Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,63
investigator reveals … the investigation continues.” Marcel shrugged. “Rumors of the Russians reneging on aerospace contracts at the trade show.” He gestured to the line of limos parked on rue de Rivoli. “At least the oligarchs’ wives don’t renege on their shopping sprees.”
The scent of the budding plane trees mingled with diesel exhaust from the Number 75 bus on rue du Louvre.
“No strikes today, Marcel?”
“Only one, the TGV.”
Good thing she hadn’t planned a railroad trip. “Mind taking Miles Davis to the groomer’s and dog sitting tonight?”
A flicker crossed Marcel’s face. “Hot date?”
She wished. “The glam life, Marcel. Work.”
Ten minutes later, she reached the corner café on Île de la Cité frequented by flics and administrators. A few doors down stood 3 rue de Lutèce. An anonymous door, no sign. Nothing to indicate the nest of vipers working here.
Notre Dame’s bell chimed. Right on time, a tall man in his late twenties rose from the café table, grabbed a briefcase, and took a few steps. She recognized him from the photo Michel kept on his desk.
“Raphael Dombasle?” she said. “I’m Aimée Leduc, Michel’s friend.”
“How did you know that …?”
“Forgive me, you’re in a hurry,” she said. “Let’s talk while we walk.”
“Try taking no for answer, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I need to brief them on the dossier for tomorrow’s hearing. The lawyer’s got thirty minutes.…”
“A Modigliani’s worth more than a Cézanne. I checked. Especially one that’s been hidden for seventy years.”
Dombasle’s shoulders jerked. “What’s your name again?”
“Aimée Leduc, détective privé.”
He glanced at his sports watch. “Give me thirty-five minutes. But it better be worth it.”
She nodded. “Back here.” She pointed to the café table he’d risen from.
“Too many people I know.” He lifted his chin. “Café du Soleil d’Or on the other corner.”
Too many ghosts for her there. But she nodded.
AIMÉE TOOK AN inside table at the window. Memories drenched the old bistro—the back banquette where she’d done her geography homework while her grand-père bantered with the owner over a bottle of wine. Her father had been denounced by a colleague at the bar, humiliated in front of off-duty officers. They’d engineered for him to be thrown off the force.
She’d vindicated him, but only years later, after his death.
“Mademoiselle Aimée?”
She smiled up at Louis, the owner and her grandfather’s drinking partner. “How’s your wife, Hélène?”
Louis’s eyes clouded. “Her funeral was last month. We held the wake here, didn’t Morbier tell you?”
“I’m sorry.” Saddened, she took Louis’s hand and squeezed it. A generation was passing. “I would have come if I’d known.” Would she have? She averted her eyes.
“Couldn’t face them, could you?”
“The old-boy network who accused Papa?” She caught her breath, wishing she’d bitten her tongue. Her father’s supposed friends, who kicked him when he fell. Yet all of them were still in power at 36 quai des Orfèvres.
“Then why come here today, Mademoiselle?” He set a carafe of water on her round marble-topped table. “Seems you can’t forgive and forget.”
“I’m investigating, Louis.”
“So you want to bend a flic’s ear?”
“He better bend my ear.” She winked. “Information.”
A little smile cracked his wrinkled face. “Just like your grand-père. You learned from the best. But a fille like you should be having babies. Your grand-père wanted.…” He paused. “Women do it all these days, they say, juggle a job, children.”
Not this again. She’d heard those words often before. “I need wider hips, Louis.”
But Louis snapped his finger at the waiter smoking on the pavement and motioned to a table with patrons waiting to order. Always hands-on. “The usual?” Louis asked.
She nodded. A few minutes later, Louis set a Perroquet on the table. She diluted the intense green mint syrup with water from the carafe, and sipped the anise-flavored Pernod. From the window she watched the sun-drenched balconies of the blackened stone préfecture, the mid-morning throngs in line for the Sainte-Chapelle, workers spilling from offices to smoke on the pavement or heading to the bus stop. Pulsing with energy like always.
“That seat taken?”
That deep voice shook her to the core. Surprised, she looked up to see Morbier.
He held a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger in one hand, a cell phone in the other. Today the bags under his eyes were less pronounced, his clean-shaven chin showed less pallor, and he looked almost relaxed. Morbier, relaxed?
The ironed blue shirt, the tie, the whiff of Vetiver cologne, no stains on his corduroy jacket for once—it all spoke of promotion. Had that case been closed with her help?