Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,2
could dupe into assisting him. It always went like this with Morbier. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate right now after losing her business partner, René, to Silicon Valley.
The light of the desk lamp on Morbier’s sagging jowls illuminated how he’d aged. Despite her annoyance with him, her heart wrenched a little.
“Then you double owe me, Morbier.” She kissed him on both cheeks, then grabbed her jean jacket from the rack. She nodded to an officer she recognized from his undercover unit before she noticed Saj de Rosnay, the cash-poor aristocrat and Leduc Detective’s part-time hacker, standing at reception.
“You need bail, Aimée?” Saj worried the sandalwood beads around his neck.
“Non, just a ride, Saj. And I borrowed your thumb-drive—owe you a new one. We’ve got work to do tonight. Feel like takeout?”
“But I thought you’d been arrested.” He sniffed. “Drinking?” His jaw dropped. “What the hell have you been doing?”
“Morbier and I made up, but I had to play his game.”
“Didn’t look like poker to me.” His eyebrows rose.
“He needed last-minute help with a sting. Long story.”
Outside on the dark, narrow street, the locked exit of the Catacombs glowed under a street lamp. The car was parked in front of an old forge, horseshoes visible high on the façade. Saj unlocked the door for her. He took the wheel of René’s beloved vintage Citroën DS, a classic entrusted to Saj temporarily until René had a chance to settle in San Francisco. Saj readjusted the custom seat controls, which were usually fitted for René’s short legs. A pang went through her.
“You know, that could have gone very badly,” Saj told her. “You took my technology without asking—what if I had had important client files on that drive? Warn me next time, Aimée, when you’re putting the business at risk.”
Her cheeks reddened as the Citroën’s heated leather seat began to warm her derrière. “Desolée, Saj, I didn’t think—”
“Comme toujours,” Saj interrupted, exasperation in his tone. “Isn’t it time you started thinking of the consequences before jumping into these dangerous schemes?”
Guilt assailed her. This was worse than her usual tactlessness—she’d been plain stupid. She needed Saj more than ever right now; she couldn’t afford to lose him. Or stress him out. “Saj, I only had two hours to put this together. But you’re right,” she said, trying to sound contrite.
“What about my thumb-drive prototypes? I’m supposed to test them.”
“I only borrowed one.” She unclipped her hoop earrings, wondering how to make it up to him. “La police kept it as evidence. You’ll get it back with the court files erased and good as new.”
A crow cawed from outside the car window. There it was, looking down on the church, perched on the charcuterie’s façade. She caught its beady black-eyed stare. Bad luck, her grand-mère would say.
“I won’t hold my breath,” Saj said, shifting into first.
“Consider the thumb-drive a rental. Morbier needs me to testify.” She cringed at the thought. She hated the cold marble-floored tribunal, the smell of fear and authority.
Saj didn’t reply, just nudged the Citroën out into the street. Aimée ran her fingers through her blonde-streaked shag-cut hair, wishing she hadn’t run out of mousse. An evening of reports stretched ahead. They were barely coping with René’s workload.
“It’s a good time for you to start being honest with me about your other side-jobs.” A thick envelope landed in her lap. The second tonight.
“What’s this?” she asked, surprised.
“You tell me,” Saj said.
Inside the envelope she found a bundle of worn franc notes and a card embossed with YURI VOLODYA, 14 VILLA D’ALÉSIA and a phone number. On the back: Accept this retainer. Contact me. Urgent.
She had no idea who this Yuri Volodya was. “Out of the blue, this man gives you … when?”
“This afternoon.”
“Une petite seconde, did you speak with him?”
Saj said, “I told him to call you.”
She’d turned her cell phone ringer off. Now she checked for messages. The same number had called twice but left no message.
“Some scam?” Another five thousand francs tonight. “We’re busy. How could you accept this without an explanation?”
“I didn’t—he mentioned being a family friend. Protecting his painting. Said you’d understand.”
“Understand?” She shook her head. “What did he mean, family friend? You think an old colleague of my father’s?”
“Your mother, he said.”
For a moment everything shifted; she felt the oxygen being sucked from the car. Her pulse thudded. Her American mother, who was on the world security watch list? “How did he know my mother?”