Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,71
on the window. “What about the Roma, the Gypsies on rue Raymond Losserand?” Many a time she’d seen women sitting on the street corner begging with a child in arms. Saj called it the shame of the quartier.
“From encampments beyond the Périphérique? Sad.” Sheila shook her head. “The bosses drive them here in vans, drop them on the corner to ‘work’ begging. The bosses take it all when they pick them up. Beat them when they don’t make their quota.”
Horrible.
Just then, she remembered Saj’s disgusting rabbit pellets, his stress busters. She found them by the window.
“Change the digicode.” Aimée gave her a card—no Leduc Detective logo, just her name and number. “Keep your eyes open and call if you see anything, okay?”
Halfway through the courtyard, she bent down to examine something yellow in the cobble crack. A damp bit of hay.
Sheila’s voice called from the upstairs window. “Maybe it’s nothing but … I remember he had a long coat on under his jacket.”
“Like a lab coat? Hospital worker?”
“Like that, but blue. And a blue cap.”
But where had the straw come from? The last farm in Paris battling the wrecking ball lay not far from here, on Tombe Issoire, sheltering squatters and artists. She almost grasped the connection, felt it bubbling up then eluding her.
Write it down, her father had always said, even if it appears random. Then connect the dots later. Boring, tedious, and the way the investigations got done. Tiny details contributed evidence in the most banal way. “That’s why we’re called poulets, chickens in the farmyard pecking for a crumb,” he’d say, “a seed sprouting into a detail.” “Non, Papa,” she’d reply, “you’re called poulets because the préfecture’s built on the ancient chicken market.” “True, ma princesse,” he’d say, “but we still peck for details. Details nail your perp, make your case. Nothing else.”
At her scooter, she jotted down notes, put the bit of straw in her pocket and Saj’s clothes in her helmet compartment. She dialed Saj.
“Please listen, Saj. You’re staying with me and Miles Davis for a while. No argument.”
“Has something happened to my place?”
“It’s not safe,” she said, feeling inadequate. “I’ve got you a change of clothes.”
A sigh. “I’ll stay at René’s. It’s closer and he’s got more equipment. He gave me the key. I should water his plants.”
“Bon. The alarm installed yet?”
“As we speak. Any good news?”
“Straw mean anything to you?”
“Not off the top of my head … a Serbian farm?”
“More later. Keep the door locked and alarmed.”
Suddenly she had a flash of realization. Stupid, why hadn’t she put this together before? Oleg mentioned a buyer, admitted Tatyana hired the Serb. Tatyana bragged to Yuri about her old schoolmate who had married to a Russian oligarch. What if the oligarch’s wife was the buyer? A slim shot, but right now the only one to pursue. Time to speak with Tatyana, the brains behind this, to call off the Serb.
By the time she pulled up on her scooter at Villa Leone, her bad feeling mounted. Beyond the passage’s Moorish arched gateway was a stretch of irregular cobblestones, geraniums and ivy trailing the walls of old wooden ateliers. A rustic, faded charm lingered on Villa Leone in a run-down nineteenth-century way—forgotten ateliers and wash hung out under the dripping vines.
On the corner, a Peugeot started up. Moments later Oleg rushed out and jumped in the passenger seat. With a grinding of gears, the Peugeot headed toward rue d’Alésia. The same blonde at the wheel of the same car Oleg drove off in last night. Evidently, Tatyana wore the babushka in the family.
Aimée followed, leaving two cars between them. At the stoplight, she squinted to see into the car. Two heads bobbing, hands waving. Oleg stepped out and slammed the door at the Plaisance Métro, scowling. Looked like an argument.
Aimée kept behind the Peugeot, zipping through the yellow lights to keep up. Not fifteen minutes later, they crossed the Pont de l’Alma, over the tunnel where Princess Diana’s Mercedes crashed, and past the heaps of fresh flowers brought daily in her memory. Tatyana veered into Avenue Montaigne, deep in the triangle d’or—the golden triangle, or luxe land, as Martine called it—the wedge of wealth bordered by the Champs-Elysées and the Seine, showcasing designer couture such as Yves Saint Laurent, Dior, Hermès. These days, no self-respecting, budget-minded, fashion-conscious French woman emptied her pocketbook on the avenue of haute couture, according to Martine, who knew these things. They left this province to the wives of sheikhs and foreign billionaires.