they don’t know that. I’ve got a theory.”

“Theory?” Surprise painted Morbier’s face. “Connected to Samour?”

“Good, you’ve been listening,” she said. “You’re not usually so informative. Funny, since you haven’t answered your phone. Or returned my messages in weeks.”

“Paranoid, Leduc?”

“You’re the one seeing operatives at the fourth table.” She sat back. Noticed a high-end satellite phone poking out from the napkin on the woman’s lap.

All the signs were there: Morbier’s evasiveness, a hurried meeting. The DST had kicked this into high gear.

She felt him grab her hand under the table and place a piece of paper in it.

“Read it later. Trust me.”

Since when had she trusted him? Any favor he’d done her demanded payment. She turned her back, blocking anyone’s view, and slit open the sealed envelope. Found a small pale-blue notecard with cramped writing.