Murder Below Montparnasse

by Cara Black

  “Did you see who did this?”

  “He ran away.”

  Obviously.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Everything happened so fast.” She shrugged. “He took off through the courtyard.”

  Aimée was stuffing several of Saj’s muslin drawstring pants and matching white shirts, an alpaca vest, and his mail in her bag. He wouldn’t be coming back here. Of that she’d make sure.

  “Try to remember something about him. Anything strike you?”

  “A hat, a cap? But he ran, I … didn’t see well.”

  Great.

  “We’re a community here, supporting the garden, keeping developers out.…” She sighed. “Hasn’t Saj told you? We’re the last bastion for artists and musicians, the way it used to be. The only thing that hasn’t changed is people living on the margins.” Another shrug.

  This Goth liked to talk. Aimée wished her acute observations extended to this morning.

  “The closer you get to the Périphérique, the cheaper,” she continued. “We’ve never had trouble even with the squatters who live by the garden. The single men, the day workers, they even respect the families.”

  She painted a pretty picture, but the words dripping in red on Saj’s window belied the harmony.

  “We’re a mix—old anarchists, poets, intellos, and film stars who like la vie de bohème without the prices closer to Montparno.”

  Montparno, argot from an old Jean Gabin film.

  “Violence and sick attacks like this just don’t happen here,” she said. “At least La Coalition is militant and rabid to stop the developers. Those bloodsuckers.”

  La Coalition, those demonstrators who’d blocked rue d’Alésia.

  “That so?” Aimée was half-listening, checking Saj’s computer—untouched—and finding the malware program. She scanned Saj’s tatami floor, the walls basic, white and untouched apart from the red letters on the window. “What about the Roma, the Gypsies on rue Raymond Losserand?” Many a time she’d seen women sitting on the street corner begging with a child in arms. Saj called it the shame of the quartier.

  “From encampments beyond the Périphérique? Sad.” Sheila shook her head. “The bosses drive them here in vans, drop them on the corner to ‘work’ begging. The bosses take it all when they pick them up. Beat them when they don’t make their quota.”

  Horrible.

  Just then, she remembered Saj’s disgusting rabbit pellets, his stress busters. She found them by the window.

  “Change the digicode.” Aimée gave her a card—no Leduc Detective logo, just her name and number. “Keep your eyes open and call if you see anything, okay?”

  Halfway through the courtyard, she bent down to examine something yellow in the cobble crack. A damp bit of hay.

  Sheila’s voice called from the upstairs window. “Maybe it’s nothing but … I remember he had a long coat on under his jacket.”

  “Like a lab coat? Hospital worker?”

  “Like that, but blue. And a blue cap.”

  But where had the straw come from? The last farm in Paris battling the wrecking ball lay not far from here, on Tombe Issoire, sheltering squatters and artists. She almost grasped the connection, felt it bubbling up then eluding her.

  Write it down, her father had always said, even if it appears random. Then connect the dots later. Boring, tedious, and the way the investigations got done. Tiny details contributed evidence in the most banal way. “That’s why we’re called poulets, chickens in the farmyard pecking for a crumb,” he’d say, “a seed sprouting into a detail.” “Non, Papa,” she’d reply, “you’re called poulets because the préfecture’s built on the ancient chicken market.” “True, ma princesse,” he’d say, “but we still peck for details. Details nail your perp, make your case. Nothing else.”

  At her scooter, she jotted down notes, put the bit of straw in her pocket and Saj’s clothes in her helmet compartment. She dialed Saj.

  “Please listen, Saj. You’re staying with me and Miles Davis for a while. No argument.”

  “Has something happened to my place?”

  “It’s not safe,” she said, feeling inadequate. “I’ve got you a change of clothes.”

  A sigh. “I’ll stay at René’s. It’s closer and he’s got more equipment. He gave me the key. I should water his plants.”

  “Bon. The alarm installed yet?”

  “As we speak. Any good news?”

  “Straw mean anything to you?”

  “Not off the top of my head … a Serbian farm?”

  “More later. Keep the door locked and alarmed.”

  Suddenly she had a flash of realization. Stupid, why hadn’t she put this together before? Oleg mentioned a buyer, admitted Tatyana hired the Serb. Tatyana bragged to Yuri about her old schoolmate who had married to a Russian oligarch. What if the oligarch’s wife was the buyer? A slim shot, but right now the only one to pursue. Time to speak with Tatyana, the brains behind this, to call off the Serb.

  By the time she pulled up on her scooter at Villa Leone, her bad feeling mounted. Beyond the passage’s Moorish arched gateway was a stretch of irregular cobblestones, geraniums and ivy trailing the walls of old wooden ateliers. A rustic, faded charm lingered on Villa Leone in a run-down nineteenth-century way—forgotten ateliers and wash hung out under the dripping vines.

  On the corner, a Peugeot started up. Moments later Oleg rushed out and jumped in the passenger seat. With a grinding of gears, the Peugeot headed toward rue d’Alésia. The same blonde at the wheel of the same car Oleg drove off in last night. Evidently, Tatyana wore the babushka in the family.

  Aimée followed, leaving two cars between them. At the stoplight, she squinted to see into the car. Two heads bobbing, hands waving. Oleg stepped out and slammed the door at the Plaisance Métro, scowling. Looked like an argument.

  Aimée kept behind the Peugeot, zipping through the yellow lights to keep up. Not fifteen minutes later, they crossed the Pont de l’Alma, over the tunnel where Princess Diana’s Mercedes crashed, and past the heaps of fresh flowers brought daily in her memory. Tatyana veered into Avenue Montaigne, deep in the triangle d’or—the golden triangle, or luxe land, as Martine called it—the wedge of wealth bordered by the Champs-Elysées and the Seine, showcasing designer couture such as Yves Saint Laurent, Dior, Hermès. These days, no self-respecting, budget-minded, fashion-conscious French woman emptied her pocketbook on the avenue of haute couture, according to Martine, who knew these things. They left this province to the wives of sheikhs and foreign billionaires.

  The Peugeot pulled into the Hôtel Plaza Athénée drive. She recognized the Plaza Athénée logo from the brochure in Oleg’s pocket. Red geraniums adorned the balconies, framed by stone art nouveau carvings. Expensive taste. Odds were Tatyana was visiting her old school friend and had disinvited Oleg.

  Tatyana handed the keys to the valet and, with a swish of her long red leather coat, flounced past the bowing doorman. Too bad the hotel detective Aimée had known retired last Christmas. But he had always complained that this five-star hotel hadn’t upgraded their video surveillance. Or staff rooms. A tightwad for a manager, he said.

  Aimée parked on a side street. She exchanged her ballet flats for heels, her helmet for the red wig she kept in the customized storage compartment under the seat installed by her cousin Sebastien. Minutes later, wearing oversize Dior sunglasses, her trenchcoat belt knotted, she smiled at the doorman.

  The lobby exuded privilege: fresh sprays of white roses everywhere, gleaming marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and Louis XV chairs. From the adjoining bar she heard Russian conversation punctuated by peals of laughter. A woman wearing tight jeans, open-toed snakeskin stilettos, and an enormous bored pout passed Aimée in a cloud of amber perfume. She held a cell phone in each hand. All she lacked was an entourage. This diva made even the mauve Givenchy she wore look tacky. Tatyana, sitting in this group of three women, leaned forward laughing and hanging on the diva’s every word.

/>   The third member, a sleek-haired brunette in a black pantsuit, scanned the bar and checked her cell phone every few minutes. A personal assistant, a trainer? Aimée hedged her bets on a bodyguard.

  The diva nudged the bodyguard, who snapped her fingers at the waiter.

  Aimée moved closer to hear. The bodyguard pointed to a menu. “Da, oui, please to order from the dog menu. Steak haché for Pinky. But first, please to take him for walk.”

  The diva deposited a Chihuahua with an eighteen-karat-gold collar into the hands of the black-vested waiter. Not an unusual task in his job, judging by his servile expression.

  “À votre service,” said the waiter, smiling at the little rat of a canine.

  Aimée hoped the diva tipped well. The waiter deserved it. But the rich were different, n’est-ce pas?

  The diva and Tatyana clinked frosted cocktail glasses together. Designer bags bunched beside them. The new Russia.

  Aimée was dying to know what they were saying.

  Instead of moaning that she hadn’t taken Russian at the lycée like Martine had, she sat within earshot by the walk-in-sized butterscotch stone fireplace. Tried to figure out a plan.

  “Madame Bereskova, une petite signature, s’il vous plaît,” said another waiter, depositing a moisture-beaded bottle of Taittinger in the ice bucket.

  The diva signed the bill with a flourish.

  “Has Madame’s husband’s driver returned?” said the bodyguard.

  “I’ll check, Madame.” The first waiter bowed out with Pinky under his arm.

  “Our tour guide should arrive any moment. Please to ask her to join us.”

  Aimée had an idea. She pulled out her wallet, chose a card, then stood up.

  In the lobby, by a potted palm, stood a young woman with a cell phone to her ear and a badge that read DISCRIMINATING TOURS.

  “Mademoiselle Vanya?” Aimée said, reading her badge.

  The young woman smiled and clicked off her phone. “You’re Madame Bereskova’s assistant I spoke with?”

  She hesitated to get the woman in trouble. Thought fast. “May I speak with you in private?”

  “Is there a problem?” Her eyes were unsure. “Where’s the Russian woman who arranged the tour?”

  Aimée took her elbow. Guided her behind a pillar. “Change of plans. You’ve taken ill. Food poisoning. Instead of canceling, you’re sending in a replacement. Okay?”

  Mademoiselle Vanya’s jaw dropped.

  “Nod if you understand, Mademoiselle.”

  “I don’t understand. That’s my job.”

  Aimée scanned the lobby.

  “Who are you?” the young woman asked.

  “I’m with Monsieur Bereskova’s Paris security. Reports have alerted us to a threat. I’m to take over. He wishes me not to alarm Madame Bereskova. Compris?”

  Aimée saw the questions spinning in the woman’s mind. One was if she’d get paid for her time. Another was whether to believe Aimée or not.

  “Not to alarm you, but it’s imperative you cooperate,” Aimée said, flashing the generic security badge she kept for emergencies. “The firm will take care of your fee, of course. Now make the call. Sound convincing and here’s an extra hundred francs.”

  “Forget trying to bribe me,” she said. Her jaw stuck out, a defiant look in her eyes. “I’m calling my boss.”

  Great.

  “Then you’re trained to deal with kidnap attempts? Trained to disarm les explosifs? Handle armed combat and martial arts?”

  “But her husband arranged for lunch at the Ritz, a bilingual afternoon cultural tour, some sights—”

  “Someone slipped up. You should have been told,” Aimée interrupted, pointing to the one video camera in the ceiling woodwork. “We’re private security hired to guard his wife.”

  “You?”

  The woman needed more convincing and Aimée needed to hurry. Time for the matter-of-fact approach she’d gleaned from Chirac’s security detail.

  “As a woman, I blend in, people assume I’m a personal assistant,” she said. “Bien sûr, I’m trained in firearms, protective driving, countersurveillance, and bomb search. But it’s about being able to read a situation, identify threats—whether it’s the paparazzi, a kidnapper, or an assassin—and get my client to safety. If it comes down to conflict, I’ve failed my client and myself. We like to defuse potential threats before they become issues.”

  Aimée pulled out her phone. Pretended to consult it.

  “I suggest you cooperate before it’s too late. The doorman, if you didn’t notice, is one of ours.”

  She pointed to the uniformed doorman speaking into a headset. De rigueur in five-star hotels these days. She counted on the tour guide not to know that.

  “Easy to say. How do I know you’re a bodyguard, not a kidnapper?”

  Smart.

  “That’s going to have to be your call, isn’t it?” Aimée rolled her eyes. “At this moment we have a situation. A level-three threat.” She continued making it up as she went on. “Wives of Russian businessmen make prime targets these days. Serbians pick them off like candy.”

  Horror filled the young woman’s eyes.

  “I’d prefer not to make a scene, but either make that call or—”

  “Make it two hundred francs more worth my while,” she interrupted.

  Aimée cringed, hoping it would be worth it.

  In return the woman handed Aimée her tour guide pin. Pulled out her phone and hit speed dial. “Mademoiselle.…” followed by several phrases in hurried Russian. “Dosvedanya.”

  She pocketed the money and disappeared without a backward glance. Aimée waited ten minutes, using it to read Le Parisien’s business section, which she scanned until she found an article on the Russian oligarch business deals at the air trade show. The diva’s hubby, Bereskova, was a major player. It seemed the oligarch’s search for composite carbon parts necessary for plane fuselages had hit snags with the Ministry of Defense.

  Putting aside the flea market antiquaire, Tatyana stood to gain from the Modigliani—a guaranteed entrée for a babushka girl from the village to ride with the nouveau riche of Moscow.

  Tatyana would keep contact with the Serb’s cohort, needing him to make good on the deal. Find the painting.

  Aimée would have to get Tatyana aside, threaten her cover if she didn’t call the dog off.

  Russian oligarchs belonged to the select economic strata with enough disposable income for a Modigliani. Hadn’t Marcel just pointed out the limos of the Russian oligarchs’ wives—boutiquing while their husbands shopped for an air fleet? A Modigliani would be a plum treasure for a Russian collector.

  She prayed she could pull this off. In the marble restroom scented by floating gardenias in a matching marble fountain, she used a gold-braided linen hand towel. Touched up her eyes à la ELLE, smoky shadows to smolder.

  Smiling with an apologetic shrug, Aimée introduced herself to the women. “Your guide took ill,” she said, re-explaining the situation.

  Tatyana and the bodyguard looked her up and down. Did Tatyana’s gaze linger a second longer before turning to the diva?

  “The boring Ritz and some cultural tour?” The diva laughed. “No way.”

  Aimée’s heart sank. Thought fast on how she could use this. “Actually, the tour company suggested me because I conduct shopping tours also. I’m collaborating with my journalist friend on her book—Chic Pas Cher—a fashion guide to what Parisians wear. We’re doing a spread in ELLE.”

  That much was almost true.

  “ELLE?” The diva sat up. “Vogue’s my, how you say, bible.”

  Aimée beamed her a smile. “But ELLE’s au courant for the young set like you.”

  The diva ate that up—Aimée could tell—cocking an eyebrow at Tatyana, who grinned back like a lapdog. “I like this idea. We go shopping. You take us to where Parisiennes go.”

  “Hermès, Vuitton, you mean?” Aimée asked.

  “Nyet. Like you. You do good job,
get good tip.”

  In the Mercedes limo, the chauffeur tipped his blue cap. Large shoulders, Slavic cheekbones, and an accent. “The Ritz first, Madame Bereskova?”

  The diva leaned back in the seat and pointed at Aimée. “Change plans. Tell him.”

  Tatyana and the diva drank champagne from the bar in the back. The bodyguard, Svetla, poured and checked her cell phone. The women weren’t much for small talk with the help. Aimée racked her brain for a way to engage them, turn the conversation to the painting somehow. But the diva, not one for culture, flashed francs like Métro tickets. The chauffeur, stocky and phlegmatic, interested her. Even more when she noticed the bulge under his jacket. The oligarch kept his wife protected. She doubted the chauffeur had a license for that.

  “You with the KGB?” she winked.

  “We don’t call it that anymore. It’s the FSB,” he said. “Retired.”

  Great. His thin mouth set and he ignored her further attempts at conversation.

  But he couldn’t guard the diva in the changing room. Aimée hadn’t thought this through, as usual, but she’d seize whatever opportunity she could. Doubted she could keep the charade up too long; the guide might have second thoughts and check with her boss. She flicked on the tape recorder in her bag.

  The glass partition of the limo closed. Bad news. She had to bide her time until she got Tatyana alone. She directed the chauffeur to agnès b., then Lolita Lempicka, for starters.

  Aimée steered the diva away from a strapless teal wide-legged jumpsuit, and the flamenco-inspired tie shrug. Guided her to a bronze metal-mesh tunic, helped her accessorize with a tasseled clutch and T-strap heels.

  Tatyana stuck to the diva like glue, even in the dressing room. Two shops and several thousand francs later, Aimée understood none of what they said.

  While the diva was in the dressing room, Aimée stepped outside and called Marevna, the translator. Busy.

  “You are holding out,” said the diva, her voice shrill, when they were back in the limo. “We want fashion must-haves for the Parisienne. Why we not find more accessories?”

  Aimée cringed inside but smiled. “Excellent point. I can’t fool you. But you must understand, a Parisienne builds a seasonal wardrobe. Invests in certain basics, the foundation—” What had Martine said? “A good bag, coat, or jacket and heels. Then it’s simple to mix and match.”