Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,78
for a hit ran to today. Took a guess.
“Five thousand francs’ worth.”
He pounded his fist. “For the long-haired freak who ran over his brother?” Shook his head. “You think money buys his brother back, stupid French bitch?”
Her spine stiffened. She’d hit a nerve. The men in back advanced further up the bar, crowding her. Their heads down. Like a pack of hounds waiting for the hunt master’s command. Her damp shirt stuck in between her shoulder blades.
“Never,” she said, hoping her voice wouldn’t break. “But it would get him payback and help me at the same time.”
A snort. “What the hell …?”
“Let’s call it two in one. I’d like him to take care of that mec who took care of his brother, compris?”
One of the men looked up.
“No love lost on my end,” she said. “I’m willing to pay.”
Another one cleared his throat. She saw a bare nod of his head. The mec caught his look. For whatever reason, they had decided to trust her.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said. “Bois de Vincennes stables, the Hippodrome.”
“His name?”
“Goran.”
“I’ll tell him you’re coming,” he said. “Better have his cash ready.”
AIMÉE MET SERGE in the back lot of the morgue, the elevated Métro clanking above their heads. The Seine flowed darkly to their right.
“You copied the report, right?”
Serge made a long face. “And no one will ever know. Promise me, Aimée.” Serge looked around in the lot as if the authorities would swoop down any minute. Only a man wearing white boots hosing down a loading bay. Aimée didn’t like to think what went down the drain.
“You’ve got my word,” she said,
“And you’ve got the twins for next weekend,” Serge said.
She cringed inside. Hyperkinetic three-year-olds? She’d have to take them to Sebastien’s wedding. They could be … what, flower boys? Ring bearers? She’d beg her cousin. Better yet, she’d let Saj teach them computer games. Serge’s wife never let them near a computer.
“Bien sûr.” She smiled.
A STABLE HAND in blue jeans poured water in a horse trough in the clear afternoon light. Flies buzzed; fragrant piles of manure steamed in the cold air. Aimée stepped around a bale of hay and jumped as she sent a nest of mice scurrying.
“Lost, Mademoiselle?” said a man in overalls topped by a three-quarter-length blue work coat. He had a pronounced Eastern European accent. “Public’s not allowed in the stalls.”
“But I’m looking for you, Goran,” she said. “Your friends called, non?”
Goran straightened up. She saw piercing black eyes in a weathered face, a mustache, and thick brown hair graying at the temples. A face aged before his time, she thought.
“You’re the one, eh?” He gestured to a back stall. “Make it good. I’m working.”
She shook her head. No way in hell she’d let him box her in a rodent-infested stall.
Goran eyed the groom. “I’ll deal with this and join you in the exercise ring,” he said, gesturing the other man out. The stable door clanged behind him. Uneasy, Aimée breathed in the horse smells, took in the old wooden enclosure and the high, dark ceiling.
“Tatyana owes me and you’re going to—”
“Show you the proof Feliks died by his own hand,” Aimée interrupted. “His autopsy reports the cause of death is heart failure due to Xylazine. He injected it by mistake.”
Goran slammed the half-door on a whinnying horse. “Liar.”
“I thought you’d say that. Read it yourself,” she said. “The same Xylazine you use to tranquilize horses here.”
He pulled a bandanna from his overalls pocket, wiped his neck. “I know what it does.”
“Of course you do,” she said. “You stole it from the veterinary cabinet and furnished it to your brother for his job. A simple snatch-and-grab that went wrong.”
“Xylazine doesn’t kill humans,” Goran said, his eyes hard and narrowed. “What’s all this to you anyway?”
“Given a high dosage, it could. But you only gave Feliks enough to sedate the old man if needed.”
“That freak killed my brother. Ran him down. I’ll take care of him for you—a pleasure.”
“Feliks died before he hit the windshield. Read the autopsy.”
He looked up in alarm. “Who are you?”
“I was in the car, Goran. Your brother didn’t bleed; his heart had stopped pumping.”
“Bitch. It was you.” He rushed at her. Only stopped when he saw her Beretta leveled at his kneecaps.
“Feliks suffered an allergic reaction to the Xylazine,” she said, her heart pounding. “He died a few, maybe four, minutes after accidentally injecting himself.”