Cara Black - Murder in the Palais Royal: An Aimee Leduc Investigation

Vengeance? Kill the one they love.

A GYPSY SAYING

Contents

Monday

A IME LEDUC SMOOTHED her vintage Lanvin blue silk blouse, a flea market find. She was determined, for once, to play by the rules. The rules in this case were set forth in an Elle article: Now that youve met him, dont blow it. RULE 1: Bad boy or not, he likes good food. She hoped this was true of Mathieu, media liaison for a fashion house.

Opening the balcony doors of her apartment to the twilight, Aime inhaled the crisp autumn air. Below, streetlights lining the Ile Saint-Louis cast yellow slants of light over the Seine.

Fallen rose petals on the walnut dining table emitted a faint scent. The slow melodic twang of Django Reinhardts guitar sounded in her dining room. She lit the beeswax tapers on the candelabra, blew out the match, watched the slow gray spiral of smoke rise, and crossed her fingers.

Chlos voice came from the kitchen. But how well do you know him, Aime? Tall, with blunt-cut reddish-brown hair and black-framed round owl-like glasses, Chlo had recently sublet the upstairs apartment.

Who really knows anyone, Chlo? Aime asked.

Chlo shot her a warning look. Take it slow. Why rush?

But when had she taken anything slowly? Mathieu ignited a spark in her that she hadnt felt in a long time.

Miles Davis, Aimes bichon fris, pawed at his leash. Youre sweet to take him tonight, Chlo.

Dont do anything I wouldnt. Chlo grinned before the door closed behind her.

Aime heard her footsteps down the hall. The doorbell rang.

* * *

M ATHIEUS DEEP - SET EYES gleamed at her over the black trumpette mushroom fricassee drizzled with white peppercorns. He tore out the nub of the ficelle , a thin baguette. Eh bien, you should have told me that you cook.

She didnt; she hoped to God shed weighted down the take-out cartons from Fauchon deep enough in the garbage.

Youre quite the gourmet, Aime. Impressive, he said. Mathieu was lean and muscular under his V-neck sweater. A silver stud earring showed under his black curling hair as he ran the back of his warm hand along her cheekbone. What else havent you told me?

Told him? That tomorrow she was flying to New York to find her brother, a younger brother she hadnt known existed until two weeks ago when shed discovered ten-year-old letters with a Manhattan return address. At least that gave her a place to start.

It was a shame shed connected with Mathieu on the eve of her departure. But shed figure that out later, if later happened.

Her phone rang. She ignored it until the voice of Ren, her partner, boomed on the answering machine. Aime, care to explain the hundred thousand francs making us richer this evening? A payoff from an Eastern European arms dealer? Or did you furnish the Colombian cartel with a safe bank account?

Mathieus eyebrows rose. She grabbed the phone, explaining, My partner! A joker. Excuse me.

She ran to the kitchen, checking the oven she never used to see if the roasted rosemary chicken had warmed up. Damn embarrassing, Ren. Some joke? Im not laughing.

Me, neither, Ren said. Not that we couldnt use the money. Is there something youre not telling me?

I won the lottery? Had she even remembered to buy a ticket this week?

Lottery winnings arrive in nice big checks, Aime.He sounded serious.I dont understand, Ren.No client owes us even half that much, Ren said.You checked our overdue accounts?A snort came over the line. Double-checked.

Mathieu... and the rosemary chicken was burning. Theres got to be a bank error. A mistake.

Get over here, Aime, and deal with this. Im up to my neck organizing the Nadillac investigation. Ren exhaled. Their fee is legitimate money, remember?

She racked her brain. No explanation for such a sizable unexpected deposit came to mind.

Bien sr, she said, reaching into the oven and burning her hand. Merde ! Ill get back to you soon.

Another snort. Hot date, eh?

In more ways than one, Ren. But hed hung up.

Monday Night

I N LEDUC DETECTIVES office, Ren Friant stood and stretched, all four feet of him. Stress, he knew, aggravated the pain of dysplasia common in dwarves his size. Sometimes stretching would alleviate it.

The beveled mirror over the offices marble fireplace reflected his computers flashing green cursor. A brass arm lamp hanging over his desk provided the only other light. Above him, the chandelier and the woodwork of the carved nineteenth-century ceiling disappeared in shadow.

This addition of a hundred thousand francs to the businesss currently strapped bank account raised alarms in his head. Hadnt Aime championed their latest economy move, insisting that he order printer toner in bulk? And now, no doubt, she was writhing in the arms of another bad boy, too distracted to deal with the bank problem. He tried to push her out of his mind, to repress his feelings for her. As he always did.

Mentally, he replayed the ongoing computer security projects from which they earned their bread and butter. He knew every client, every firm. There was no explanation for the payment of such a sum. He re-checked the banks e-mail notification of the wire transfer. Perhaps the bookkeeping department had made a numerical error.

Or was Aime in trouble? Hiding something? Something involving this wild-goose chase across the Atlantic to look for a brother who might not even exist. But he and Aime were best friends, she always said. How could he suspect her?

Shouts and yells came through the office wall. He sighed. Those crazy Italians in the new travel office next door were watching a soccer championship match, like everyone else on their floor this evening. He switched on Radio Classique. Strains of a Haydn sonata filled the room. Before he dealt with the computer surveillance dossier for Nadillacs impending trial, he needed a break. The compromising findings in Nadillacs data files had to be plainly presented. He needed to clear his mind.