Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,72

Peugeot pulled into the Hôtel Plaza Athénée drive. She recognized the Plaza Athénée logo from the brochure in Oleg’s pocket. Red geraniums adorned the balconies, framed by stone art nouveau carvings. Expensive taste. Odds were Tatyana was visiting her old school friend and had disinvited Oleg.

Tatyana handed the keys to the valet and, with a swish of her long red leather coat, flounced past the bowing doorman. Too bad the hotel detective Aimée had known retired last Christmas. But he had always complained that this five-star hotel hadn’t upgraded their video surveillance. Or staff rooms. A tightwad for a manager, he said.

Aimée parked on a side street. She exchanged her ballet flats for heels, her helmet for the red wig she kept in the customized storage compartment under the seat installed by her cousin Sebastien. Minutes later, wearing oversize Dior sunglasses, her trenchcoat belt knotted, she smiled at the doorman.

The lobby exuded privilege: fresh sprays of white roses everywhere, gleaming marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and Louis XV chairs. From the adjoining bar she heard Russian conversation punctuated by peals of laughter. A woman wearing tight jeans, open-toed snakeskin stilettos, and an enormous bored pout passed Aimée in a cloud of amber perfume. She held a cell phone in each hand. All she lacked was an entourage. This diva made even the mauve Givenchy she wore look tacky. Tatyana, sitting in this group of three women, leaned forward laughing and hanging on the diva’s every word.

The third member, a sleek-haired brunette in a black pantsuit, scanned the bar and checked her cell phone every few minutes. A personal assistant, a trainer? Aimée hedged her bets on a bodyguard.

The diva nudged the bodyguard, who snapped her fingers at the waiter.

Aimée moved closer to hear. The bodyguard pointed to a menu. “Da, oui, please to order from the dog menu. Steak haché for Pinky. But first, please to take him for walk.”

The diva deposited a Chihuahua with an eighteen-karat-gold collar into the hands of the black-vested waiter. Not an unusual task in his job, judging by his servile expression.

“À votre service,” said the waiter, smiling at the little rat of a canine.

Aimée hoped the diva tipped well. The waiter deserved it. But the rich were different, n’est-ce pas?

The diva and Tatyana clinked frosted cocktail glasses together. Designer bags bunched beside them. The new Russia.

Aimée was dying to know what they were saying.

Instead of moaning that she hadn’t taken Russian at the lycée like Martine had, she sat within earshot by the walk-in-sized butterscotch stone fireplace. Tried to figure out a plan.

“Madame Bereskova, une petite signature, s’il vous plaît,” said another waiter, depositing a moisture-beaded bottle of Taittinger in the ice bucket.

The diva signed the bill with a flourish.

“Has Madame’s husband’s driver returned?” said the bodyguard.

“I’ll check, Madame.” The first waiter bowed out with Pinky under his arm.

“Our tour guide should arrive any moment. Please to ask her to join us.”

Aimée had an idea. She pulled out her wallet, chose a card, then stood up.

In the lobby, by a potted palm, stood a young woman with a cell phone to her ear and a badge that read DISCRIMINATING TOURS.

“Mademoiselle Vanya?” Aimée said, reading her badge.

The young woman smiled and clicked off her phone. “You’re Madame Bereskova’s assistant I spoke with?”

She hesitated to get the woman in trouble. Thought fast. “May I speak with you in private?”

“Is there a problem?” Her eyes were unsure. “Where’s the Russian woman who arranged the tour?”

Aimée took her elbow. Guided her behind a pillar. “Change of plans. You’ve taken ill. Food poisoning. Instead of canceling, you’re sending in a replacement. Okay?”

Mademoiselle Vanya’s jaw dropped.

“Nod if you understand, Mademoiselle.”

“I don’t understand. That’s my job.”

Aimée scanned the lobby.

“Who are you?” the young woman asked.

“I’m with Monsieur Bereskova’s Paris security. Reports have alerted us to a threat. I’m to take over. He wishes me not to alarm Madame Bereskova. Compris?”

Aimée saw the questions spinning in the woman’s mind. One was if she’d get paid for her time. Another was whether to believe Aimée or not.

“Not to alarm you, but it’s imperative you cooperate,” Aimée said, flashing the generic security badge she kept for emergencies. “The firm will take care of your fee, of course. Now make the call. Sound convincing and here’s an extra hundred francs.”

“Forget trying to bribe me,” she said. Her jaw stuck out, a defiant look in her eyes. “I’m calling my boss.”

Great.

“Then you’re trained to deal with kidnap attempts? Trained to disarm les explosifs? Handle armed combat and