Cara Black - Murder in the Latin Quarter

To the memory ofColonel Henri Rol-Tanguyand all the ghosts.

AIME LEDUCS FINGERS paused on the keyboard of her laptop as she felt a sudden unease but it vanished as quickly as the mist that curled up under the Pont Neuf. At least, she thought, thanks to the cleaning lady, the chandelier gleamed, the aroma of beeswax polish hovered, and Leduc Detectives office shone. For once. It should impress her high-powered client, the Private Banque Morels administrator, who was due in ten minutes.

Aime checked for lint on her Dior jacket, a flea-market find. She heard a footstep and looked up expectantly.

A woman in her late thirties stood in the doorway to the office. She was a tall, light-complected mulatto, wearing a denim skirt and clutching oversize sunglasses in her hand. She stepped inside, her gaze taking in the nineteenth-century high ceilings and carved moldings as well as the array of computers.

This place isnt what I expected, said the woman in lilting French. She had an accent Aime didnt recognize.

Maybe youre in the wrong place, Mademoiselle, Aime said, irritated. Our firm handles computer security only. She ran her chipped red fingernails over the Rolodex for the card of a female private detective in the Paris region.

Non. The woman waved the card away. Shes persistent, Aime thought. And for a brief moment, as the breeze fluttered through the open window and a siren whined outside on rue du Louvre, Aime sensed that she was being subjected to a curious scrutiny. It was as if this woman was measuring and found her, like the office, wanting.

Aime glanced at her Tintin watch impatiently. As I told you Aimes cell phone beeped. Excuse me, she said and dug in her bag, found it, and listened to the message. The client she expected was in a taxi... minutes away.

The owner of this establishment knew my mother, the woman said. Her accent was now more pronounced.

Even after all this time, former clients called expecting to find him, Aime thought sadly. Youre referring to my father, Jean-Claude Leduc, she said. But he passed away several years ago. She used a euphemism instead of graphically describing his death during a routine surveillance in the Place Vendme from an exploding bomb.

Passed away? The woman blinked. And youre his daughter?

Aime nodded. Weve put the old case files in storage. Dsole.

But you dont understand. The woman tilted her head to the side, gauging something, ignoring Aimes words. Her fin-gers picked at the strap of her straw bag.

Understand? Mademoiselle, I am waiting for a client who is due any moment. She checked her phone again. Make an appointment, and then Ill see what I can do for you.

Thats him, non? The woman pointed to the photo behind Aimes desk. It was of her father caught in time: younger, his tie loose, grinning. The one Aime kept to re-mind her of what hed looked like alive, not the way shed last seen him, charred limbs on the morgues stainless-steel table all that remained after the explosion.

My father

Our father, the woman interrupted. Im your sister, Aime.

The phone fell from Aimes hand.

But I dont have a sister.

It took time to find this place, to make sure, the woman said. Her voice quavered, her confidence evaporating. And to summon the courage to come here. I need to talk with you.

Aime steadied herself. Theres some misunderstanding, Mademoiselle. Youre...

Mireille Leduc.

Stunned, Aime looked for some resemblance in the almond-shaped eyes, the honey color of the womans skin, the shape of her mouth: that full pout of the lips, those white teeth. Could her father have had another child?

You have proof? Im sorry, but you walk in here and claim youre my sister, Aime said. How do I know youre... that what you claim is true?

Youre shocked, said Mireille, her voice urgent. Me too. I had no idea until three weeks ago. During the coup dtat, I had to leave Haiti. I only found out....

Haiti? Aime shook her head. Papa never went to Haiti.

Your father and my mother had a relationship in Paris, before you were born, the woman said. I can show you photos.

Aime felt the air being sucked out of her lungs. Glints of afternoon light refracted from the prisms of the chandelier into myriad dancing lights. It was as if shed been hit by a shock-wave; words froze in her throat.

The wire cage elevator whined up to the office landing and rumbled to a halt. Her client had arrived to tell her the verdict. Would Morel, a prestigous private bank, extend Leduc Detectives data security contract?

I never knew my father, said Mireille. Her mouth pursed. Was it a one night stand or a grand amour . .. who knows?

Thats not like Papa. He wouldnt have fathered a child and just

Mademoiselle Leduc? A smiling middle-aged woman in a navy pantsuit knocked on the frosted glass panel of the open door. Am I disturbing you?

Of course not, Madame Delmas, please come in. Aime forced a smile, stuck her trembling hand in her pocket, and gestured to a Louis Quinze chair with her other. The data analysis reports ready.

Perspiration dampened Aimes collar. Why dont you start reading the report while I see my visitor out, Madame?

Mireille paused next to Aime on the scuffed wood of the landing, a vulnerable look on her face. Maman went back to Haiti. I dont know if he knew she was pregnant.

A cough came from inside Aimes office. One didnt keep a client like Madame Delmas waiting.

The woman calling herself Mireille Leduc gripped Aimes hand hard. Hers was as hot as fire. A thin red string encircled her wrist. Mesamey, she said.

I dont understand, Aime said, her voice low.

Mesamey is the Kreyl word... I dont how you say it in French. Ive only been here a week. Would you say surprised ? Aime felt a frisson course through her. But what do you want? she asked.

Please, I lost my papers. I didnt know who else to ask.

Papers... you mean youre illegal?

Mireille nodded. But I can prove were sisters. I am in some trouble. I thought my father could help. This man whos been helping me gave me a file, and....

Madame Delmass chair scraped on the floor, a fax machine whirred, and the office phone rang.

Ill wait for you in the corner caf, Mireille said. Youll meet me, Aime?

What else could she do? Aime nodded. Her eyes followed Mireille down the dim spiral staircase until the last glimpse of her curly hair disappeared. She could still feel the heat of Mireilles hand on hers. Then she realized she didnt know her address or even how to reach her.