Murder in the Sentier

the chill passage.

A shadow covered the woman’s gloved hand, edged in red lace net. A client. And she led him upstairs.

Aimee stared through the quadruple courtyards to the shiny lights of traffic on Boulevard de Sebastopol. Dirty grime-encrusted limestone balustrades didn’t hide the charm of the historic Hotel Saint Chaumond, the ornately carved sculptural details or delicate sloping mansard roof and dormer windows. Once elegant, the classical facade was neglected and now nearly hidden under plastic shop signs. Clothing carts were parked in the adjoining cobbled courtyard, piggybacked against the wall like so many tired toys.

Aimee paused, catching her breath. These pitted cobblestones were murder on heels. Before her, a mahogany-faced man, perched against a cart, spoke Hindi into a cell phone as he consulted an order sheet. She wanted to join him and take a break but she had to make some plans. And needed a safe place in which to do so.

Mustering her energy, she entered the old converted building. The wire-cage lift’s door was padlocked shut, a stroller propped against the curved handrail. The sawing of the scales played on a violin reached her ears. By the time she arrived at the third etage her bag felt heavier than granite.

The cool expanse of hallway gave way to a series of double doors. Beyond them she saw a pair of carved wooden doors reaching from the tiled floor to the high ceiling.

She knocked. But the doors were so thick her knuckles made no sound. Then she saw a buzzer.

Etienne Mabry opened the door. His eyes widened. “Entrez.”

“Dinner ready yet?”

“Only if you’re the dessert,” he smiled, taking in her unusual outfit.

“I like to dress up.”

Aiming for a casual entrance, she stepped inside and promptly skidded on the waxed wooden floor.

He caught her elbow and grinned. “Talk about elusive. I thought you wouldn’t come and …”

“… now I’m early.”

He kissed her on both cheeks. His warm gaze lingered. He looked delicious in worn jeans and a faded Rolling Stones World Tour T-shirt.

Hooking his arm around her shoulder, he led her to a loft-like white room with high ceilings, sparse and clean. Antique black-and-gold lacquered Japonaise screens provided the only color. She pulled off the pink wig and fluffed up her hair. Her scalp felt damp.

“You look like you could use a drink. Kir royal?”

She nodded.“Merci.”

Silver-framed photos of small children and an elegant blond woman lined the white marble fireplace.

Of course, his wife was away. Or, worse yet, she’d be returning soon and he’d beg off dinner.

He followed her gaze. “My ex-wife and children. They live in Rouen. I see them on weekends.”

He handed her a flute of pinkish froth and sat beside her on the all-white couch.

“Salut.” They clinked glasses.

“How about you?”

Did she want to tell him how scared she felt, how at sea she was after Teynard’s murder, not to mention clueless about the alleged diamonds and her mother, who remained truly elusive?

“Me?” She felt nervous. Yet there was something so nice about him. Why couldn’t she relax? She took another sip of the kir.

What was wrong with her?

Here she was, in a tight vinyl PVC cat suit, throwing herself at him. Yet she was as afraid of intimacy as of Teynard’s killer.

“Involved with anyone?”

“Too busy.” Why did he have to sit so close? “You know me, work, sleep, and ride the Metro. I work too much. Like everybody else.”

Of course, right now she didn’t look like everybody else in her black vinyl and dog collar.

“How can I help you?” He touched her hair, ran his fingers down to her shoulder. “You’re full of contradictions, but that’s interesting. And I like you.”

“Feels like a relationship minefield to me,” she said. “At least right now.”

Etienne removed his hand from her shoulder, leaving a warm remaining patch.

“You’re like an alternating current,” he said. “Switching from hot to cold.”

So what if it was true … his words stung.

“What about your children and ex-wife? That’s more emotional baggage than I can handle.”

“Afraid of taking chances?” he asked. “Afraid of the work?” He shrugged, tracing his thumb down her cheekbone. His brownish red hair tumbled around his ears. A soft citrus smell came from his shirt. “What can I do? I’d like to try … but I guess you don’t want to.”

Rene and Martine would shoot her. Why wouldn’t she let herself go? Merde! Why did it have to be so difficult?

Her head swam. All she knew was that she felt she was in way over her head.

“Look, Etienne, I’m a disaster with relationships. Like Latin in the lycee, those ancient intricate verb tenses elude me. So do relationships. It’s some complicated thing I can watch but not duplicate.” She shook her head. What a loser she was. “Sorry for whining.”

“Making excuses is more like it,” he said. His citrus scent had transferred itself to her skin. Bad. But she didn’t want to rub it off.

And then she wondered if it mattered how she’d screw up this time … he certainly was walking in with his eyes open. Tiens, he was of age, a consenting adult.

“You’re a funny woman … wild and innocent all at once!”

Georges had described her mother like that.

She pushed his hair behind his ears and knew she was headed for trouble.

“Tempus fugit,” he mumbled in her ear.

“What does that mean?”

“Time flies … your first Latin lesson,” he breathed on her hair, pulling her close. “Not difficult, is it?”

Friday Evening

STEFAN STOOD IN THE shadowy courtyard outside Action-Reaction’s window. He’d seen Jules Bourdon case the building an hour ago, then go inside. Even after all these years, his moves were classic. The same. Should he confront Jules? Ask Jules why he had killed Jutta and Romain Figeac and tried to shoot him?

Grow up, he told himself. For once. Stand up. After all these years of hiding, now he was being hunted by the con man who had recruited him. The big talker, the mastermind of the disaster-ridden Laborde kidnapping.

Strange to say, the Brigade Criminelle and the gendarmes had been the ones who’d actually killed Laborde. He’d seen it in the papers later. All the gunshot wounds resulted from the police rifle attacks on the farm before they firebombed it.

Was Jules ransacking the office, looking for twenty-year-old loot? He couldn’t be that stupid. Especially if he’d survived as a mercenary in Africa. Jules had a cultivated nose for money. So he’d be sniffing after whatever he thought Beate and Jutta had hidden.

Silence. He peered in, his head up against the yellowed lace curtain. No one. A door was open. The door to the cellar.

Stefan crept inside the Action-Reaction office. Beams from a flashlight shone in the darkness below. He moved toward the cellar, then stopped. The wooden floor creaked behind him. A whiff of patchouli wafted in his direction. The scent from the commune. Ulrike’s scent.

He turned, saw the gun, and stiffened, his baffled look replaced by fear.