Murder Below Montparnasse (28 page)

A shame to ruin the counter like that
, she thought. And a bigger shame to see no espresso machine.

“Badoit,
s’il vous plaît
,” she said to the man behind the counter. He looked up from the dice, revealing a craggy, pitted face and dark-knit brows. He was the size of a truck.

“No Badoit.”

“
Bon
, something sparkling, as in water.”

He popped the bottle top of a Knjaz Miloš.

“Nice label.”

“From Serbia, my country,” he said, as if challenging her.

“Bon.”
She smiled, took a sip. Mineral-tasting fizz trickled down her throat. “We’re off to a good start, you sharing with me and all.”

“Eh?” His brows knit closer together.

One of the
mecs
jerked their thumb at him. “You raise or not?”

He inclined his big head with the barest of nods. If she hadn’t been watching him closely, she wouldn’t have noticed. She realized this crew communicated in subtle ways.

They’d sussed her out from the moment she walked in. At least no one had raised a gun. But she doubted the bulges in the waistbands of their jogging pants held packs of facial tissue.

“No need to waste time, eh? Tatyana.…”

“Who?”

Like he didn’t know.

“Russian, blonde.” That sounded generic. She racked her brain. “Sports a white Chanel watch—a client who referred me.” Also lame. She took a breath. “I have a job for Feliks’s brother.”

She saw no reaction on his face.

“Job? You’re in a café. My café. Go to the labor exchange.”

“I mean a job for a specialist.”

A smile spread over his jowls. An ugly smile that didn’t reach his dull eyes.

“Construction, you mean—removals, concrete work. I refer you. But plumbers, you get Polish in their own their café, or the soup kitchen outside Notre Dame de l’Assomption church.”

“Not that kind of work.” He’d make it hard. He didn’t trust her. She felt the others looking at her. Better to leave a card and then … what? Hope word would trickle down and the Serb’s brother would call her?

Her cell phone rang.

“Aimée, you’ve got to see this.” Serge’s excited voice on the other end.

See what? She turned away from the counter. “Can’t you just tell me, Serge?”

“I asked the lab to expedite a broader screening using liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry.”

She looked back and noticed the men throwing dice. One had his eye on her.

She lowered her voice. “So you found the cause of death?”

“It took a lot of doing,” Serge said. “Let me tell you. This screen shows what peaks pop up, then we did a quantitative assay, looking at the peaks the compound fell in. Fascinating.”

She turned away again, wishing he’d cut to the chase. “Say it so I understand it, Serge.”

“Xylazine. An injectable horse tranquilizer. Not a high dosage, but the victim suffered an allergic reaction to it.”

“Like anaphylactic shock?”

“Similar. His body shut down within minutes. But not before he’d gotten a few steps.”

“So he staggered from Yuri’s atelier.…” That fit. “And you think …?”

“The lab tech’s seen it before,” he said. “For a home invasion the thief takes precautions. In this case, a syringe of horse tranquilizer to neutralize the occupants if they wake up or return home unexpected. Not a lethal dose, but enough to knock them out and give him time to clean out the house.” Serge paused. “In this Serb, a portion of his bruising happened before death. I conclude he got interrupted, fought with someone, and stabbed himself by mistake.”

“By mistake?”

“A small needle puncture in his derrière. Aligning with the back pocket of his jeans.”

He’d killed himself.

“Brilliant.” Her mind spun. “But where’s the syringe?”

“Check the crime scene report,” Serge said.

She thought back. It might be in the bushes, in the gutter where he got caught between the cars, or it might even have fallen in the atelier that night and washed away in the detritus of Yuri’s overflowing sink.

On some report she’d find it. But what she needed most was the lab report to prove this to the Serb’s brother. Suddenly, one more thing made sense. She reached in her jacket pocket for the straw she’d found at Saj’s, thought of the matching straw twined in Yuri’s trampled rosemary, and the barnyard smell Nora mentioned. “Where would he obtain this … what’s it called?”

“Xylazine? Around horses.”

“Meet me in ten minutes,” she said.

She turned to the man behind the counter. Smiled. “I’m
looking for the
mec
who works with horses,” she said. “There’s money in it.”

He pointed to the door. “Drink’s on me. Go back the way you came in, Mademoiselle.”

She ground her teeth. Wondered what the going rate 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.”

A
IMÉE MET
S
ERGE
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.”

“What?”

“It’s all here.”

“But I’m a veterinarian.”

“So you say,” she said.

“In Serbia I’m qualified, but—”

“Here you contributed to your brother’s robbery jobs.”

He stepped back. “Feliks was small-time. Go after the big players in the suburbs with Kalashnikovs.”

Lay the blame on someone else.

“Feliks’s body was covered with prison tattoos. He’s Serb mafia, like your friends at the café.”

A muscle in Goran’s cheek twitched. “Ever walked on the wrong side of the street in Zagreb?” His voice rose. “Or get thrown into a cell with warlords—the mafia? You don’t get out alive unless you join. We escaped, our family didn’t.” His lip trembled. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like to sleep on the street, on the floor of a café if we were lucky. No job. Feliks met up with former soldiers here. I told him to stay away from them.” He sighed. “But he saw me, a qualified doctor teaching veterinary courses at the university, shoveling horse shit.”

“Don’t look for pity from me,” she said. “Trying to attack my friend at the hospital, threatening him and defacing his home. What medical code of ethics do you follow? Injecting horse tranquilizer, taking a hit job for revenge and money?”

“Think I earn enough to bury my little brother?” His shoulders slumped. “I owe the café owner, we slept there.…”

Aimée’s neck went hot. She hoped to God they wouldn’t appear. But they’d smelled money.

“He’s all I had left. But that freak—”

“The injection killed him, Goran.” She thrust the autopsy into his shaking hands.

“Non, non.…”
A low wail welled up from him. Then a searing animal-like cry of pain. Horses kicked the stall, whinnied. His cry raked her skin raw.

“What’s going on?” A veterinarian in a lab coat rushed into the stable, followed by the groom. “Goran, what’s wrong? You’re hurt?”

The veterinarian leaned down and noticed the autopsy in the hay. “What’s this?”

Should she let the vet read it? Goran would be fired. Arrested. Then she’d learn nothing from him.

And she could tell—from his sweating brow, the nervous toe movement of his boots—he knew something.

Before the vet could reach for the report, Aimée picked it up. “Bad news, I’m afraid. His brother.…” She let her voice trail off.

Goran crumpled against the wooden stall, destroyed. Despite everything, she pitied him.

“I’m with the Red Cross, doctor,” she said. “May I speak with him alone?”

“Use the tack room. Jacky, get some water,” he said.

Five minutes later, Goran was slumped on a chair by hanging bridles and horse brushes. A dazed look on his face. “I killed him.”

“Take a sip.” She handed him the water. “Now shut up and listen. I didn’t turn you in, but you need to help me, understand?”

“Why?”

She thought of Yuri’s saying about the Serbs—an unlucky man would drown in a teacup.

“Your plan went wrong and you’re devastated. But you’re going to call the café and tell them the hit’s off. Go to Chantilly, where there are plenty of horses, and work there. Start fresh.”

He looked up. “Why would you do that? I killed my brother.”

“Then prison appeals to you?” she said. “Tonight the
flics
will question every stable in Paris and within a twenty-five kilometer radius.”

His eyes bulged in fear.

“Accessory to murder and theft. Prison, deportation.”

“Deport me back to Serbia?” The reality hit him.

“Or did I get it wrong—you returned the next morning and tortured the old man?”

“Me, why? What’s the old man to me?”

Or had he attacked her in her office? But Goran spoke with a thick Serbian accent, unlike the voice over the speakerphone. She looked at his hands. Slim palms; thin, tapered fingers—not like the meaty paws that had grabbed the roots of her hair. Her scalp tingled.

“So convince me, Goran. Start talking.” She kept her eyes locked on his. “Like I said, you can start over. In return for my not turning you in, you tell me everything—how you met Tatyana, Feliks’s role—each detail.”

“I don’t know. Feliks worked alone. He wanted it that way.”

“Lie to me and I turn you in,” she said, pulling out her cell phone. “Tell your café friends you’ll meet them later. Make the call.”

He nodded, punched in a number. Mumbled something in Serbian. Clicked off.

“You were on Villa d’Alésia the night of the robbery, weren’t you?”

A shrug. “Feliks didn’t want me involved,” he said.

Aimée thought back to the police report Serge had shown her in the morgue. The contents of the Serb’s stomach.

“But Feliks ordered a kebob takeout from rue d’Alésia. The receipt was in his pocket.” She took a guess. “You shared it, didn’t you? Lie to me again and the deal’s off.”