Murder in Montmartre (7 page)

“What made you think it was Italian?”

“We used to go there on holiday,” she replied.

“What did they say?”

“Maybe it wasn’t Italian.”

“Please, it’s important. Can you place the language?”

Zoe Tardou shook her head. “I know they talked about the stars and planets.”

Had Zoe Tardou been dreaming after all?

“How could you tell?”

“Sirius, Orion, and Neptune, those names I could understand.”

“Male or female voices?”

“Male voices. Two, at least. I remember, in the village people talked about the constellations,” Zoe Tardou said, her gaze somewhere else, speaking as if to herself. “It didn’t seem so odd.” She shrugged. “Almost familiar. At least where I came from.”

Curious, Aimée wondered how this tied in. If she didn’t pursue the words of this strange woman she feared she’d regret it later.

“Where’s that?”

“Near Lamorlaye.”

Lamorlaye? Why did that sound so familiar? Her mind went back to the scratched yellow Menier chocolate tin always on her grandmother’s counter, the words
fondé 1816
above the braids of the Menier girl with her basket filled with chocolate bars. And every summer afternoon her grandmother preparing her a
tartine et chocolat
, a thick slab of Menier chocolate laid between halves of a buttered baguette.

“Lamorlaye, that’s near the Château Menier, the family that’s famous for the chocolate.”

Zoe Tardou sniffed and blew her nose. She sat down and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes.

“So you watched the stars at night?”

“Eh?” Zoe Tardou bristled defensively. “The orphanage bordered the observatory—” She stopped, covered her mouth with her tissue. Like a little girl caught telling tales out of school.

“What do you mean?”

“The countryside’s full of glue sniffers,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I went back last year. The young riffraff lie around in train stations sniffing glue.”

Glue sniffing? Where had that come from?

“Excuse me but—did you water your geraniums last night?” Aimée asked.

Madame Tardou started and dropped her tissue on the floor. ”What if I did?”

“We think some men escaped across the rooftops and descended through your building’s skylight. Did you see them while you were watering your plants?”

“It’s not safe anywhere any longer.”

Aimée paused. “Madame, did you hear any gunshots or see anyone?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “The world’s full of opportunists.”

“I agree,” Aimée said, trying to humor her before returning to her line of questioning. “But when you watered your geraniums, did you see men on the scaffold or any on the roof?

“I’m going to call the locksmith to get more chains and bolts installed.”

Did Zoe Tardou fear retribution if she gave Aimée information? She seemed to be afraid of something.

“Please, Madame Tardou,” Aimée said. “A man was murdered. We need your help in this investigation. Whatever you tell me will remain confidential.”

Now the doorbell buzzed.

“Let me get that for you,” Aimée said. Before the woman could protest, she answered the door, accepted a proffered package, and returned to find Zoe curled up in a chair.

“Here’s your medication.”

“I’ve told you all I know, I watered my geraniums, but I saw nothing. I don’t feel well.”

“Madame Tardou, your information may be important,” Aimée said. “If you don’t wish to cooperate with me, I’m sure investigators will insist on taking your statement at the Commissariat.” A threat; she hoped it would work.

Zoe Tardou clutched her flannel nightshirt, pulling it tight around her. “Why question me, why not that
pute
on the street?”

Aimée didn’t remember seeing a prostitute on the street. “What
pute
?”

“The one who hangs out around the corner. The old one, she’s in the doorway all the time. Ask her.”

“What does she look like?”

“You know the type, lots of costume jewelry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you must leave.”

At least she had someone to look for now.

WITH RELUCTANT steps Aimée retraced the route she and Sebastian had taken. She pulled out her cheap compact Polaroid and took photos of the hall carpet, skylight, and the broken lock.

Outside, on narrow rue André Antoine, passersby scurried, late to work or school. She walked to the doorway of the building opposite. No prostitute. Disappointed, she tried Conari’s number.

“Monsieur Conari’s out of the office,” his secretary said.

All the reasons she’d hated criminal investigative work came back to her. Half the time potential witnesses were out of town, or at the doctor’s, or the hairdresser’s, and tracking them down took days. Leads turned to dust. Evidence deteriorated.

But Laure needed help. Now.

“When do you expect him?”

Aimée heard phones ringing in the background.

“Try again later.”

AIMÉE OPENED the frosted-glass-paned door of Leduc Detective, ran, and caught the phone on the second ring. Gray light worked its way through the open shutters into a zigzag pattern on the wood floor. She nodded to her partner. René’s short arms were full as he loaded paper into the printer.

“Allô?”
she answered the phone, at the same time grabbing the ground coffee beans.

“Mademoiselle Leduc? Maître Delambre here, Laure Rousseau’s counsel,” a high-pitched male voice said.

Thank God. But he sounded young, as if his voice hadn’t changed yet.

“I’m between court sessions so I’ll get to the point. We have reservations concerning your involvement in Laure Rousseau’s case.”

“Who’s
we
?” Aimée said, catching her breath. “Laure asked for my help.”

“The police investigation has been comprehensive and thorough,” he said.

He not only sounded young, but as if he needed to show he was in control. She hit the button on the espresso machine, which grumbled to life.

“So comprehensive, Maître Delambre, that they haven’t yet questioned the inhabitants of the building opposite or investigated a broken skylight?”

“That’s the investigating unit’s responsibility,” he said. “And just how would you know this?”

“As I said, Laure asked for my help,” she said. Better to explain and try to work with him. Not alienate him. “We’re childhood friends; our fathers worked together in the police force.”

“You have admirable intentions, I’m sure, but your involvement won’t help the case or be looked on as anything but meddling.”

In other words, back off.

“I’m a private investigator,” she said, figuring it would be better not to mention that computer security was her field. “That’s what I do. You don’t even seem interested to learn that there may have been an eyewitness.”

“Of course the police questioned all the people in the area,” he said. “I’m sure they’re aware of anything pertinent and will have it in their report.”

“I’d like to see this report and discuss this further.”

“As I told you—”

“Laure hired me and it’s in her best interests that we work together,” she said, stretching the truth. “But, naturally, it’s your call.”

Thick bitter steaming coffee dripped into the small white demitasse cup next to her.

“Meaning what, Mademoiselle Leduc?”

“Would you rather I turn over my findings to you or directly to La Proc?”

Pause. “I’ll discuss this with my client,” he said.

“Look,
I
found her concussed and injured. That should be in the report. Jacques’s pockets were inside out, they’d been searched. Since the
flics
don’t reveal information to outsiders, can you find out what the police report says?”

The shuffle of papers was her only answer.

“I’d like to visit Laure.”

He took a breath. “It’s questionable whether they’d allow you to see her.”

“I’d need to get a pass and letter from you, wouldn’t I?”

“Let me check into that.”

Noncommittal, avoiding a flat no. But she wouldn’t let it rest.

“I’d appreciate that and seeing the crime-scene report,” she said. “Including the lab findings. I’m concerned about the gun residue Laure said they found on her hands. Of course, there’s some mistake.”

“Lab turnaround time is from six to eighteen hours,” he interrupted.

“So you could have it by this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”

She hung up and plopped two brown-sugar lumps into her espresso. A hot drop landed on her finger and she licked it. As she had feared, Laure had been assigned a lawyer from the bottom of the barrel.

René climbed into the orthopedic chair customized for his four-foot height. She noticed his new double-breasted suit and freshly manicured nails as he bit the glazed puff top off the religieuse, an eclairlike pastry. The shape had ancient origins and was supposed to resemble a famous convent deaconess from the fifteenth century.

“Like one?” René pushed the pastry box across the desk.

Why not? Did it matter anymore if she fit into that little black dress, a vintage Schiaparelli she’d discovered at a church sale?

“
Merci
,” she said, walking to his terminal and exchanging the espresso for a coffee-cream-filled eclair. “Remember my friend Laure?”

René nodded; he’d met her the year before.

“She’s in trouble.”

“So I just heard,” he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “Did she really hire you? You’ll get a check?”

Aimée hesitated.

“I don’t like this already,” he said. “We do computer security, remember?”

He gestured to her desk, a pile of proposals by her laptop. “That should keep you busy.”

“I owe her, René,” she said. “She’s been set up.”

“And you know this for sure?” René stirred the espresso, his green eyes on the beige froth lining his demitasse cup. “It would be refreshing to get paid. Make for a nice change, Aimée.”

“No argument there,” she said.

If only their clients paid for their computer security on time! She perched on the edge of his desk. Walnut furniture oil, dense and heavy, stained her palms. He’d been cleaning again!

“Shooting her partner on a roof doesn’t make sense, René.”

“What do you actually know?” René’s green eyes narrowed.

She sipped her espresso and explained what had happened.

“This sounds like an accident,” René said. “Perhaps Laure tripped in the snow and her gun went off.”

“Manhurins are designed to prevent that,” she interrupted. “The
sécurité de shock
keeps the hammer from descending accidentally. Impossible.”

René pulled his goatee. “Internal Affairs will conclude it was an accident, won’t they?”

“René, I found her unconscious and Jacques shot. . . . His heart responded briefly, but it was too late.”

She paused, shook her head, seeing the image of Jacques’s snow-fringed eyelashes, his blood seeping onto the snow. She struggled with the feeling that he had tried to tell her something.

René stared. “I’m sorry, Aimée.”

The steam heater sputtered, sending forth waves of heat that evaporated somewhere at the level of the high ceiling. She made herself continue. “Later, on the adjoining roof, Sebastian and I discovered a broken skylight and wet footprints on the rug underneath. That spelled escape to me.”

“Escape?”

“The killer’s escape. Then
flics
appeared and
we
beat a quick retreat over the roof.”

René let out a sigh. “You promised to stop all that, didn’t you? Let the
flics
handle it.”

He sounded like Guy. But Guy wasn’t around to say those words anymore. She combed her chipped copper lacquered fingernails through her spiky hair.

“Laure may face prison.” She didn’t like to think of the overcrowded eighteenth-century prison La Santé; the unheated cells and the reaction of the inmates when they discovered Laure was a
flic
. “I feel responsible.”

“
Responsible?
Sorry to say it, but it sounds like Jacques brought this on himself.”

“Laure has to keep trying to prove herself, to follow in her father’s footsteps. Of course, she’d do whatever Jacques asked. Not like me.”

“No one’s like you, Aimée,” René said, rolling his eyes. “Thank the Lord.”

“René, Laure’s the closest I’ll ever have to a little sister. She’s self-conscious, sensitive about her cleft palate. I know her; she’ll break if she goes inside.”

Break into little pieces.

Aimée sniffed, aware of a floral scent from somewhere in the office. “Anyway, I caught up. I did three-quarters of the proposals last night.” And missed Guy’s reception as a result.

“Morbier left you a message,” René said, “something about keeping your paws clean. Maybe you owe him an apology.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re asking my advice?” René expressed mock horror. “It will cost you. Say you’re sorry with flowers. He’s a romantic.”

“Are we talking about the same person?”

She surveyed the office. A jam jar with sprays of paperwhite narcissus sat on the printer stand, filling the air with fragrance. A harbinger of spring.

“Celebrating spring already? Or is this a special day?” she asked, trying to find out where they’d come from without asking outright. “What’s the occasion? Good news?” She let her sentence dangle, hoping he’d say Guy had sent them.

“Pull up the Salys data,” was his only reply as his fingers raced over the keyboard. “We need to draft a proposal. By noon.”

Her heart thumped. Guy hadn’t sent them.

The way René avoided answering, his appearance . . . that twisting feeling in her gut . . . could it be jealousy? Had he met someone? How could she be jealous? Why, it was wonderful René had been bitten by the bug! She watched him. It was all over his face. She should be happy for him, ecstatic. Why wasn’t she? Just because Guy had left her didn’t mean René couldn’t find love.

“Who is she, partner?”

“Did I say that?”

She grinned. “You don’t have to.”

“There’s work to check, lots of it.”

“Better tell me,” she said, adding more water to the narcissus. “Or I’ll nag you until you do.” She pulled out her chair and thumbed through the mail.