Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,68

could get out of the way … but she couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.

“Why’s the fixer important?”

“The old geezer hid the painting,” Flèche said. “The bitch told me everything. We stuck her head under water like they did to the old geezer.…”

Morgane struggled but her wrists didn’t budge. “Idiot,” she said. “You won’t find the painting that way.”

As she’d feared, Flèche had rushed in headlong and now half the world would know. He’d brought attention and trouble to the door. If only she could cut her losses. Run.

“She’s right,” the voice said. Morgane realized now it was a woman’s voice. Low, rasping, a foreign accent. “So that was you. Are you going to do that again?”

“I’m on that Leduc until she coughs up, or else …” Flèche said.

Morgane heard the hiss of a match lighting. A swift inhale. Could taste the plume of smoke Flèche exhaled. Idiot.

“Or else what?” the woman asked in that curious accent.

“I’ll make her talk.”

“Wrong answer. Pity, Flèche. Stupid nickname—for an arrow, you’re dull as a post.”

“Tant pis,” Flèche said, his footsteps moving past her. That smell of cigarettes that clung to his clothes. “You want a bigger cut, why do you deserve it?”

She had to warn this woman. Even though she’d attacked Morgane, bound her and threatened her, Morgane trusted her more than this idiot who’d get her killed.

“He’s got a knife strapped to his leg,” she said.

“That’s too bad, Flèche. I don’t like uncooperative types.”

Morgane heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver cartridge clicking into place. An intake of breath.

“And no need to look for the fixer anymore,” the woman said. “Here I am.”

“What the …?”

The rest was drowned in the crack of a gunshot. Morgane tried to make herself small. Sounds of shattering glass and a loud thump on the floor next to her. What felt like a man’s arm—Flèche’s—hitting her shoulder. Morgane shivered in terror. Then an oozing, warm wetness on her sleeve. That metallic smell. Her fingers came back sticky with blood.

She tried to scream but it froze in her throat. Nothing came out.

Her body tensed, expecting the gunshot. Expecting to die. But she couldn’t force her mouth open to plead for her life. Could only sputter a few words. “My son … needs me … I beg you.…”

Only the chill draft from an open door answered her.

Wednesday

DOUBTS CLOGGED AIMÉE’S mind like the leaves stuck in the quai’s rain-swollen gutters. Dombasle’s informant antiquaire orchestrating a buy of a Modigliani at the flea market—it all seemed too easy.

Or maybe she was paranoid.

But it reminded her of the apricot tart her grandmother left to cool on the windowsill one long-ago summer afternoon—a flock of crows had swooped down and left not even a crumb. Was there a swarm of scavengers picking each other off for the prize?

She needed a plan, quick and dirty. Grabbed her cell phone.

Oleg answered on the first ring.

“Mademoiselle Leduc, you’ve thought of something? Want to talk?”

Still rude. He’d kept her number on his caller ID.

“Call off the Serbs and I’m more than ready.”

A snort. “I don’t understand.”

Damp air laced with the fresh scent of rain hovered on the quai. Aimée shook the water off her Vespa cover, took out her keys, and shouldered her bag. The sporadic showers made one feel damp all the time, her grand-mère used to complain. Nothing ever dried.

“Didn’t you send the goon last night to plunge my head in a bucket, like he tortured your stepfather?”

A swift intake of breath. “What?”

“Lucky my godfather’s a flic and—”

“Nothing to do with me,” Oleg interrupted. “You’re wrong.”

A bus whooshed by, spraying water from the puddles. She stepped back but not in time. Droplets shimmered on her leather leggings. “Act like that,” she said, irritated, wiping herself off with a café napkin from her bag. “No information then.”

“Either you have the Modigliani or you don’t,” he said.

This wasn’t going well. Accusing him might not have been the best plan. But she had a feeling.

“Oleg, you’re in the dark with a buyer and no painting,” she said. “Guess we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

“Attends, I never intended for this to get out of hand.”

Her foot paused on the kickstart. Her hand gripped the phone. “What do you mean?”

“The buyer’s anxious.”

“So you hire someone to threaten me?”

“Never. You’re crazy.” His voice rose a notch.

“But to kill your own—”

“I’d never hurt Yuri. Ever.”

“Expect me to believe that? He sent you away, never regarded you as his.…”

“Son?” Oleg said. “You don’t understand. Tatyana—we never thought the Serb would die. That you’d run him