Cara Black - Murder in the Rue de Paradis

RUE DE PARADIS

MURDER in the

RUE DE PARADIS

Copyright 2008 by Cara Black

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Black, Cara, 1951

Murder in the rue de Paradis / Cara Black.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-56947-474-7

1. Leduc, Aime (Fictitious character)Fiction.

2. Women private investigatorsFranceParisFiction.

3. Paris (France)Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.L297M865 2008

813.6dc22

2007009194

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Leyla Zana

and all the ghosts

Getting history wrong is an essential part of being a nation.

Ernest Renan, French historian

PARIS

AUGUST 1995

Contents

PIGEONS SCATTERED AND fluttered under the rue de Rivolis nineteenth century arcade as Aime Leduc shut the taxi door. She fanned herself in the dense humid heat that clung blanket-like over the street which was deserted except for a bedraggled group of Japanese tourists. Across from her, the street lamps glow was reflected as gold from the tall windows of the Louvres Cour Carre.

Au revoir , Jean-Paul, Aime said, eager to leave her blind date.

You sure you wont come for an aperitif? Jean-Paul asked from the taxis back seat. A fortyish ministry fonctionnaire with a red tie, blue shirt, and thinning hair, Jean-Paul had discussed his stamp collection over espresso.

Desole, too much work, she said.

He waved away the francs she held out to him through the open taxi window and grasped her hand. Then the theater tomorrow, he said, Ill call you when I get home.

Aime hurried past the corner caf on rue du Louvre into the deepening twilight shadows mottling her office building. As she mounted the staircase to Leduc Detectives third-floor office she vowed, no blind dates. Never again. No matter how desperate she felt.

She switched on the office light, her eyes resting briefly on the chipped carved ceiling moldings, the dim chandelier, the pile of bills on her desk. A faint breath of air from the window stirred, pierced by the insistent whine of a siren from the Seine. Another long evening stretched ahead of her: balancing accounts and drafting more computer IT proposals to potential clients. But there was no man in her thoughts.

The office phone rang. Jean-Paul already? She dreaded having to come up with more excuses not to see him again.

Leduc Detective , she said.

My partner likes your IT proposal, Aime, said Michel, the head of Microimages.

She almost dropped the phone. Only yesterday shed left a proposal at his video post-production company.

Michel, you want me to consult?

Bring a contract, Aime. Were having a blowout party for our big project!

The thump of a bass guitar vibrated over the phone.

So we can celebrate?

You and a few others.

A plum consulting job!

Im on my way.

She grabbed a standard contract from the desk drawer, stuck it in her laptop bag, and opened the office armoire. Her trusty little black dress and pearls wouldnt do. Not for Michels. She searched through the hangers, past the blue work jacket, the electricians overalls, finding a leather halter dress, then a strapless Louis Feraud chiffon more suited for the runway. But she ended up in a 60s minidress composed of tiny black mirror-like sequin rectangles. Vintage Carnaby Street. She outlined her eyes with kohl and knotted a scarf around her neck. After all, it was business.

Back on rue du Louvre, she caught a taxi, then turned off her phone to avoid Jean-Pauls call. Approaching Michels district on the wide shop-lined boulevard leading to Gare du Nord, the taxi turned left at a soot-stained old convent wall. Here the streets narrowed. A couple emerged, laughing, from a dimly lit bistro. The taxi passed a dark warehouse, the side of an old building still bearing a faded blue Dubonnet advertisement, and let her off in front of an arched stone passage between shadowy buildings.

Aime choked in the haze of blue smoke as she stood wedged among the bodies dancing to a pounding techno beat at Microimages party. Microimages sandblasted stone walls vibrated; half-filled glasses of rouge-limonade rippled as they stood on the concrete slabs serving as tables. Red velvet drapery swags hung from the arcing iron metal struts in the former leather factory.

Perspiration dampened her bare shoulder blades. Fresh air, she craved fresh air. She thanked God shed chosen vintage, considering the eclectic crowd around her. Her laptop-bag strap dug into her bare shoulder, but she shot a grin at Michel, the savvy red-headed twenty-something Microimage founder who had the attention span of a gnat. His arm draped a tall Goth type, clad head-to-toe in black lace, and he gave Aime a thumbs-up.

Nice outfit, he said. I like consultants who complement the decor. Well sign the contract; pick it up day after tomorrow.

She reached out to shake his hand.

My way of doing business, he said, or at least thats what she thought she heard as he handed her a tangerine from his pocket. She was thrilled to snag the consulting job. The retainer would cover her office rent and more. Dry-mouthed, she peeled the thin skin away from the pulp as she worked her way toward the door. The citrus essence clung to her fingers. She scanned the crowd.

She popped a tangerine segment into her mouth, enjoying the sweet burst of flavor. She avoided a karate chop from a gesticulating, long-haired journalist in black leather pants attempting to drive home a point. His audience was composed of a tl exec, a sweater knotted around his shoulders, and a rail-thin model in a belted T-shirt passing for a minidress. Just. A crowd interested in racking up business connections and on the prowl for an adventure , the one-night kind. Not her type. Forget meeting a man here, she thought. Conversation was next to impossible against the blasting beat.

She edged her way out the door, inhaled the warm air, and gazed around her. The warehouse at the end of the cobbled courtyard housed a recording studio. Lining one side of the yard was an old glass-windowed workshop, now an architects office; and beside it stood the wooden storefront of a shuttered lute-repair shop.

Behind her, the Turkish concierge swept up leaves and scooped them into a bin. Shed left the consulting proposal with him yesterday to be hand-delivered to Michel upon his return.

Bonsoir. She smiled and nodded to the concierge.

Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, he said.

The dense August evening air lay still and heavy. A figure was leaning against the cream-colored stone walls under the glass-awninged marquise canopy.

No trains ran this late after the terrorist Metro bombing a few days ago in Saint-Michel that had claimed eight lives. She stuck a stop-smoking patch under her arm and wondered what her chances were of catching a taxi this time of night.

A voice came from the shadows. So youre still trying to quit.

That familiar voice. The tilt of the head... she froze. But it couldnt be... he was a continent away!

Yves, her former boyfriend, stepped into the light. And her breath caught. His dark eyes were more deepset, but he had the same long black hair and snaking sideburns; this was a more tanned, gaunter version of the man shed maintained an on-again, off-again relationship with.

Cairo not hot enough for you, Yves? But... how did you find me? she said, trying to cover her confusion.