Murder on the Left Bank

by Cara Black

  “My stepfather knew a fonctionnaire there.”

  Aimée’s hand stiffened on her fork. “Léo Solomon?” Too much of a coincidence?

  “No idea. Never met him. It’s my stepfather’s friend of a friend.” Xavier leaned back in the rattan chair, incurious. “You know how that goes, that old boys’ thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Freemasons. Stupid secret handshake, hush-hush meetings, that kind of thing.” He gave a knowing wink. “In reality, a bunch of old farts with money who like a bit of community service to their name.”

  He was talking about the tapestry factory, but he’d sparked another thought. Talk about an old boys’ club—could the Hand be Freemasons?

  “You do have a way with you,” she said as Xavier poured her mineral water with a splash of rosé. She looked over the website contract paperwork he had set in front of her. “I’m just thrilled les Gobelins agreed.”

  He clinked his glass to hers and grinned.

  After she studied the disclaimer, she grinned back. “Brilliant work.” Took her pen and signed. “Happy we’ll work together on this.”

  And then he’d enfolded her hand in his. Raised it to his lips and kissed it. “You’re unique. Alors, my sommelier friend’s sponsoring a wine tasting . . .”

  Her hand burned. So he felt the connection, too.

  Her phone vibrated. She wondered if that was Benoît, felt a tinge of guilt. But he’d never called her back.

  Xavier’s forehead had crinkled. “Done it again, sorry. I’m too eager—”

  “I’d love to come,” she said. “Just need to arrange a babysitter.” Her phone vibrated again. “I’ve got to get back. Sorry, there’s a crisis, toujours.”

  It had been Morbier calling her, but she hadn’t felt comfortable taking the call in front of Xavier. Too bad.

  Hurrying along the quai, she punched in Morbier’s number.

  A sea gull swooped and landed on the choppy Seine.

  “You have to trust me, Leduc.”

  Trust him? She’d trusted him all her life only to discover he was involved in Papa’s murder.

  “To do what?” she asked.

  A frustrated sigh. “Look, I’m worried about Chloé’s safety with the Hand involved.”

  “By that, you mean you’re worried about the fixer, an urban myth called Charles Siganne? That he’s going to come after me and my baby? Or maybe Dandin, the one with the cauliflower ears I remember playing poker at our kitchen table? Or another one of your friends?”

  Merde. She’d wanted to question him about this, not accuse him. If only she’d bitten her tongue.

  Pause. “I’ll ignore that for now. And I won’t ask you where you got those names.” His voice had gone dangerously calm. “Alors, I’m going to make a call to your mother.”

  Where did that come from? “Quoi? Why get her involved?”

  “You know she wants to be part of Chloé’s life. And yours.”

  “Funny way of showing it. She disappeared. Again.”

  “Vraiment? Didn’t you two argue?”

  She froze on the quai’s uneven pavers. Her thoughts swirled. “Wait a minute. How do you know this?”

  “You stomped out on her after her comment on your ratty trench coat.” Pause. “So petty, Leduc.”

  Petty? She loved that vintage Sonia Rykiel. “As if she’s got the right to dispense fashion advice?” Or anything else? “And what, she vanishes for two months but goes and complains to you behind my back? That’s what you call wanting to be part of my life?”

  “Don’t let that rule out a chance of a relationship. She’s trying . . . Okay, she’s not well versed in the mother thing.”

  “Some women weren’t meant to be mothers,” she said.

  “Sydney’s feeling her way. Didn’t you say you wished Chloé came with an instruction booklet?”

  “So I should forgive her? Let her drop into my life after twenty years? She expects me to welcome her with open arms, after how she hurt Papa?”

  “Have that conversation with her, not me. It’s called working things out.”

  A sea gull waddled into her path. She shooed it away. “And you’re the expert in relationships, Morbier?”

  Pause. It hurt that her mother had confided in Morbier. Not her.

  “Why didn’t she talk to me?” she asked.

  “Because I have no fashion sense?” Morbier expelled air over the phone. “Zut alors! I can’t stop you from wanting to battle the Hand. So far she’s the only one who’s outwitted them.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Ask her. Doesn’t she owe you for helping her escape in Montparnasse?”

  “Owe me, non. I don’t keep score.”

  Impossible with someone who evaporated into thin air.

  “It’s that damned notebook, Morbier. I need to find it.”

  “Look, I’m in a wheelchair. If only I could—”

  “And I put you there.” Emotion took over. Guilt. Anger. Sadness.

  “My ticker would have done it sooner or later. Right now . . . You need to remember you’re not Superwoman.”

  Something niggled in the back of her mind, jolted loose by her speaking her thoughts. Her father had always believed in talking things through. “Attends, you haven’t answered me. What’s so interesting about Siganne and Dandin?”

  But he’d hung up.

  Thursday Afternoon

  Aimée heard the din of children’s voices through the open doors of the piscine in Butte-aux-Cailles. The public pool, housed by an Art Nouveau redbrick building, was fed by hot ferruginous water from the local artesian well. Inside, flanking the rippling turquoise pool were les bains-douches, the public baths, to the left and, to the right, the staircase down to the showers and changing rooms.

  The humid air was laced with chlorine. She couldn’t avoid the traffic jam by the locker room with the bébé swim class ending, the junior swim team arriving, and the changing of lifeguard shifts.

  “Babette?” she said.

  Chloé’s distinctive squeals came through the shouts and laughter and slapping of wet feet on the soapy tiled floor.

  “In the shower,” Babette called. “Noémi’s toweling off the girls by the lockers.”

  Aimée found them—her Chloé in a dry sunsuit and Elodie nestled in a striped towel. Noémi’s wet hair was pinned up. She smiled at Aimée. “Class ran late. Still want to take our little fishes to the park?”

  “Just a quickie visit today. Got more meetings.”

  She planted kisses on Chloé’s flushed cheeks, delighted by her daughter’s clapping of her two pudgy hands. She’d learned to clap and did it all the time.

  Aimée noticed that Elodie was shivering despite the hot moist air. Mon Dieu. There were goosebumps on her arms.

  “Where’s your bébé bag, Noémi?”

  But Noémi had jumped in the shower to rinse off.

  Aimée couldn’t find Elodie’s baby bag, so she pulled out the red hoodie Martin had given her for Chloé. The little girls were too cute—Aimée couldn’t resist. With her palm-sized camera, she took a few shots to add to the hundreds she already had. These days she had to stop herself from being one of those mamans who forced people to look at dozens of digital pictures of their bébés. She didn’t want to bore clients who’d politely inquired after her daughter. But vraiment, how adorable.

  Aimée rubbed Elodie’s arms to warm her up. The swim team stampeded by, splattering Aimée’s silk blouse. Elodie wiggled out of Aimée’s grasp and toddled through the crowd of little girls and their caretakers toward her own mother in the shower. Aimée scooped Chloé up in her arms to chase after Elodie, but the passing horde jammed them up against the wall. All Aimée saw was a sea of legs.

  “Noémi!” Aimée called.

  “I’m coming,” said
Noémi. “Be out in une petite seconde.”

  Babette emerged, toweling off, with Noémi behind her. “Babette, have you seen my baby bag?” Noémi asked. Elodie was crawling toward her mother.

  In Aimée’s arms, Chloé hiccuped and clutched her bottle. Aimée couldn’t wait to get out of the steamy heat. “It’s too crowded down here,” Aimée called. “We’ll meet you upstairs.”

  Outside, in Place Paul Verlaine across from the piscine, a few men played boules on the chalky earth. Aimée filled Chloé’s bottle from the pure artesian water source, one of the few remaining in the city. She was capping the bottle when Babette arrived, backpack slung over her shoulder as she checked her phone.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Aimée.

  Babette kissed Chloé. “Noémi couldn’t find her baby bag,” she said as she rose. “She’ll be up in a minute. Now, where is that little escape artist?”

  “Who?”

  “Elodie.”

  “She’s with Noémi.”

  “That’s strange,” Babette said, checking her phone. “I thought she said Elodie was with you. I’ll go check in a minute.”

  Just then Chloé burped, spitting up all over Aimée’s silk blouse. Thank God it was just water.

  Mostly.

  Reaching into her bag for a wipe, Aimée found the packet of mail she’d stuck in there without reading it this morning. Contracts, invoices—but what was this? A color photo. No envelope. She pulled it out of the pile: a playground and sandbox she recognized as part of Square Henri Galli down and across the river from Ile Saint-Louis, where she went almost every day. In the sandbox was Chloé wearing the red hoodie. The photo must have been taken that morning.

  Her heart pounded as she tried to take this in.

  On the other side, one line:

  We’re watching—hand it over.

  Hand it over—the notebook? She didn’t have it. But this was a threat to her bébé. Feeling sick to her stomach, she hugged Chloé tight and scanned the people near the pool.

  Shouts came from the pool door as an attendant ran out.

  “Stop him! Catch that man.”

  A piercing scream—a voice Aimée recognized.

  Noémi stood, hair dripping, shirt inside out, shaking her fist in the face of the pool attendant, who had been pinned against the wall by an égoutier, a sewer worker in fluorescent green. The égoutier had a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth.

  “He stole my baby!” Noémi shrieked.

  “Crazy. This woman’s crazy.” The attendant’s face contorted in pain as the égoutier twisted his arm. “I work here.”

  “Steal, more like it.” The burly égoutier turned the man’s pockets inside out, and several cell phones and a wallet showered onto the stone pavement. “Call the flics,” the égoutier said to a woman standing by watching the fracas. The woman took out her phone as the égoutier turned back to the restrained man. “Where’s her baby?”

  “Baby?” he said. “How the hell do I know?”

  With Chloé in her arms, Aimée ran to the scene at the door, Babette close behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” Aimée said.

  “Elodie’s gone,” Noémi sobbed.

  Gone?

  “But that’s impossible. Alors, we’ll find her.” Aimée grabbed Noémi’s elbow. “Don’t panic. She’s downstairs somewhere—”

  “How do you know?” Noémi said. “I couldn’t find her.”

  Aimée’s confidence was evaporating. What about the photo?

  She hesitated, then thrust Chloé into Babette’s arms. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Promise me, Babette.”

  Babette nodded, her eyes wide. “We’ll stay right here. Find Elodie.”

  At the pool’s reception desk, Aimée caught the attention of the manager, a young woman who was on the phone. “Please, lock the doors and exits.”

  “But, mademoiselle—”

  “Now.”

  “On what authority?”

  “A baby is missing. She could be in danger, crawling around open drains, the outdoor pool . . .” Aimée swiped her hair from her eye. “We need to find her before she’s hurt. Page your staff; organize a search.”

  The manager, now galvanized into action, nodded. “It’s not the first time a baby has gotten loose. We’ll find her.”

  Noémi had come up behind Aimée at the desk. “Aimée, that man was rifling through the lockers. I saw him . . .”

  Over the loudspeaker, the lockdown announcement came with a tinny reverb.

  Aimée ran after Noémi down the stairs. She took off her heels and padded in her stockings over the wet tiles and puddles, asking everyone in the changing room and showers if they’d seen Elodie.

  Only one mother from the bébé swim group was still in the changing room. Oui, she remembered Elodie but had last seen her in the shower with Noémi. None of the remaining lap swimmers remembered a baby in a red hoodie. No one had seen anything.

  Panicked, Noémi opened the changing cubicles. “Elodie, Elodie?”

  Aimée checked the open lockers. No baby. She even tapped on the ones that were locked. Leaned down, straining to hear an answering cry or sound. So difficult to differentiate noises with all the people calling out and the loudspeaker.

  Now a girl from the swim team joined them, searching each steamy corner, all over the walkway, and the outdoor pool. The lifeguards blew whistles, and staff were searching the deck area and had asked swimmers to get out of the pool.

  Aimée thought she heard a sound in the pool supply closet. Was that a little moan, cooing? Or was she imagining it, hoping she heard something?

  But the closet held poisonous chemicals . . . Good God. She yanked it open. Empty, apart from Chloé’s red hoodie.

  Aimée’s insides churned.

  Noémi had come behind Aimée as she picked it up. “Didn’t you put this on Elodie . . . ?” The question ended in sobs.

  Aimée put her arms around Noémi, nauseated by guilt. She’d thought Noémi had been watching Elodie—she never should have gone upstairs.

  All of a sudden they were surrounded by a trio of blue uniforms. “We received a report of a theft and a missing baby. Do you recognize this man?”

  There was the pool attendant, arms restrained behind his back by a young flic.

  “Where’s my baby?” Noémi screamed at him. “You locked her in this closet, and now she’s gone!”

  An older flic with grey sideburns put up his hand. “Hold on. Why do you say he locked her in the closet?”

  Aimée held up the hoodie and explained. “Maybe it was prearranged. Someone hid the baby here and then took her out the back exit.”

  “We’ll check. Meanwhile—”

  “You’re crazy!” The attendant was yelling.

  “According to the commissariat report you’ve served time, Monsieur Arnault,” the older flic said.

  The attendant was bundled away.

  “We need to call your husband and any family in the area to see if they have any information,” said the flic, his notebook out.

  “My ex?” Noémi paused, and her face turned white. “We’re in a custody battle. Do you think he would . . . ?”

  “Sit down. We don’t know anything until we check. Let’s get down his phone number, address, details about any of his family members nearby.”

  The flic turned his head to speak into a mic clipped to his collar, giving a callout for a unit response. Good, the flics were taking this seriously.

  The second remaining flic motioned Aimée forward. “We need your statement, too.”

  “My nanny and I were both there by the showers. Let me show you.”

  While one flic took down Noémi’s info, Aimée backtracked with the other.

  “The girls were here on the floor,” Aimée said. “Together by the lock
ers.”

  The flic jotted everything in his notebook as she detailed what she remembered, from the lap swimmers to the swim team.

  “The last I saw her, she was wearing this.” Aimée held up the hoodie. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to get out on the street and look for Elodie. Every minute was vital. How far could someone have taken her by now?

  He pulled out an evidence bag for her to drop the hoodie in. “Can you tell me the precise timing?”

  Not even fifteen minutes had passed.

  By the time she’d rejoined Babette upstairs, Chloé needed a diaper change, and Babette was late for her class. Aimée clued her in.

  “My friend will take notes for me,” said Babette, her eyes full of worry. “I’m going down to give the flics a statement. I feel sick over this. Responsible.”

  So did Aimée. Responsible and guilty. The horrible idea that had been lurking at the edge of her mind overwhelmed her.

  “Aimée, you’ve gone white,” said Babette. “What’s the matter?”

  “What if Elodie wasn’t the right baby?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aimée showed Babette the photo. “She was wearing Chloé’s hoodie. Chloé was the target.”

  Thursday Afternoon

  The pool, the small square, and the surrounding streets had been cordoned off. This was a kidnapping scene.

  Aimée had called Melac, alerted him to the photo she’d received, relayed her suspicions, and made sure he would meet Babette at her apartment door. Only then had she sent Babette and Chloé home in a taxi.

  Melac had confirmed their arrival. Thank God for that. Right now Chloé was safe.

  Now all that mattered was finding Elodie.

  Alive.

  Inside the piscine, Aimée sat with a shaking Noémi near the bains-douches. She held Noémi’s hand, wet and sticky from wiping tears. Antsy to join the search, Aimée checked her phone. No missed calls.

  “Noémi, I want to help them look—”

  “Non, non, please stay with me. Please.”

  Aimée didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to leave poor Noémi alone, but she would be better used helping out with the search. Time was vital.