Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,16
said. But how? Was her mother alive? Or was he using her? And if so, for what?
And Yuri Volodya wasn’t answering his phone.
Last month Morbier had alleged her mother had gone rogue—dealt with arms dealers and terrorists. But Serbs? Art theft?
Aimée had nothing to go on but nightmares involving tattoos. So many questions. She could kick herself for not insisting that Yuri explain everything then and there.
The milk steamer whooshed. Zazie, the owner’s red-haired preteen daughter, rinsed glasses before going to school. Businessmen and workers from the nearby Louvre downed espressos, slapped francs on the zinc counter, and rushed out into the pearl-gray morning light.
What had Yuri revealed, except that he knew her mother was American? And what could that possibly have to do with a dead Serb or a stolen painting? She shuddered. What in hell had this terrible accident gotten them all into?
She had half a mind to mount her scooter and go over to Volodya’s place, but she held back. Too much work waited upstairs, and with Saj in the hospital … and Yuri Volodya still wasn’t answering his phone.
Last night her cell battery had been low so she’d turned it off. But Leduc Detective’s office number was on the card, too. What if Yuri had called her at the office?
“René forgot this the other day, Aimée,” Zazie said, pushing something across the newly wiped chrome counter. “Mind giving this to him?”
His classic car magazine. Aimée dropped her demitasse spoon.
“What’s that look, Aimée?”
“René got an amazing job offer from Silicon Valley,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “He’s gone.”
“Just like that? Wow.” Zazie whistled. “René never mentioned it last time I saw him.”
“So incredible, they sent a private jet. They needed him right away.” Who could compete with that? Aimée pulled out her Chanel Red and in the gleaming reflection of the coffee machine reapplied her lipstick. She wished her hands didn’t shake. “Aren’t you late for l’école?”
“I’m in collège, Aimée. Remember?”
Almost twelve, or was it thirteen? “Of course.”
Zazie pulled her red hair back in a scrunchie and grabbed her book satchel. Paused. “Do you miss René?”
More than she cared to admit. Right now she wished she could talk with René, her sounding board and best friend. Hash out what had happened. “Zazie, he’s their new CTO—that means chief technology officer. Call me thrilled for him.”
“I miss him too,” Zazie said. She knotted her foulard, snuck a look behind the counter. Virginie, her mother, had her back turned. “May I try your lipstick, Aimée?”
Aimée slipped her the tube. “You’re growing up.”
“Fluctuat nec mergitur.” Zazie dabbed her lips and rubbed them together.
“My Latin’s rusty,” Aimée said. Drizzle pattered on the café’s street awnings.
“Means, ‘It is tossed by the waves but does not sink.’ ” Zazie grinned and placed the recapped lipstick on the counter. “That’s the motto on the Paris coat of arms. We learned that yesterday. Remember that, Aimée—tossed by the waves but does not sink.”
A wink and Zazie was gone in a gust of wet wind. A young boy with a book bag and an umbrella greeted her in front of the café door. Growing up, all right.
Aimée checked her phone for messages; still no word from Yuri Volodya or Serge the pathologist.
Time to head to work, check if Yuri had left a message on the office machine. And finish the report she and Saj should have worked on last night. She had a business to run, office rent to pay, and the rising cost of Miles Davis’s horse meat.
INSIDE HER UNHEATED building foyer, she bypassed the creaking wire-cage elevator and mounted the winding stairs. She needed the exercise. And time to steel herself for an office empty of René. And, she realized, no Saj either.
“Bonjour,” she greeted the new cleaning woman mopping the stairs, then continued up, keeping away from the banister to avoid snagging her leggings. She wished her waistband didn’t feel so tight.
A dim glow showed from behind the frosted glass-paned door of Leduc Detective. Hope filled her. Had this been a bad joke? Had René changed his mind?
“René.…” The words died on her lips.
“He gave me his key.” A rail-thin, mop-headed young man looked up from behind the keyboard at René’s desk. “I’m his student. He told you, non? A replacement.”
Her heart fell. No one could replace René.
She eyed the scuffed Beatle boots, which matched the tousled Beatle bangs fringing his eyes, the skinny jeans and the black turtleneck. This kid was René’s star hacker? He looked twelve.