Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

Copyright 2002 by Cara Black

All rights reserved

Published by

Soho Press

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Black, Cara, 1951

Murder in the Sentier / Cara Black.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-56947-331-3

ISBN-10: 1-56947-331-5 (alk. paper)

eISBN-13: 978-1-56947-729-8

1. Leduc, Aimee (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Women private investigatorsFranceParisFiction. 3. Sentier (Paris, France)Fiction. 4. Computer securityFiction. 5. Paris (France)Fiction. 6. TerroristsFiction. I. Title.

PS3552.L297 M84 2002

813'.54dc21

2002017566

Printed in the United States

10 9 8 7 6

Dedicated to the real Romain, Nina, my father
and all the ghosts, past and present.

Contents

Every capitalist has a terrorist in the family.

Anarchist interviewed by Jean-Paul Sartre
in Libration , a newspaper

A IME L EDUC OPENED THE tall windows of her apartment overlooking the Seine, which bordered the tree-lined quai. She inhaled the scent of flowering lime. Despite the humidity she was glad to be home.

She knew it was time to let the past go. The hard part was doing it.

She sank into the Louis XV sofa, ruffled her short, spiky hair, and reached for her laptop. Time to concentrate on Leduc Detectives computer security contracts. Rent loomed. So did other bills.

Her phone rang. All? she answered irritably.

Aime Leduc? a womans voice asked.

Who is it?

A pause. Daughter of Jean-Claude and Sydney Leduc?

Aime lost her grip on the phone. No one had referred to her that way in years. She recovered and put the phone to her ear again.

You were looking for information about your father? the womans heavily German-accented voice asked.

Had word of her inquiries reached the right person at last?

You knew him?

A long pause. Hope fluttered in Aimes chest. In the silence, she heard the whine of a passing motor scooter from the quai.

Nein , I knew your mother.

Her mother? Sydney Leduc?

Her name was different, the voice went on. But she talked about you.

The last time Aime had seen her mother, shed been wearing an old silk kimono, standing at the stove and heating milk. Her long hair, knotted and held in place by a worn pencil, escaped down her neck. Rain splattered against their courtyard windows, steamy from the heat. The Mozart piano concerto theme from the film Elvira Madigan played on the kitchen radio. Dont forget your raincoat, her mother had said, then Crap, under her breath, as the milk foamed and overflowed. Those were the last words eight-year-old Aime remembered her speaking.

Her mother left the apartment that day, while Aime was at school, and never returned.

Do you know where my mother is?

Maybe we should meet and talk, the voice said.

Yes, certainly, she said.

Then doubt hit her. Could this woman be an Internet crawler, one who searched the personals and got innocent peoples hopes up? Someone with a sick idea of fun? Excuse my caution, Aime said. But first I need to know

That Im for real? the voice interrupted her. I spent time with your mother. You have a fish-shaped birthmark on your left thigh, do you not?

Aimes hand instinctively went to her thigh. It was true.

When can we meet? Aime asked.

May I come over?

Aime paused, wary. We could meet at a caf

The voice interrupted again. Im leaving Paris tonight. You live at 7, Quai dAnjou on LIle Saint Louis, yes? Ill be there soon.

First, tell me how you knew my mother.

A car door slammed in the background.

We were cell mates.

Cell mates? Her mother in prison? Her father never spoke of her mother after she left, nor had her grandparents. Now her curiosity was mixed with fear.

She looked over to her writing desk. Her answering machine blinked red, filled with messages. She hit the play button. The first message came from Ren, her partner in the Leduc Detective agency.

Its a go! he shouted. Im about to ink our security systems contract with Media 9! I need to convince them to give us a retainer.

Finally! Her relief was cut short by the sound of the buzzer.

Miles Davis, her bichon frise puppy, growled as Aime answered the door. The tall, bony woman at the entrance stared at her. Her brown shoulder-length hair was flecked with gray, and she wore brown pants and a jacket. A nondescript appearance. However, the Danish clogs provided an ambiguous clue: bad feet, or an artist.

You are Aime Leduc? The womans eyes, wide set and gray, sized her up.

Yes.

Ja , the resemblance is clear.

Who are you? Aime asked, the words catching in her throat.

Jutta Hald, she said, hefting her bag higher on her shoulder. Give me five minutes, then decide if you believe me.

Aime hesitated, then showed her down the hall into the old wood-paneled dining room.

Going somewhere? Jutta Hald pointed to Aimes scattered luggage on the floor.

How did you say you knew my mother? Aime asked, motioning for her to sit.

Jutta Hald sank into the couch. Outside Aimes window, pinpricks of light reflected from windows on the riverbank opposite. Heat still hung like a damp blanket over the rippling Seine.

Frsnes, prisoner number 6509, she said. We shared a cell in 1976 and 1977.

Aime gripped Miles Davis tight. What had she done?

High crimes against the state. Terrorism.

Terrorism. Her heart sank.

Arent you going to offer me coffee, something to drink? Jutta Hald asked, glancing around the apartment. She emitted a faint vinegary odor.

But that was years ago, Aime said. Suspicion fought with her longing to know about her mother. Maybe you should get to the point.

Jutta Halds lips tightened. She unbuckled a brown leather bag, a ragged remnant from the seventies by the look of it.

Youre in your early thirties, right?

Close enough, Aime said. Look, I need to see some proof that you really knew my mother and that youre telling the truth.

She wrote things. Lots of them, Jutta Hald said, pulling out an envelope. The guard confiscated this during a lockdown. Take a look. Jutta Hald set the envelope on Aimes marble-topped claw-footed table. She took out a package of unfiltered Turkish cigarettes, lit one.

The short hairs on Aimes neck bristled as she reached for the envelope. How did you get this? Aime asked.

You dont know much about prison, do you? Jutta Hald replied, taking a drag.

The yellowish creased envelope with FRSNES PRISON stamped on it seemed to glow in the afternoon light. Aime reached for it, trying to control the trembling of her hands. What if the mother who deserted her really had been a convicted terrorist?

Her heart hammered. And what if it wasnt true?

Aime expected something weighty with answers, reasons, and excuses. But the envelope felt curiously light as she held it suspended aloft in the rays of the sun.

For a moment, the face of her mother appeared to her. The carmine red lips and eyes crinkling in laughter. The warmth of her large hands, the faint smell of lilies of the valley muguets clinging to her clothes.