Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,19

politics, his bookbinding business, something with Salvador Dalí.”

“The works, Aimée?”

She nodded, rummaging in her drawer for a fresh cell phone. Thank God René kept them charged. She found a midnight-blue one and inserted her SIM card.

“Can you handle things?”

“I’m on it, Aimée.”

“Keep in contact with me at this number. Check with me on the hour. Don’t forget to monitor the reports.” She double-looped her scarf, grabbed her metallic ballet flats and stuck them in her bag. It was time to test Maxence’s efficiency and get to what needed doing. To where Leduc started. Grass roots.

“Good luck holding down”—she paused—how did they say it across the pond?—“le fort.”

A shrug. “If the Indians attack?”

“Arrows in the back,” she said over her shoulder.

AIMÉE KEYED THE ignition, popped into first gear, and wove her faded pink scooter through the congested traffic on Quai de la Mégisserie. Ten minutes later, she parked on the rain-dampened cobbles near the redbrick Institut Médico-Légal entrance. In the morgue’s waiting hall, busts of medical pioneers looked down on her, impassive and marble-eyed.

Last night’s incidents replayed in her mind with slow clarity: arguing with Saj, that white van pulling out, the terrible thump and those dull eyes of the Serb, his splayed palms pressed on the windshield for what seemed like forever but was only a few seconds.

The image was burned onto the backs of her eyelids.

Her trilling cell phone interrupted her thoughts. Yuri? But her caller ID showed Martine, her best friend since lycée.

“My publisher commissioned me to write a book, Aimée,” Martine said, excited. “A guide to looking chic.”

The last thing she wanted to hear about right now. “Congratulations, Martine.”

“I think I’ve got the main theme down. Alors, fashion sense involves mix and match,” Martine said. “Like you—it’s never just one look.”

“Moi?”

“But you’re the one who taught me to assemble outfits, make magic with two scarves. How to stock the definitive armoire. Zut, you schooled me in all the must-haves: a man’s jacket, le trenchcoat, a black sweater,” Martine rattled on. “A simple tank top, white silk blouse, a little black dress, jeans and, of course, a leather jacket. And Converse sneakers.”

“You know my feelings about tank tops,” Aimée said, shaking her head. “But you’re a serious journalist, Martine.”

“So I should refuse an outrageous advance?” Aimée heard the flick of a lighter. “I can write this in my sleep,” Martine said. A short intake of breath. “Not to mention I can use you, Aimée. Your mix of classic styles, déconstruit, that thrown-together look with a whiff of vintage. A touch of whimsy.”

“We share clothes, Martine. C’est tout.”

“But it’s how you throw them together, Aimée,” Martine said. “Tell me you’ll give me tidbits, help me do the tie-in spread for ELLE. Okay?”

Now, of all times.

“Martine, René took the job in Silicon Valley. Phfft—gone. Just like that,” Aimée said. “Compris? I’ve got a business to run.”

Not to mention saving her colleague from manslaughter charges. Or from the dead tattooed Serb’s partner.

“But René told you about his interview,” said Martine. Aimée heard a long exhale. Imagined the gray spiral of smoke, the taste of nicotine, the jolt. “Alors, they recruited him, those Silicon Valley … quoi?” Martine searched for the word. “ ‘ead’unters.”

“Headhunters, you mean?”

“Open your eyes once in a while, Aimée, before it’s too late,” Martine said. “Are you coping okay?”

All alone now. That old feeling of abandonment rose. Aimée bit her lip. “I want the best for René.”

A sigh. “Put yourself in René’s size twos. He’s gutted after losing Meizi. And haven’t you always worried over his health, how the cold worsens his hip issues? Never mind the money they offered.” Martine exhaled again. “He’s brilliant. You had to let him go.”

“As if I’d stop him even if I could,” she said. “Look, I’m at the morgue.”

“Who did you kill now?”

“Not me.” Pause. “We had an accident.”

“Et alors?” Another exhale of smoke. “There’s more. I hear it in what you’re not saying. Spill.”

Aimée could never keep anything from Martine for long. She sighed and then gave a quick version of what had happened the night before. “And to top it all off, I’ve let myself get so flabby and out of shape. Some fashion icon you’ll think I am when you see how tight my waistband is lately.”

“Saj totaled René’s car?” Martine said. “Get it fixed. But mon Dieu, are you saying now you can’t fit into the Dior?” She meant the blue vintage Dior they found at the winter sales. “Bad enough René is missing your cousin Sebastien’s