Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,37
his phone, so she left a message. Damien’s name was next. It was time she spoke with him.
RUE DE CHTILLON, the next narrow street over, paralleled Villa d’Alésia. Earlier, climbing Yuri’s back wall, she’d noticed little of it, except the bit of hay she found clinging to the rosemary.
Now, trying to figure out how the killer escaped, she eyed the maison de maître, typical bourgeois townhouse shutters framing its tall windows. Why did it strike her as familiar? It was fronted by what would have been a rose garden in the nineteenth century, now weed-choked patches of grass and wild lilac. The sign at the gate indicated the house’s current function was a youth job training center.
She found Damien’s printing shop further in, beyond an open-gated courtyard. On the cobbles under the chestnut tree, a man in blue overalls loaded the back of a camionnette. A few stacks of playbills for theaters, concert posters, and ads for a traveling circus. Posters emblazoned with STOP THE DEVELOPERS in red were bundled against the wall on wood pallets.
The pounding of the printing press competed with the chirping of birds in the bushes.
“Monsieur, I’m looking for Damien Perret.”
“Come to pick up the posters, eh? All ready, Damien made sure.”
He mistook her for someone from the demonstration.
She shook her head and smiled. “Where’s the office?”
“Inside and to the left,” he said. “But he’s with his aunt at the hospital.”
Great. “Any idea where he went Saturday?”
“You mean deliveries?” The man rubbed his neck. He was bald and overweight.
She thought quickly. “That’s it, regarding a delivery order we received Saturday.”
“I don’t think so.” His eyes narrowed.
“Can you check?”
“Don’t need to. Today’s our delivery day.”
Stupid to lie when she didn’t know the schedule.
“Damien used the camionnette that afternoon,” he said. “Helped the old man.”
Yuri.
He eyed her legs. “Maybe I can help.”
Not the help she needed.
“Florent!” A shout came from inside the glass-roofed printing works.
He dusted off his thick palms. Winked. “Don’t go away.”
Like hell she’d wait for him. But she stared at the inside of the camionnette. Stacked full to the roof. She peered through the open front window. Old newspapers on the floor, Styrofoam cups, candy wrappers, and detritus strewn below the passenger seat. She looked closer at the newspapers; something was unusual. They were copies of Le Matin, yellowed, the typeface faded. A newspaper her grandfather had read that didn’t exist anymore. She reached in, unfolded a crumpled portion. The date—February 1920—above an article about horse cart traffic dangers on Boulevard du Montparnasse.
No doubt this came from Yuri’s father’s belongings. What if there was more? She glanced around. No Florent or other workers. She opened the passenger door, went through the trash on the floor again. Nothing else of interest but a parking ticket. She dropped it, then picked it up again. A hefty one hundred francs. She looked at the date. Saturday, issued at 3 P.M.—the time Damien and Yuri had gone out. The address: 34 rue Marie Rose.
“Guess you’d like to ride on my deliveries with me, eh?”
She felt hot garlic breath in her ear. The texture of Florent’s grease-stained overalls on her arm.
“In your dreams.”
Then a knee was shoved between her legs. Rough arms shoving her onto the seat. Hands pinning her legs. Panic raced through her. The way he had eyed her should have put her on high alert. His thick fingers dug into her skin.
“You know you want it,” Florent said.
How could she be so stupid?
Monday Early Evening, Silicon Valley
RENÉ GRIPPED THE leather armrest as Bob backed the Cadillac into a narrow-looking spot in the gravel parking lot. “Can’t beat this place. Best burgers in the Valley, René.”
A weathered neon sign read GROVER’S above a diner off the Avenue of the Fleas.
“Millionaires eat here?”
“They weren’t always millionaires.” Bob grinned. “You wanted Americana—where real people and geeks eat. Doesn’t get greasier or more authentic than this.”
René noticed the meal portions as they walked by the booths. Gigantic. A single plate looked like it could feed a whole table.
On the wall of their plastic-upholstered booth was a jukebox. Bob slotted in quarters and hit some keys. “Green River” by Creedence Clearwater blasted from speakers overhead.
“The usual, Bob?” asked the waitress, an older woman.
Bob nodded. “And two Buds. For my friend here.…”
“What’ll it be, hon?” she said, slapping down a menu.
René’s chest hit the edge of the Formica table. “What he’s having, Madame. But a smaller portion.”
“Kid’s cheeseburger, all right?”
René nodded.
She winked a blue-shadowed eyelid. Scribbled on her order pad. “Got it. My