Murder on the Left Bank

by Cara Black

  She wondered that herself sometimes. “I’m Aimée Leduc,” she said. She’d debated whether to tell the truth. She sensed talking to a private detective wouldn’t sit well with this woman. But Aimée needed information.

  She flashed her PI card. “Éric Besson, the son of Marie Solomon’s best friend, hired me.” Stretching the truth. “How well did you know the Solomons?”

  “You’re the second one asking today.”

  She felt a chill. The killer was looking for Léo’s notebook.

  “But as I told him,” said Madame Livarot, “I run the weaving studio. I have nothing to do with the accounting department.”

  “Who was asking?” Aimée said. “It’s important. Can you describe him?”

  Madame Livarot’s eyes narrowed. “Why is that your business?”

  “Léo Solomon kept records that have gone missing—”

  “I asked how that concerns you.”

  Aimée would get nothing if she didn’t explain.

  Outside the window, a blue jay swooped over the courtyard. Aimée moved closer to the woman. “The day before he died, Léo went to Éric Besson for help—”

  “I haven’t seen Éric since he was a pimply adolescent,” she interrupted. “Marie and Léo treated him like a son.”

  Like a son? Éric hadn’t mentioned they were that close.

  “Then you know Léo trusted him,” Aimée said. “Léo asked Éric to take sensitive information to a magistrate.” She kept her gaze on the door. “Éric’s nephew, who was acting as courier, was murdered en route. The information Léo was desperate to get to the magistrate is missing.”

  Madame Livarot waved dismissively. “Léo’s records are kept in accounting.”

  The woman was holding something back.

  “Léo kept double books,” Aimée guessed, “records of his sideline accounting business. But you’d know that.”

  “Would I? You’re making crazy allegations.”

  “Last night a young woman, Éric’s nephew’s girlfriend, was murdered in Cité fleurie.”

  The woman blinked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “She was with Éric’s nephew when he was murdered. Before she was killed, she’d told me the notebook was hidden somewhere in the quartier.” Another guess.

  Aimée paused, suddenly remembering the scissors protruding from Karine’s neck. She’d seen scissors on Madame Livarot’s desk . . . and everywhere in the atelier.

  “You could be in danger if you know anything about what Léo’s notebook contains,” Aimée continued. “Or if the killer thinks you do.”

  “All I know is that Léo’s estate was donated to charity in Marie’s name.”

  “Guilt money?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean. Léo never embezzled from the Gobelins. We’d have known.”

  He wouldn’t have had to if he worked for the Hand. “Maybe he used his position here to cover for other businesses—”

  “That’s not the man I knew,” Madame Livarot interrupted, her tone raised. “Or the man Marie spent her life with.” Madame Livarot moved to the next window and pointed to the wing across from it. “Marie and Léo lived there from the end of the war until a few years ago, even after she retired in her seventies. A perk of being a fonctionnaire and for her years of service. Couldn’t happen now.”

  Aimée thought of her own accountant: detail oriented, always erring on the side of caution, always keeping backups. What if Léo really had made a duplicate record of his dealings?

  That ancient building where he’d lived had to be riddled with cellars. Maybe there was an old trunk in storage. She took her red Moleskine from her bag. Jotted down a rough sketch of the courtyard, where pigeons were fighting for scattered hunks of bread under a sign that said, don’t feed the pigeons.

  “When did you last see Léo?” Aimée asked.

  Madame Livarot’s eyes were faraway. “It was sad. He was just a shell of his old self, on oxygen. Marie died only six months ago. I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did without her.”

  “So you saw him just before he died?”

  “Maybe a week, non, a few days before. He’d come to explain his bequest in Marie’s name. Theirs was a love story.”

  Madame Livarot was leaning against a vat under a row of hanging silk skeins, peacock blues and greens. Her lip trembled. “I worked at Marie’s side for fifteen years. She was a true artisan with an eye for color. Such technique, yet with a touch of whimsy. Léo was a good man. Worshipped the ground she walked on.” Tears brimmed in the woman’s eyes. “I don’t believe he was dishonest. Why would he be? He had all he wanted here—his Marie, a civil servant’s salary, and a home in this village.”

  “Sometimes good men do bad things for a good reason,” said Aimée. “Or at least think they do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aimée could see in Madame Livarot’s eyes that she had hit on something. “Please help me. Who was the man who came to talk to you today?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t he give you his name?”

  “When he started asking questions, I just told him to speak to accounting.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Maybe an hour ago.”

  “Can you describe his hair color, clothes? Was he tall or short? His walk, voice?”

  Madame Livarot looked away. Shrugged.

  Frustrated, Aimée didn’t know how else to prod this woman. “Come on now. Wouldn’t an artist notice details?”

  Her face crumpled, like the face of a child whose glace had been taken away for bad behavior. “I don’t . . . see things like that. But I can draw.”

  Aimée thumbed past her to-do lists to a blank page in her Moleskine. Handed the notebook and a pencil to Madame Livarot. “Can you show me?”

  While she waited, Aimée watched the pigeons in the courtyard below. Even more had flocked to the bread; the courtyard was swarmed. She thought she caught movement—a black leather sleeve? Her antenna up, she watched the courtyard like a hawk until the scratching of Madame Livarot’s pencil stopped.

  “Best I can do, but it gives the idea.”

  Madame Livarot’s quick pencil sketch, professional and photographic in detail, depicted a mec in jeans with narrow shoulders, short hair, a squashed nose, and narrow, piggy eyes. It was the work of a real artist. The man in the drawing was somehow familiar.

  Aimée looked back out the window at the man in the courtyard feeding the pigeons.

  Compared.

  “You mean him?”

  Madame Livarot nodded.

  If Aimée didn’t hurry, he’d get away.

  “Stay away from the window,” she said, tearing a sheet out of the Moleskine and scribbling her number down. “The mec’s more than trouble. You’re in danger. And call me so we can talk more about Léo.” Aimée hiked her bag up on her sore shoulder. She’d have to back-burner checking out Léo’s old place.

  Madame Livarot’s eyes widened. “Where are you going?”

  “To catch him before he disappears.”

  Aimée ran into the warren of hallways, searching for the stairs to take her down and into the courtyard. An older woman, carrying an armful of fabric, was blocking her way.

  “Excusez-moi, madame. Which way to the courtyard?” Aimée asked.

  “There are three.”

  Aimée tried to remember some detail. “I mean the one with the sundial. You can see it from the dye works.”

  “You’re a new intern?”

  Why did this woman want to chat? Vital time was passing. “I’m in a hurry, madame.” She spied an exit sign behind the woman. “Excusez-moi.”

  The woman didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you before. Only employees are allowed in here. Who are you?”

  “
In the scheme of life? To be determined.”

  Aimée squeezed around the woman—difficult in the tiny corridor—then barreled out the door.

  The courtyard was deserted apart from the pigeons.

  Had he sensed he’d been seen?

  Or . . .

  She heard a gate give a little scrape—as if someone was trying to close it quietly. No time for subtleties. She took off down a gravel path, past hanging clematis vines and a drooping willow, and shoved the gate open. Bursting through, she grabbed the man’s leather-clad arms. Shoved him up against the stone wall. Came face-to-face with a leering grin.

  “Been a while, Aimée,” he said.

  Her stomach wrenched. The undercover vice flic, Cyril Cromach, who’d arrested her cousin Sebastien back in his using days. Cyril had been masquerading as a punk rocker—or had it been a goth?—the last time she’d seen him. She wanted to hit him.

  “Not long enough,” she said, stepping back and catching her breath.

  “What’s your angle here?” he said, pulling his scrawny blond ponytail out of his leather jacket collar. Crooked nose, big jaw, and piggy eyes—she should have recognized him from Madame Livarot’s sketch. He was large shouldered but shorter than Aimée.

  “You first,” she said. Her ankle throbbed.

  “It’s a paycheck.” Cyril shrugged. That n’importe quoi attitude she remembered from when he’d locked up her cousin. As if he gave a rat’s ass. “I contract out. Freelance PI.”

  So he’d left the police force. Had he told her he was a PI to build camaraderie? It hadn’t worked.

  “Who signs the check, Cyril?”

  “Et alors, it’s your turn to tell me what you’re doing here,” he said.

  “Spill, and I might pretend I never caught you.”

  Fat chance of that.

  “Vraiment?” His eyes flicked back and forth along rue Berbier du Mets. Nervous? Waiting for someone? The trees were changing color—pale green to light orange and autumnal yellow.

  She tried again. “Who’s your employer?” The scumbag could be working for anyone. Might even be . . . a hit man? One never knew.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You know how curious I get,” she said, wishing her ankle didn’t hurt. “Like I’ve got time for this, Cyril. You’re the primary suspect in the case now.”

  “What case? What are you going on about?”

  Greasy then and slimy now. “The murder investigation, that’s what I mean.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Her gaze caught on the blue and white barreling down the street. Thank God—Madame Livarot had called the police.

  “Good luck explaining that to the flics.”

  The police car pulled up with screeching brakes. Just as one flic pushed Cyril against the wall, a Gobelins security guard ran out from the gate.

  “That’s her,” he said. Pointed at Aimée. “She’s the one.”

  “What do you mean?” Before she had time to react, her arms were pulled behind her back, and she was pushed up against the wall next to Cyril. She suppressed a groan as her tender shoulder was wrenched. “What’s going on? Look, this man’s—”

  Her wrists were cuffed, she was patted down, and the phone was pulled out of her pocket. Panic seized her. Calm, try to calm down.

  “There’s a mix-up,” she said. “It’s him you want. I’ve got to pick up my baby.”

  The next thing she knew she was in the back seat of the police car. No Cyril.

  The rat.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” she said, ready to kick the driver’s seat. Scream.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell us all about it at the commissariat.”

  Aimée sat in a dank green interrogation room on a stiff chair bolted to the floor. The place was designed to make anyone feel like a criminal.

  Her dress was stiff with dried perspiration. The chill goose-pimpled her bare legs. Wrong day not to wear stockings.

  “Bon.” The flic seated across from her glanced at a report. He was in his late forties, rough stubble shading his plump cheeks after an all-night shift. He smelled like a flic—cigarettes, spilled coffee, and too-strong freshly applied Paco Rabanne cologne. Greying chest hair peeked out over his shirt, which was flecked with tobacco. A real fashion plate edging toward retirement.

  His phone rang. For a full five minutes, he spoke, turning away without even an excusez-moi. He was giving her the “treatment,” what flics did to unnerve a suspect. Talk about professional. She almost snorted.

  Had Cyril the rat set her up? Or was this about running from a murder the night before?

  The flic hung up and rescanned the report.

  She uncrossed her legs and stood. “Since you haven’t even offered me coffee—”

  “Cool your bazketz,” he said. Slang for basketball shoes. Lazy and affected—she hated that.

  “They’re high-tops.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “There’s a complaint you were illegally in a ministry building. Trespassing.”

  “So a squad car pulls up to arrest me, a visitor at the tapestry factory?” she said, sitting down. “I had a meeting with Madame Livarot, who’s in charge of the weaving atelier. You should be talking to her.”

  “Thanks for telling me my job.”

  Anytime, she almost shot back. Instead she bit her tongue.

  “You’re about to be charged with assault.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Assault on whom?”

  “Monsieur Cyril Cromach has filed a complaint against you.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. That wimp, that limp-wristed coward. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You have no evidence. My father was a flic—”

  “I’m aware of that, Mademoiselle Leduc. You’ve got quite a reputation.”

  She should have known that was what this was about. Exactly why she hadn’t gone to the police for help the night before. “Tant pis. Cyril is the one you should be investigating, not me. He was trying to flee the scene after illegally—”

  “Actually, he’s a hired employee of a Madame de Frontenac,” the flic said, consulting his report, “who states he was the victim of a violent assault while attempting to perform his paid duties.”

  A violent assault—catching his sleeve and pushing him against the wall? She should have punched him when she’d had the chance. “Who’s Madame de Frontenac?”

  “That’s not pertinent to this investigation.”

  Great.

  She paced in the commissariat’s holding cage while she waited in line for processing. Could things get worse? And it wasn’t even three.

  Priority one, she needed to reach her nanny—who had an exam that afternoon—and arrange care for Chloé. Number two—warn René he’d need to cover the meeting. Merde. She’d make them look unprofessional by not showing up. When would Madame Livarot talk to the flics and straighten out the story? How soon could Aimée get the hell out of there?

  The old clock’s minute hand moved with maddening slowness. Her makeup had congealed. The smell of fear and unwashed bodies was always the same in the commissariat.

  She was one of them now. The heated corridor made her perspire in places she hadn’t even known she could sweat from—the creases of her elbows, behind her knees, behind her ears. In the winter, of course, the heat wouldn’t be working, and the place would be glacial.

  How could her afternoon have gone so upside down?

  Cyril, the liar, would have to prove assault, wouldn’t he?

  Her gut instinct was to call Morbier. But he couldn’t rescue her anymore.

  She needed a lawyer.

  No phone. No bag. Stuck.

  She was still waiting for her one phone call; the station had gotten busy. Yelling demonstrators filled the co
rridor, hauled in from a hospital workers’ strike at Place d’Italie. Who knew how long it would be until things settled down?

  She had to get out of there. Now.

  “Either charge me, or let me go,” she said to the female at the admitting desk.

  “Your name?”

  “Leduc, Aimée.”

  “All in good time.”

  “I’ve been here two hours,” she said, stretching the truth.

  “Sit down and wait your turn.”

  “I want to make a phone call.”

  “Good news. You’re third on the list.”

  This was ridiculous, unfair, and so wrong. Who was behind it? It stank like an overripe reblochon.

  Wednesday Afternoon

  The receiver of the public phone was greasy in Aimée’s hand as she slotted in coins. She dialed Babette’s cell phone number.

  Brrrrng. Brrrnng. No answer.

  Her knuckles whitened clutching the phone.

  Answer. Please answer. She only had one call.

  “Allô?” Finally. Aimée heard splashes, children’s voices.

  “Babette, it’s Aimée.”

  “What’s this number? I almost didn’t answer. Anyway, we’re just about to get in the pool. Chloé’s excited . . .” Babette chattered on, and Aimée felt a pang hearing her daughter’s happy squeals in the background.

  “Babette,” Aimée interrupted, “this is important. Ask Noémi to take Chloé home after bébé swim, okay?” Aimée and Noémi, another mother, sometimes took their daughters to the park together after swim class. They had babysat for each other before.

  “Working late this afternoon?”

  “Long story. And I don’t know when I’ll get released.”

  “Released?”

  The time left on her franc ticked away.

  “I’m on a pay phone,” Aimée said. “Can’t talk long.”

  “But Noémi didn’t bring her baby to the pool today.” Pause. Gurgles. “I’ve got my exam this afternoon, Aimée.”

  Of course she did. She’d asked to get off early this afternoon a month ago.

  “Can you reschedule?” Aimée asked.

  “It’s a make-up exam. They won’t give me another chance.”