Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,15

get nowhere. Or lie and try to worm out info. Stall and hope that Nora would … what, go on a break? With a strike going on?

“I just visited my neighbor, a stroke victim,” she said. “Thought I’d see if my old roommate Nora could have coffee on her break.” She tried for her most sympathetic look. “But what happened to you?”

A quick shake of his head. “Doing my job.”

“Hazard pay, that’s what I’m always saying to Morbier,” she said. “You men on the front lines deserve it.”

Delisle shrugged. But she could tell he liked that. He thawed more and grew talkative, revealed that a slick operator had taken advantage of the normal chaos of a shift change to talk his way in.

He’d be on his guard, then. She had a feeling that with this one her best bet was laying it on thick. “But how?” she said. “I mean, you’re so on top of it. The floor’s a locked facility.”

She hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

Delisle’s pager beeped. Eager to answer his page, he hit the elevator button. The door swooshed open. He gestured her inside.

So far her attempt at charm had gotten her nowhere. Aimée got off on the next floor and hiked back up the concrete stairs to an EXIT sign. She figured Nora still hit the coffin nails. On the fire escape outside the EXIT door, several nurses stood smoking. The Seine, khaki green below, crested with waves from the gliding bateaux-mouches.

Good luck, for once. Nora, a petite brunette, was crushing out a cigarette on the metal slat. Thank God.

“Nora?”

Nora looked up, grinned. “Didn’t you quit smoking, Aimée?”

“Three days short of two months,” she said. “But who’s counting?” Aimée wished she didn’t want to snatch a drag so much. “Nora, can you do me a favor?”

“Now?” Nora said. “We’re short-staffed, there’s a strike. I’m not even supposed to take a break.” Nora opened the EXIT door to the back stairway. “I’ve got to get back or there’ll be trouble.”

Aimée needed to probe, and quick. “My colleague’s a patient, Saj de Rosnay. Know of him?”

Nora thought a moment. “The blond with dreads, like a Rasta? Indian clothes?”

Aimée nodded.

“Not hard on the eyes, either,” she said. “His vitals look good, X-rays normal, no fractures, under normal observation for his neck injury, took his pain meds.”

Nora’s pager vibrated.

“Alors, forgive me, Nora, but they’re trying to nail Saj for manslaughter. Now robbery’s involved. This Serb—”

“Serb?” Nora interrupted, frowning. “A Serb showed up demanding to see the accident victim—your colleague.”

The hairs on Aimée’s neck rose. The Serb’s partner? “That’s what the scuffle was this morning?”

“That’s not half of it,” Nora said as Aimée followed her up the stone back stairs. “The angry Serb was trying to visit his brother. Or so he said. Then claimed there was some family emergency. Lied through his set of whites.”

All kinds of fear spun in her mind. “The Serb got Saj’s name?”

“Who knows? Change of shift’s always chaotic,” Nora said. “Still, even if he did, no one gets in the ward unless they’re part of the medical staff or law enforcement. Tant pis.” She glanced at her watch. “Gotta go.”

“What did he look like?”

“Never saw him.”

“If he caused a scene, someone would remember. Markings, accent, his clothing?”

“Smelled like a barnyard, they said.” Nora shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

Aimée wrote down a message on the back of her card. “Can you get this to Saj, please?”

“I’m not supposed to, Aimée.”

“Please, Nora. If this Serb’s looking for him, he needs to be warned. Moved to another ward.”

“Why?”

“Saj ran over his brother last night.”

“ ‘Ran over’ as in the brother’s dead?”

“As in an accident,” Aimée said. She had to enlist Nora’s aid. “It was like he was dropped on the windshield. His ashen face, white hand … I can’t stop seeing him in my mind. But the odd thing, Nora—no blood. But one Serb is dead, and now another is asking for Saj.…”

Alarm crossed Nora’s face. She nodded and slipped the paper in her pocket. Her clogs clipped over the stone and then she was gone. Aimée’s insides churned. Even under police supervision, Saj wasn’t safe.

IN THE CAFÉ below Leduc Detective, Aimée cupped her bowl of café crème, the froth swirling over the cup’s lip. Like the whirlpool in her mind.

The café windows were fogged up and the whole place smelled faintly of damp wool overcoat. The radio was tuned to the soccer scores. But she could only think of how Yuri Volodya owed her mother. Or so he