Murder Below Montparnasse

by Cara Black

  “Yes, takeout,” she said. “My treat.”

  Saj downshifted off the boulevard into the honeycomb of tiny lanes of small houses, ateliers, and old warehouses. A longtime resident, he knew the best routes to take at this time of night. The quartier was a less well-heeled bourgeois-bohemian version of adjoining Montparnasse, complete with mounting rents. Saj complained that the former ateliers of famous Surrealists like Picasso now belonged to bohemian-chic residents whose trust funds couldn’t quite afford the 6th arrondissement.

  Twenty minutes later the couscous végétarien takeout sat on the backseat, the turmeric and mint smells reminding Aimée she’d forgotten dinner. But she had no appetite. Yuri Volodya still didn’t answer his phone. Was it worth going to the address on the card? Part of her wanted Saj to drop her off at the Métro so she could head home and collapse in her bed. The other part knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she discovered why he’d sent this, and what his connection was to her mother.

  The Citroën bumped over the cobbles. She wished Saj would slow down. He unclipped his seat belt, reached in the backseat for his madras cloth bag. Popped some pills from a pill case.

  “What’s wrong? Your chakras misaligned again?”

  “Try some.” He dropped a fistful of brown pellets into her hand. “Herbal stress busters. Works every time, remember?”

  “Bien sûr,” she said, chewing her lip. His fungus-scented pellets reminded her of rabbit droppings. “We’ll make it work without René,” she added. “We should think of his amazing job offer. This opportunity for him.”

  Inside she thought only of the hole he’d leave. Selfish Aimée, as usual.

  “René didn’t trust me or the business, Saj. Avec raison,” she said, hating to admit it. She couldn’t compete with René’s job offer—six figures, stock options, and the title of CTO, Chief Technology Officer.

  “Maybe René doesn’t trust himself right now,” Saj said, pensive. Apart from the purring motor, quiet filled the car. He was right; René had moped around, couldn’t concentrate after his broken heart.

  “We should do some more asana breathing sessions,” Saj went on. “It will expand your awareness and you’ll feel less stressed.”

  Not this again. She almost threw the pellets at him.

  “Make a right here, Saj.” She hoped they hadn’t made a wasted trip.

  He turned into Villa d’Alésia, a tree-lined lane lit by old-fashioned lampposts. Suddenly, a white van lurched in front of them. Saj honked the horn and downshifted. The van shot ahead, its hanging muffler scraping the cobbles, and turned out of sight.

  Aimée scanned the house numbers for number fourteen. From the corner of her eye she caught a figure flashing in front of the Citroën’s grill. A man’s blue jean jacket shone in the headlights’ yellow beam.

  “Look out, Saj!” she shouted.

  Horrified, her right arm shot out against the dashboard, while out of instinct she threw her other arm protectively across Saj’s chest.

  Saj punched the brakes. Squeals and then a horrible thump as the man hit the windshield. For a second the man’s pale face pressed against the glass, his half-lidded eyes vacant, his palms splayed.

  The man crumpled off the side of the car as Saj veered to the side. Too late. The Citroën jolted, hitting an old parked Mercedes. The metal screeched as it accordioned; the car shuddered. Cold air tinged by burning rubber poured over her face.

  The impact set off the alarms of parked cars, a shrill honking cacophony. A hiss of steam escaped the Citroën’s crushed radiator.

  Her bag had fallen from the dashboard—mascara, keys, and encryption manuals spilling on the floor. Saj’s body hung over the steering wheel. Good God, he’d taken off his seat belt.

  “Saj, can you hear me?”

  He stirred, rubbed his head.

  “The mec came out of nowhere,” he said. And before she could struggle out of her seat belt, Saj pushed open the dented door. He staggered in shock, his pale dreadlocks hanging in the yellow slants of the headlights. “Mon Dieu, I killed him.”

  Aimée’s door jammed against the Mercedes. She climbed out of the driver’s seat, then realized her phone was somewhere on the car floor. Stunned, she tried to take in the dark, wet lane, the body lying beside the car. Saj limping and clutching his neck.

  A woman down the street, gripping a gym bag, ran toward them. Green surgical scrubs showed under her short brown jacket.

  “Call for help,” Aimée shouted. “Ambulance!”

  “Quelle catastrophe,” said the woman. She pulled out her cell phone. “And I just finished my shift at the hospital.”

  The nurse knelt down beside the steaming car, the hem of her green scrubs trailing on the oil-slicked cobbles. With the nurse attending to the victim, Aimée hurried toward Saj. “What hurts? Can you move your neck?”

  “Where did he come from? I didn’t see him until he.…”

  Dazed, Saj touched his temple. Grimaced in pain. She realized he was in shock, and guided him to a low stone wall.

  “Stay here, Saj,” she said.

  “Help’s coming,” the nurse was saying to the motionless man. Apart from the cuts on his face, the man could have been asleep. “The hospital’s two blocks away. Can you hear me?”

  Not even a groan.

  It had happened so fast, one minute she and Saj were talking and then … Aimée realized she might be in shock herself. She struggled to focus, became aware of the nurse’s thrusts to the man’s chest. The whining echo of a siren. Approaching red flashes splashed the walls. Lights went on in the windows of the adjoining alley.

  Suppressing a shudder, Aimée watched the nurse put her index and middle finger on the man’s carotid artery.

  “No pulse,” she said.

  Aimée gasped. She looked closer at the man’s pallor, his fresh facial cuts and scratches. “But he’s not bleeding anywhere.”

  The shifting of the fire truck’s gears swallowed the nurse’s reply. The red lights reflected on the water pooled between the cobble cracks and on the roof tiles of the two-story ateliers.

  Saj shivered in his thin muslin shirt, his sandalwood prayer beads tangled with his dreads. He had a glassy look as he spoke to the first response team. As if in a nightmare, Aimée watched the helmeted sapeurs-pompiers confer with the nurse beside René’s Citroën. The arriving medic tried for vitals and shook his head.

  They lifted the body onto the stretcher. The man’s torn jeans were oil-spattered; his lifeless, pale arm fell limp, exposing the blue tattoos peeking from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his Levi’s jacket. Cyrillic letters intertwined in an elaborate figure of a wolf.

  Haa Bepa

  “He’s Russian?” she said to the medic who was putting a blood pressure cuff on Saj’s arm.

  “Worse,” said the medic, a thin-mustached twenty-something. “A Serb.”

  Shivering, Aimée stared closer at the tattoo. “How can you tell?”

  “Believe me, as the son of a Ukrainian dissident, I’m supposed to hate both Russians and Serbs.” He pointed to the script. “See there? Serbian uses Cyrillic and Latin script. The Serb mafia tattoo themselves like that in prison.”

  Her blood ran cold. Serb mafia?

  The medic clipped a Styrofoam brace around Saj’s neck, then draped a blanket across his shivering shoulders. Then he took Aimée aside. “You look pale. We’ll bring you in for observation.”

  “I’m fine.” Aimée was loath to share how shaken she felt. How her stomach churned at the image of the man’s white face, his half-lidded eyes reminding her of the fish on ice in the market. His palms splayed on the windshield. His tattoo.

  “If we hadn’t driven up this street to find.…” Her words left her. It spun in her mind that a man she didn’t know who knew her mother had sent her an envelope of cash.

  “Fate. Accidents happen, terrible,” the medic said. He took her vitals. “Your blood pressure’s a bit high.” He put a stethoscope to her chest.

  “Bu
t we ran him over,” she said, hesitating. “There’s something wrong—”

  “You feel guilty, that’s natural,” he interrupted. “But if it happened as you say, it’s not your fault.”

  Her shoulders shook. She couldn’t get the words out, but any medic should be able to see the Serb didn’t look like a man who’d been hit by a car.

  “Alors.” The medic leaned forward. “We’ve treated Serbs who were injured after bar brawls and knife fights here in the quartier.”

  “How’s that supposed to make me feel better?”

  He scanned the street, nodded to a colleague who assisted Saj toward the ambulance. “Between us,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’d say watch your back.”

  But who was this Serb? Why hadn’t anyone come out to identify him after the sirens, the commotion?

  Her jacket whipped in the rising wind. She turned to see the van waiting for the corpse, engine running, as the flics arrived. Before she could get past the crowd, the medic bundled Saj into a waiting blue-and-white SAMU van. The engine rumbled, backing out down the lane.

  Too late.

  A flic escorted the nurse to a police van that had been set up for questioning. Aimée followed. “Wait your turn, Mademoiselle.”

  “But my friend’s hurt.” Shaken up, tired, and cold, she wanted to get this over with. “I need to get to the hospital.”

  “Where he’s going you can’t visit him.”

  The hair stood up on her neck. “You’ve taken him in garde à vue?”

  “C’est de rigueur, questioning and treatment, Mademoiselle.”

  She knew the criminal ward at Hôtel-Dieu, the public hospital.

  “But it was an accident, this man came out of nowhere and landed on our windshield.”

  “That’s up to our investigation,” he said, checking for messages on his cell phone. “Right now we’re calling it a homicide involontaire.”

  Her heart dropped. Saj could face a charge of manslaughter. Saj? A gentle soul who meditated and spent months in ashrams in India. A hacker genius who could paralyze the French bourse, bring a Ministry database to its knees, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. It made her sick to think they suspected him.

  “Zut alors, Saj swerved trying to avoid this man.”

  “So he’d had a few drinks, eh?”

  Again, the flic was off base. “Saj drinks green tea.”

  “Immediate blood tests and alcohol level analysis will confirm that.” He nodded to the crime scene unit to tape off the area. “What’s your worry?”

  “The victim’s injuries.” She pointed to the dry cobbles. “Do you see any blood here?”

  But he’d already gone to join several officers near the ambulance.

  She hated waiting. Hated thinking of Saj being questioned in the criminal ward. The Mercedes’ smashed grill leaked water; escaping radiator steam hovered cloud-like over the hood. At least the car alarms had subsided.

  A stocky man of medium height, bundled into a black lamb-fur coat—the kind she hadn’t seen since the seventies—and a Russian fur hat ran toward them. His gaze took in the ambulance. Short of breath, he paused and shook his head. “Mon Dieu. Someone hurt?” There was shock and concern in his voice.

  “Dead,” muttered someone in the crowd. A finger pointed at her. The Mercedes.

  “My car? Think you can get away with smashing my car, too?”

  Aimée flinched.

  Just what she needed. René’s insurance would go sky-high. Another layer of guilt descended on her. René hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours and they’d run over a Serb and totaled his prized car.

  “An angry little Cossack,” said one of the firemen under his breath. “The only things missing are his boots.”

  “Restez tranquille, Monsieur,” Aimée said. “I’ll take care of the damages.”

  Aimée noted a long-haired young man, a cell phone to his ear, rushing up behind the older man. An armband encircled his khaki jacket sleeve. “What’s happened to your car?”

  The old man waved him away. “I’ll handle this, Damien.”

  His brows knit in worry. “But you need my help.”

  “Go back to the hospital,” the old man said. “Your aunt’s more important.”

  “You’re sure?” said Damien, his tone conflicted.

  The old man nodded. Aimée heard the slap of Damien’s footsteps as he disappeared into the shadows.

  “So you don’t have insurance, Mademoiselle?” The man’s face flushed. “I know your type, you want to rip me off. Offer to fix my car but sell the parts. You some gypsy?”

  “Do I look like a gypsy?” He grated on Aimée’s nerves. Saj injured, a man dead, and now this callous car owner. “I’ll have your car repaired.”

  “Think I’ll fall for that old trick?” Suspicion showed in his watery blue eyes. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Don’t think you’re leaving, Mademoiselle.”

  She had no intention of leaving—not until she had done everything she could to save René’s insurance. But before she could respond, a flic, notepad out, asked for the car registration. She opened the intact door on the driver’s side and reached into the glove compartment. Felt René’s kid leather driving gloves. Size petit. A pang went through her.

  After handing the flic René’s car registration and scooping up the contents of her bag from the floor, she shifted on her high-tops, awaiting questioning. The crime scene unit photographer’s flash emitted bursts of light. She caught sight of the old man a few meters away—he was opening the door to Number 14. He had to be the man she’d come to see, Yuri Volodya! She hurried after the old man just as he disappeared behind the gate.

  “Monsieur … Monsieur Volodya?” she called out.

  No answer. As she reached the darkened front door of the atelier, Aimée heard the tinkle of broken glass. A cry. She reached out but felt only cold air.

  “Monsieur?” Her eyes tried to adjust to the dank vacuum in front of her. “What happened?”

  “My door was open, the lights don’t work,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve been robbed.”

  Aimée’s spine tingled. Smart thieves short-circuited electricity these days. With a tickle of intuition, she wondered if this was connected to the Serb they’d run over outside his door.

  She rooted in her secondhand Vuitton bag until she found her penlight. Shined it on the man’s confused face. A trickle of blood trailed on his cheek. He’d cut himself on broken glass.

  “Where’s your fuse box, Monsieur?”

  “What good will that do?”

  Did he want to argue now? “I’ll try to switch the power back on.”

  She followed the old man across the creaking floorboards, glass crackling underfoot. A musty scent of paper emanated from the shadows. In the thin yellow beam she saw the problem right away. She pulled on her leather gloves and with a quick flick switched the fuse box levers upright.

  Light flooded the sparsely furnished turn-of-the-century atelier. A worn velvet armchair had been overturned. A vase lay on its side, orange marigold petals scattered and water pooled on a long worktable.

  Horrible. She pitied the old codger. His car, now his house.

  “Monsieur Volodya? That’s you, non? I’m Aimée Leduc, you sent for me. I’m so sorry about your car, but I hope—”

  “Forget about the car.” He grabbed at a dark wood beam in the wall, his bony white wrists shaking. Reminding her of her grandfather. She righted the chair, took his elbow to help him sit down. Dazed, he resisted, refusing to sit. With his thick fingers he smeared the blood on his cheek. Shock painted his face.

  “I think you should see a doctor.”

  “Wait …”

  With surprising agility he hurried to the armoire, which had been shoved aside. She followed, noticing the small door behind it. Like a broom closet. A dark red stain smeared the wood door.

  Blood.

  He pulled the creaking door open. Empty. Anguish painted his face. “You’re too late. My painting’s sto
len.”

  “You kept a painting in a broom closet? A valuable painting?”

  “But I locked it. It was only until the formal appraisal tomorrow.” His lip quivered. “My legs feel not so steady.”

  His face had gone white. This time, he let her help him to the chair. “Let me get you water.”

  He shook his head. “Vodka.” He pointed to the galley kitchen. A show of bravado, or to calm his nerves? But he looked like he needed it. She’d humor him until he explained. Then alert the flics.

  The dark wood-walled atelier held an open mezzanine above, a cramped kitchen off to the side, an alcove with faded flowered wallpaper, and a bed covered by a rumpled duvet.

  At the empty sink she wetted an embroidered towel, noticed the dish rack with a single plate, cup, and fork. The old man lived alone. Tidy. In the one cupboard she found a bottle of Stolichnaya, two glasses.

  Could the Serb have been the one who robbed the old man? Caught in the act, she figured. But he hadn’t been carrying anything. Definitely not a painting.

  “Now how do you feel?” She uncapped and poured the vodka. Handed him the towel.

  “A scratch,” he said, clinked her shot glass. “I’m Yuri Volodya.”

  “I know. You sent me five thousand francs.” She set down her card on the side table.

  “So of course you came,” he said. “But too late. Hand me my glasses.”

  Stubborn old Cossack, all right.

  “There’s a pair hanging from your neck,” she said. “What’s this all about?”

  He put on his glasses, and his voice changed. “You look just like her.”

  Hope fluttered in her heart. “Maman? She’s alive?”

  He shook his head. Winced in pain. “Forgive me. I thought you could help. You see, I owe your mother.”

  “I don’t understand. Help how? And owe my mother what? When did you last see her?”

  He averted his eyes and swigged the vodka. “I’m a bookbinder, I craft special editions. A commission takes a year.” He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.

  Why had he changed the subject? Nerves? He seemed anxious now, worried. Like he was saying one thing but meaning another.

  “Alors, Monsieur Volodya, if we could talk about my mother, this painting.…”