Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,3
No answer. “What else did he say?”
“That’s all.” Saj shrugged. “Even if his money’s good, this smells bad. Alors, Aimée, we need to keep on track. We need to spend our time figuring out how to juggle all René’s projects and keep our existing clients happy. We don’t have time for whatever this is.”
Anxious, she tried the man’s number again. She needed to know more. A friend of her mother’s? But no answer.
“We will sort it all out, Saj. But turn around. Let’s meet this Monsieur Volodya.”
“Didn’t you say takeout?” Saj said.
The last thing Aimée was in the mood for was food. But she needed to do something for Saj. She also needed to talk to this man Yuri, and return his money. Her nerves jangled.
“Yes, takeout,” she said. “My treat.”
Saj downshifted off the boulevard into the honeycomb of tiny lanes of small houses, ateliers, and old warehouses. A longtime resident, he knew the best routes to take at this time of night. The quartier was a less well-heeled bourgeois-bohemian version of adjoining Montparnasse, complete with mounting rents. Saj complained that the former ateliers of famous Surrealists like Picasso now belonged to bohemian-chic residents whose trust funds couldn’t quite afford the 6th arrondissement.
Twenty minutes later the couscous végétarien takeout sat on the backseat, the turmeric and mint smells reminding Aimée she’d forgotten dinner. But she had no appetite. Yuri Volodya still didn’t answer his phone. Was it worth going to the address on the card? Part of her wanted Saj to drop her off at the Métro so she could head home and collapse in her bed. The other part knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she discovered why he’d sent this, and what his connection was to her mother.
The Citroën bumped over the cobbles. She wished Saj would slow down. He unclipped his seat belt, reached in the backseat for his madras cloth bag. Popped some pills from a pill case.
“What’s wrong? Your chakras misaligned again?”
“Try some.” He dropped a fistful of brown pellets into her hand. “Herbal stress busters. Works every time, remember?”
“Bien sûr,” she said, chewing her lip. His fungus-scented pellets reminded her of rabbit droppings. “We’ll make it work without René,” she added. “We should think of his amazing job offer. This opportunity for him.”
Inside she thought only of the hole he’d leave. Selfish Aimée, as usual.
“René didn’t trust me or the business, Saj. Avec raison,” she said, hating to admit it. She couldn’t compete with René’s job offer—six figures, stock options, and the title of CTO, Chief Technology Officer.
“Maybe René doesn’t trust himself right now,” Saj said, pensive. Apart from the purring motor, quiet filled the car. He was right; René had moped around, couldn’t concentrate after his broken heart.
“We should do some more asana breathing sessions,” Saj went on. “It will expand your awareness and you’ll feel less stressed.”
Not this again. She almost threw the pellets at him.
“Make a right here, Saj.” She hoped they hadn’t made a wasted trip.
He turned into Villa d’Alésia, a tree-lined lane lit by old-fashioned lampposts. Suddenly, a white van lurched in front of them. Saj honked the horn and downshifted. The van shot ahead, its hanging muffler scraping the cobbles, and turned out of sight.
Aimée scanned the house numbers for number fourteen. From the corner of her eye she caught a figure flashing in front of the Citroën’s grill. A man’s blue jean jacket shone in the headlights’ yellow beam.
“Look out, Saj!” she shouted.
Horrified, her right arm shot out against the dashboard, while out of instinct she threw her other arm protectively across Saj’s chest.
Saj punched the brakes. Squeals and then a horrible thump as the man hit the windshield. For a second the man’s pale face pressed against the glass, his half-lidded eyes vacant, his palms splayed.
The man crumpled off the side of the car as Saj veered to the side. Too late. The Citroën jolted, hitting an old parked Mercedes. The metal screeched as it accordioned; the car shuddered. Cold air tinged by burning rubber poured over her face.
The impact set off the alarms of parked cars, a shrill honking cacophony. A hiss of steam escaped the Citroën’s crushed radiator.
Her bag had fallen from the dashboard—mascara, keys, and encryption manuals spilling on the floor. Saj’s body hung over the steering wheel. Good God, he’d taken off his seat belt.
“Saj, can you hear me?”
He stirred, rubbed his head.
“The mec came out of nowhere,” he said. And before she could struggle out of her seat belt,