Murder in the Latin Quarter (15 page)

Wednesday Night

“FINISHED WITH YOUR paper?” Aimée asked as she signed out at Delair’s desk.

He nodded, hunched over
Voici,
a weekly scandal glossy with photos of Princess Diana. She took
Le Soir,
dated that evening, scanning the article on cataphiles partying at the Arènes de Lutèce. The last line of the article caught her attention. “Several Haitian
sans papiers
caught at the scene were linked to the recent flood of illegals transported here by human traffickers.”

What if Mireille and the illegals she’d been smuggled into the country with had been caught? Only one way to find out. She called Lucien, her friend from Ecole de Médicine, now a resident at Hôpital Val de Grâce and a zealous cataphile.

“Emergency. Lucien Lelong,” said a crisp voice.

“Caffeinated and on duty, right, Lucien?” she said.

“You know it, Aimée. Straight through until 6 A.M.”

A summons could come for him at any moment. She cut to the chase. “Know anything about the Arènes de Lutèce bust? The article indicated they caught Haitians, illegals—”

“Most got away,” he interrupted. “Hold on a minute. . . .”

She waved goodbye to Delair and walked into the dark street. A feeling of unease overcame her. She paused under a plane tree, her senses alert for watchers in a car. Or movement. There was just the distant rumble of the Metro under-ground, a clear night sky with a star-frothed Milky Way, a few parked cars. No dented Peugeot.

“Got away, Lucien? What do you mean?”

“We restore those tunnels; it’s a labor of love, let me tell you,” he said. “The Haitians were helping out; they kept watch,” he said. “My friend said the
flics
bungled the bust and didn’t seal off all the tunnels. Thank God for small favors.”

“Any chance you saw a Haitian woman by the name of Mireille?”

“No women at all that I remember. But I haven’t gone below since last week,” he said. “They work us like mules here. Sleep and work, that’s what I do.”

“And soon your
maman
will have ‘her son the doctor,’” she said.

“If I survive that long.”

She heard moaning in the background. “Need to go,” Lucien said, “my patient needs a morphine-drip adjustment.”

Another shot in the dark that had gone nowhere, she thought, disappointed.

“The Haitians crawled right back, according to my friend,” Lucien said. “Some of them camp under the Roman bleachers.”

She heard the opening and closing of what sounded like metal cabinets in the background. “
Les pauvres,
they’re des- perate,” Lucien said. “A shame these people must hide or be hunted down.”

Desperate and on the run. Like Mireille. An idea came to her. Her father always said if something speaks to you, check it out.

“Lucien, I want to go down there. Can you take me?”

“I’m on shift, then sleeping, Aimée.”

“It’s important, Lucien.”

“It’s
always
important with you, Aimée.”

“You owe me, remember?”

Her casual background check on his mother’s new boyfriend had revealed that the charming and distinguished white-haired Hungarian “comte” was in fact a failed insurance salesman from Belgrade.

“How can I forget? You never let me.” The moaning was louder now. “Look, a car crash patient’s not feeling too good.”

“And you’re the king of multitasking, Lucien.” She imagined him right now injecting the morphine and adjusting the drip. “If the
flics
didn’t close all the tunnels, where can I get down? Come on, you must know.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. “SAMU’s arriving, Aimée.”

“Quick, Lucien, please.”

“By the hollow under the bleachers on the northern side. At least it was open last week. There’s a sewer opening in the recess to the left.”

“Merci,
Lucien.”

“But first you have to get in; the arena’s locked at night.”

She knew Lucien, an ardent cataphile, had connections. All the cataphiles knew each other, shared quarry and tunnel maps, even made copies of keys to the parks. “And the park’s gate key would be. . . ?”

Lucien sighed. “Under the ivy, the fake rock by the lilac bush on the left side of the gate on rue des Arènes. Where we always keep it.”

“Call me when you’re off duty, Lucien.” She hung up.

The first-century Gallo-Roman arena stood just a few blocks away. Ten minutes if she hurried. Her phone rang.

“Sorry I didn’t make it, Aimée,” said René, apologetic. “Something came up. But you handled it, right?”

Aimée sensed his uncertainty. Her shoulders tightened. “No problem. I ran Morel’s programs. We’re set for tomorrow.”

“We should talk.”

Dread filled her as she thought of the startup that had excited him. Leaves scuttled under her feet, the wind swirling them around her ankles. If René left, she would feel adrift, too.

She had to salvage their relationship. She couldn’t lose René. But right now she had somewhere to go.

“OK,” she said. “My mind’s been occupied, you’re right, René. But no reason we can’t figure this out.”

“Figure out what?” René asked.

Her bad feeling mounted. He obviously wanted to tell her in person.

“You’re on your scooter, right?” he asked. “So come and meet me.”

“Not now, René.”

“Where are you?”

“Near the Arènes de Lutèce.”

“This time of night?” he said. “But it’s closed.”

“Not for me. The
flics
rousted some Haitians in the tunnels—”

“And you think Mireille’s involved,” he interrupted, exasperated, “don’t you?”

“I won’t know until I check it out.”

“Not alone, Aimée.”

“Got to go.”

Bad news could wait. She hoped she wouldn’t find any ahead of her.

RUE DES ARÈNES, a winding street with a small Metro exit identified by a thirties Metro sign, glimmered in the haze of streetlights. At the Arènes de Lutèce’s main gate, behind the green bars, she found the rock in the lilac bush with the key taped to it. She looked behind her and saw only dark bow-windowed buildings, a pointed Gothic turret nestled among the rooftops, and a stray cat slinking over the cobblestones.

Gripping the key, she unlocked the padlock. A car pulled up and she ducked. No cover. And not fast enough.

The headlights illumined her foot. A car door slammed. Footsteps crunched leaves.

She held her breath as the figure paused, half in shadow, then stepped toward the gate with a rolling gait, a slight limp.

“Over here, René,” she whispered, her relief battling with concern.

He stood, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “You’re not going through with this.”

“Shhh.” She cracked the gate open.

“Good thing I came here.”

“Why?”

“Remember Loussant, my student?” René said, “He’s worried, something to do with a Haitian human rights campaign involving Edouard Brasseur. He faxed me this.”

Edouard Brasseur, Benoît’s childhood friend, the elusive former rebel, former ally of Father Privert. Why lie to her about his “import/export” business?

“I thought you should see this, Aimée,” René said.

She was at a loss for words. “
Merci,
René.” She dusted her hands off, taking the fax from René and reading it.

“It’s only a message that he’ll make contact and send me an article,” she said, disappointed. “Nothing else.”

“Loussant doesn’t have a phone, Aimée.” René paused. “He works in Lyon now, but he always says if work were good for you, the rich would leave none for the poor. And he’s careful.”

Careful of what, she wondered. No time to worry about that now. She slid inside the gate. “Time’s wasting. See you tomorrow.”

“You’re not serious, Aimée,” René said. “You can’t think you’ll find Mireille.”

Or, for that matter, that Mireille would trust her. But she might find someone who knew her.

“The guard at the lab wanted to give me some information, but he was pushed under a car before he could. Mireille’s a homicide suspect. I’m considered her accomplice, René. I have to find her.” She stared through the bars of the gate, then at him. “You look tired.”

“And you never change,” he said. “Pig-headed. Stubborn.”

The trees rustled. A squirrel scurried over the grass, leaving a trail of dew glistening in the moonlight. No time to argue.

“See you tomorrow, René.”

“I’m coming with you.”

And with that, he slid inside the narrow opening, closed the gate, and started following her.

“René, if something comes down. . . .”

“I’m a black belt, remember?”

“Things okay, René?”

“Never better,” he said.

She kept her observation of his limp to herself. Though she was loath to admit it, she was glad of his company.

Together they walked into the remains of the first-century Gallo-Roman amphitheater. The rooftops of rue Monge were silhouetted like dark stairsteps against the sky. Dampness radiated from the park that surrounded the arena on three sides. The excavation of the grounds in the nineteenth century during the building of a tramway, had revealed the old arena. The sunken field had once served as a cemetery. Like every part of Paris, history was layered upon history. Victor Hugo had led a campaign to save the ruins from demolition. Now limestone bleachers ascended the side of the sunken arena where gladiators had fought.

An opening showed between the bleachers, dark and for-lorn, one section being reconstructed under scaffolding. The feeling of desolation was heightened by old plastic bags and trash clumped against the construction shed and the wire fence, blown there by the wind and then coated with dust.

Each step they took echoed eerily from the other side of the arena.

“The Romans had acoustical engineering down pat,” René said. “But their entertainment leaves something to be desired.”

He pointed to the ground-level green-tinged bars that had functioned as gates for openings in the stone. “Animal cages. Think of hungry lions, waiting for a meal.”

Overhead light beams made yellow pools on the dirt floor near a shed labeled DCD CONSTRUCTION. It was dark and pad-locked. The cyclone fence surrounding the site seemed to sway in the wind.

When she went closer to it, the fence proved easy to push aside.

“This doesn’t seem like a good idea, Aimée,” René cautioned.

But she stepped through and continued on until she reached a dank vaulted arcade.

“I don’t like this,” René persisted, catching his breath.

She didn’t either. Where was the opening Lucien had men-tioned? The curving arches disappeared into the darkness. An eerie glint, then a swath of light appeared as the Tour Eiffel’s hourly beacon swept the distant treetops.

“Let’s go,” René said, his voice echoing. “No one’s around.”

Gravel crunched under Aimée’s heels. “If someone came through here. . . .”

She shone her penlight ahead. The yellow beam illuminated chipped stone stained by moisture. Scratching noises came from somewhere. Inside the recess under the old bleachers, plaster scraped beneath her heels. She stopped. A damp draft wafted the scent of mildew to them. Candles on the floor flickered.

In the sputtering light, she saw a figure just ahead of them.

“Who are. . . ?” Her words died.

A body hung suspended in a web of crisscrossing ropes between two sculpted stone burls that flanked a coved arch. Its arms were outstretched, wrists tied with rope. Like a fly caught in a cobweb. Long curly hair. A woman!

“God help her,” René gasped.

Her heart reeled. “Mireille?”

In the wavering candlelight she saw a painted face, made-up eyes, dark red mouth. Frozen features. A wig. A cruel caricature of Mireille. A string of black beads and a bottle of rum on the floor. Some vodou rite to torture Mireille?

She gasped with relief. “It’s a mannequin, René.”

From the recesses of her mind, she dredged up a memory. The elite forces case training video enactment. A supposed victim was shown, tied up like bait on a hook, as well as the ensuing slaughter when a rescue was attempted.

“René!” She whispered. “Stop!”

“What?”

“A setup. It could be booby-trapped . . . a bomb.”

The sound of crunching gravel came from near the arch. Someone was there. A small red dot shone for a moment, the unmistakable infrared dot of a night-vision high-powered rifle. Did vodou rituals involve high-powered rifles?

Then there was a rustling in the corner. The dim candle-light revealed an approaching figure, the bulk of a big man.

“Get down.” She pushed René back against the wall, where they crouched.

Not much time. A minute or two at most until he reached them. She took René’s hands, stared into his face, and whispered, “Listen and do what I say.” She scooped up gravel from the ground, putting it in his hand. “See that red light coming from behind the column? It’s a rifle scope. I’d guess we surprised those
mecs
and they’re wondering who we are.”

The rot of mildew and old stone odors grew stronger.

René gripped her fingers, his face almost touching hers. “You mean they expected Mireille to show up here? But why?”

“For God’s sake, this place was in tonight’s paper,” she said. “Whoever’s after Mireille knows she’s superstitious and believes in these things. What else makes sense? But where’s the encampment?”

The rest of her words were drowned out in sharp clucking, scrabbling noises, and a whacking sound that echoed. And a chicken ran across the packed-earth floor in front of them.

Aimée’s yellow light beam caught it. A headless chicken, its severed neck spurting blood, staggered in a drunken circle of death before it fell, out of view.

Bile rose in Aimée’s stomach. She pulled the Swiss Army knife from her bag. “Toss the gravel over there, René,” she said, indicating a wall in the opposite direction.

“Who’s. . . ?” A low voice echoed off the stone behind her. “
Aimée?
”

She turned to see Mireille at the end of the tunnel.

“
You’re
here?” Mireille’s voice wavered.