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Authors: Cara Black

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BOOK: Murder in the Sentier
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The noise of churning gravel came from outside as she descended. Perhaps the workmen were starting another shift after all, she figured.

She moved into the pale Camembert-colored light ruminating … afraid Jutta Hald’s words about her mother were true.

And afraid this was connected to her father’s death in some way.

But where was Jutta?

Outside, a trio of Portuguese-speaking tourists wandered and consulted maps on the far side of the courtyard. A workman in blue overalls shoveled sand in the rear. A shovel stood up in the sand pile. And Jutta Hald sat, huddled on a green bench next to the wall, her back to Aimée.

Odd, Aimée thought. She hadn’t been there before.


Ça va
… Jutta?” she asked, sitting down next to her.

Jutta Hald, leaning against the grimy stone wall, said nothing. She smelled of warm hair tinged by the singular vinegary odor she emitted.

Aimée looked closer. Jutta Hald’s eyes were wide with surprise.

“Don’t you hear me?”

No response. What was wrong with her?

She grabbed Jutta Hald’s arm, started to shake her. But the woman’s head slumped over, revealing pink gristle and congealed reddish matter sliding down the stone wall. The rest of her brain was still visible in the back of her skull, the part that hadn’t been blown off.

Aimée reared back, unable to speak. She struggled to breathe. Blood from a black hole seeped through Jutta Hald’s matted hair.

Jutta Hald had been shot at close range. Scarcely a minute ago.

Aimée looked up. She heard a burst of laughter from the tourists, the scrape of the iron gate in the courtyard, and crows cawing in the turrets.

No one had noticed.

Aimée had heard nothing. Neither had anyone else.

Was the killer still here?

She froze.

Jutta Hald’s hands were empty. Her purse and the book she had showed Aimée were gone.

Aimée noticed the pill bottle Jutta must have meant to open, lying on her lap. She carefully picked it up and slipped it into her backpack.

“Veja, veja!”
one of the tourists shouted. A woman screamed and pointed.

At Aimée and Jutta Hald.

The workman … where was the workman? Aimée looked around. Gone. She heard more shouting in Portuguese.

Quickly she approached one of the tourists, a woman with frizzy black hair, who backed away.

“Where did the workman go?”

Wide-eyed looks of fear greeted her. Aimée pantomimed shoveling.

A salvo of Portuguese rushed toward her.
Policia
was all she understood. She tried not to look at Jutta Hald’s slumped corpse while she punched in 17 for SAMU—the
Service d’Assistance Médicale Urgente
—on her cell phone.

The Portuguese woman made for the gate. Aimée followed, scrutinizing rue Etienne Marcel, the street she faced.

“I’m reporting a murder,” she said into the phone. “The shooter could be posing as a tourist or a workman.”

“Address and victim?” the dispatcher asked.

Twenty meters away the Portuguese woman had found a
flic
. She was pointing at Aimée.

“Tour Jean-Sans-Peur on rue Etienne Marcel,” she said. “A released prisoner from Frésnes, Jutta Hald.”

The
flic
began walking toward her.

“Your name?” the dispatcher asked.

The
flic
’s pace increased.

“Call me a concerned citizen,” she said, clicked off, and ran around the corner.

Saturday Afternoon

I
NSIDE THE OIL-PUDDLED GARAGE
in a Paris suburb, Stefan adjusted his hearing aid to listen to the radio. “Former seventies radical” had caught his attention as he bent over a Mercedes SL 320 engine. “Jutta Hald, just released today after a twenty-year prison term, was found murdered …”

Stefan went cold. He dropped his wrench and leaned against the engine hood. His jaw worked but nothing came out.

The radio report continued. A police inspector interviewed by the reporter described the homicide location and a woman running from the scene.

The sound faded. Buzzed. Stefan fiddled with his hearing aid.
Scheisser
… only a low buzz. His bad hearing was the reward of his life of crime.

And then the news bulletin ended.

Stefan glanced nervously at the mechanic working across the garage. But the man in the greasy jumpsuit hadn’t lifted his head from the engine hood he was working on.

Jutta Hald killed … on the day she got out of prison! Who was left who could have gotten to her?

Stefan straightened up. He recalled those days, back in 1972.

He saw the faces frozen with shock as his Red Army gang burst into the bank yelling, “Hands up, we’re relieving you of your capitalist gains…. Long live the PROLETARIAT!”

Forget the ideology. The power had thrilled him.

He’d hated the nightly meetings, typing communiqués and discussing manifestos on
organized armed resistance
and
spreading the class struggle.

But robbing banks had been fun. It was all spoiled when they had decided to aim higher, when they’d become too greedy. Yet it was their mistake. The biggest one.

So for twenty years Stefan had been underground. His Red Army group scattered: Jutta imprisoned, Marcus and Ingrid shot in the head; Ulrike had strangled herself with bedsheets in her cell. Beate and Jules had vanished. Mercenaries in Angola, last he’d heard.

Now Jutta was dead.

He stared down at his callused grease-stained fingers. Lucky thing he’d been good at fixing engines.

“Alors!”
said Anton, the barrel-chested owner, waving a socket wrench in his face. “Come back to earth, a carburetor’s waiting.”

Stefan nodded and leaned over the gleaming engine.

Anton kept him despite Stefan’s “dreamy fits,” as he called them. Because if Stefan knew one thing, it was Mercedes engines.

He’d repair a thrown rod and make it smooth as lambskin, get a grinding gearbox purring in no time. If Anton suspected shadows in his workman’s past, he ignored them. Ignored them in favor of the forty percent markup he made on Stefan’s installation of Bulgarian-made parts stamped
MADE IN GERMANY
.

“Fits like a woman’s stocking,” Anton said loudly. He shouted at Stefan as if he were half-witted, not just partly deaf.

Stefan slid in the fuel injector, the socket wrench ratcheting with a grating noise side to side. Suddenly, his co-worker’s air gun shot lug nuts onto the tires on the huge Mercedes truck opposite.

Like bullets.

Stefan jumped. He always did. He couldn’t help it.

“This little lady could use some oil, then
voilà
,” Anton said. “You know how to write the invoice, eh, Pascal?” His eyes narrowed.

Stefan nodded. He hated the name Pascal.

But he had to make do. Twenty years of making do, with his glasses, dyed hair, and the hearing aid. He’d lost a lot of his hearing in the explosion. His hair grayed naturally now and he didn’t need to retouch his sideburns and mustache every month.

Outside the garage, the
boulangerie
’s metal awning rolled down, slat by slat. In the square, Stefan saw the orange-red of the traffic light flicker in the twilight. Everyone was going home. Home to someone.

Stefan’s mind rewound as he put his tools away.

After the robbery and kidnapping, the gang had regrouped at their safe house in the woods.

But safe it wasn’t. Some maggot had informed on them.

Stefan had been in the back barn, repainting the car, when smoke, screams, and loud thuds reached him. The
flics
were firebombing the old farmhouse. He ran from the burning barn through the woods, as rippling gunfire tore the alder tree trunks behind him. He ran for miles without stopping, his body scratched and torn when he emerged.

He was panting and exhausted when he came out of the underbrush and crossed over the highway, running from the sirens.

A rusted-out Opel 127’s wheels were askew, its right front tire stuck in the ditch. Stefan helped the plaid-jacketed old hunter, who was grinding his wheels, to get out of the mud. He helped him push the car onto dry ground, then asked for a lift. Glad for the help, the hunter happily obliged and even shared his black bread and wurst.

Then the bulletin concerning the shoot-out had come over the radio. Stefan had never forgotten the hunter’s face when he realized Stefan’s identity. The man tried to hide his reaction but his shaking hands on the steering wheel gave him away. He pulled over onto an Autobahn emergency turnout and got out, saying he felt sick.

But in the rearview mirror, Stefan saw the old man stumble and run toward the Autobahn, waving his arms frantically for help. Terror-stricken and confused, he plunged headlong into oncoming traffic, speeding vans, and whizzing cars. His body was batted like a marble in a foosball game as vehicles tried to brake, screeching and swerving. Stefan grabbed the Opel’s wheel, pumped the accelerator, and took off. The last image he had was of the man’s body lying in the road like a rag doll as cars piled up.

Near Frankfurt, Stefan careened the car off the highway into rocky brush. But not before he took the old man’s wallet, scraped the serial numbers off the chassis, and buried the license plates under a pine tree. Then he hiked to the train station.

The police would think he’d escaped. Now he’d be on the run for the rest of his life even though his joining the Haader-Rofmein gang was only a fluke.

No. Face it. He’d joined to impress the long-haired girl who’d ignored him, chanting, “Death to imperialist tendencies” when he bought her a beer. He would have done anything for her. He’d ended up driving the getaway car on the fateful day.

Stefan shook the memories aside as he walked home.

Several years ago, he’d begun therapy in Poissy, not far from his village. Why not? Everyone had secrets. His weighed heavy. Especially the old hunter, who hadn’t had a proper funeral, and Beate and Ulrike. He still wished he’d helped them instead of running.

In 1989, he’d verged on confession—there were rumors of an amnesty. But the Wall came down. The Stasi files appeared. Nasty East German files, sure to convict him. He kept silent.

Now there was no hope of presidential pardon or amnesty. He came to the conclusion that Jutta was looking for the rest of the Laborde stash they’d stolen: the bonds, the paintings, and more.

She’d known where some of it was hidden. He’d have to get to it before her killer did.

Saturday Afternoon


T
ATOUAGE,” FLASHED THE ORANGE-PINK
neon sign around the corner from the tower on rue Tiquetonne. The area was full of apartments and shops, combed by narrow alleys, and courtyards. Sirens wailed in the distance. From a doorway, Aimée saw the
flic
round the corner, then stop and question a woman with shopping bags. Quickly, Aimée slipped inside the tattoo parlor.

The dust-laden velvet curtains had known better days. Muggy air, tinged by sweat and old wine, clung in the corners. An insistent, low whir competed with a Gypsy Kings tape.

In the large room, a woman in a violet smock, her back to Aimée, filled jars with varying shades of makeup. Aimée stepped into a long curtained cubicle.

Seated before the mirror, a tanned, topless woman fanned herself with a
Paris Match
magazine. From the edge of her left shoulder to the top of her spine, an intricate lizard design was etched in green-blue. Fine droplets of blood beaded the edges. Hunched behind her, a man with a whirring instrument stared intently at her back.

Aimée winced. The price of adornment was minimal to some.

Not to her.

A muscular man in a tight white T-shirt ducked inside. Tattoos covered his arms: His bald head shone under the reddish heat lamps. He smiled at Aimée, revealing a row of gold-capped teeth.

“Have you chosen?” He pointed to a seat like a dentist’s chair, hard and metallic.

“Chosen?” she said, edging back toward the curtain.

“Your design,” he said, pointing to the walls lined with photos of tattoos.

The coppery smell of blood made her uneasy.

Outside the curtain, she heard the
flic
questioning the makeup artist in the next room. No way could she go out there now.

The tattooist tapped his fingers on a Formica table lined with instruments.

“So, what would you like?”

Nothing, she wanted to say.

“Try the old Pigalle gangster designs,” he said. “A rooster symbolizing hope, the butterfly with a knife dripping blood for
joie de vivre
….”

“Like hers,” she whispered, pointing to the tanned, topless woman.

She pulled up her shirt and put her finger midback to the left of her spine. “Here. I don’t want to look.”

“Aah, a Marquesan lizard,” he said. “The symbol of change. With the sacred tortoise inside?”


Oui
, delicate and
trés petit
.”

The man’s smiled faded. His lips pursed. “That motif doesn’t work in less than a six-millimeter format.”

Footsteps approached.

“Go ahead.” She nodded, then put her head down. She covered her face with a towel and pulled a sheet over her leather skirt, praying it would be over quick. And that the
flic
would leave.

“I trained with Rataru in Tahiti,” he said, as if Aimée would know. “Of course, he’s the master of the Marquesas.”

Not only would it hurt, René would never let her forget this.

He swabbed her back with alcohol. Cold and tingling. He rubbed his hands, probably in glee.


Tout va bien
, Nico?”

So the tattooist was Nico.

“No complaints, Lieutenant Mercier,” he said.

From the direction of the conversation, she figured the
flic
stood a meter away. Keep going, she thought, don’t stop.

“Any news for me … anybody run in here?”

Aimée’s heart hammered. Something clattered in the metal tray by her ear. If she bolted, she’d send the tattoo machine flying but she wouldn’t make it to the door.

“We sent runners for coffee,” Nico said, “but they’re not back yet.”

So Lieutenant Mercier was the friendly type, taking the pulse of his
quartier.
Maybe he contacted his informers here. Or he was on the take. Or looking for her.

The tattoo needle ripped her flesh like a fine-toothed hacksaw.

Twenty tears to the minute, searing and precise, the needle punched tiny holes in her skin. She blinked away tears, gritting her teeth, praying it would end soon.

After what seemed like forever, Aimée heard Mercier move away. A long while later the tattoo artist switched off his torture machine.

Aimée got up slowly and reached for her wallet. “In case service isn’t included,” she said, slipping him an extra hundred-franc note.

“Like a complimentary makeover?” a woman’s voice asked. “You’ll love it.”

Aimée turned and saw a petite smiling woman standing near the chair. Beyond the curtain, another
flic
had joined Mercier.

“Seems it’s time for me to get a new image,” Aimée said, her mouth compressed.

“Speed bump … like it?” the makeup artist asked, as she traced the arch in Aimée’s brow using a tapered makeup brush. “It does wonders for those lines.”

Aimée’s shoulders tightened in pain. The tattoo hurt. In the outer room, Mercier’s voice competed with the whirring of the tattoo needle.

“Try this too,” the woman said, holding out swabs of glittery peach powder. “This brightens up your skin tone and makes you glow. Positively glow.” She brushed a velvety sheen over Aimée’s arms, shoulders, and neck. “I’m writing a book,” she said, talking nonstop, “called
How to Look Like a Goddess When You Feel like a Dog
. Full of useful hints for fast-living people who have to look good at airports even in times of excess or trauma.” The woman grinned. “You know, big sunglasses, fur collars to make you appear frail and exotic, that sort of thing.”

By the time Aimée got out of the
tatouage
parlor, her back ached and she positively glowed. The
flics
were gone and she’d signed up for a copy of the book.

Aimée’s uneasiness followed her all the way home. She shuddered, thinking of Jutta Hald. Pathetic, desperate Jutta. As greedy and evasive as she’d been, Jutta didn’t deserve to have her brains splattered on a stone wall. No one did. After twenty years of prison, she’d paid her dues.

Part of Aimée wanted to forget she’d ever met Jutta. Another part of her said Jutta’s killer might be able to lead to her mother.

From her backpack she pulled out Jutta’s pill bottle. Inside was a balled-up sketch of the tower along with a torn magazine photo. In it, a salt-and-pepper-haired man was holding an award.

The caption read “Romain Figeac.”

She recognized the name. Romain Figeac, the
monstre sacre
, Prix Goncourt—winning author, and sixties radical. In the seventies he’d been the
ruine du jour
and in the eighties,
passe
. Now the old man was still a bleeding liberal, according to his own autobiography. Or was that his wife, an actress … she couldn’t remember.

She ran her fingers over the smooth blue tiles on the basin counter. Was what Jutta Hald told her the truth … any of it?

Aimée wondered if the address book Jutta had waved by her had really been her mother’s.

She turned on the tap and stuck her head under the cold water. Squeezing her lavender soap, she washed the tattoo parlor smell out of her hair, then shook her wet locks like a dog. But it didn’t clear her head. Her mind was spinning.

Jutta Hald’s words kept coming back. She had asked if Aimée’s mother had sent her something. And then Aimée realized a bathroom drawer had been left half open, her towels hastily folded, and the medicine cabinet ajar. Nothing was missing but what had Jutta been searching for?

Then the realization hit her. Someone had
killed
Jutta. She could be next!

Nothing made sense, yet it connected to her mother.

Since the day her mother left, Aimée had been desperate to know what happened to her. Now she had a chance to find out. Slim at best. But more than before. She had to pursue it.

She went to the kitchen and plugged in the small refrigerator. It was empty and emitted the hiss of slow-leaking Freon. She filled Miles Davis’s chipped Limoges bowl with steak tartare left from the train trip. He sniffed, then cocked his head as if to say,
“What’s this?”

“Sorry, furball,” she said. “I’ll pop into the
charcuterie
later.”

Her seventeenth-century apartment needed an overhaul: central heating instead of feeble steam radiators for bone-chilling winters; plumbing more current than the nineteenth century; enough juice to keep a chandelier, computer, fax, scanner, DSL line, and hair dryer on concurrently; and access to her basement
cave
for storage. Too bad the
cave
had been declared a historical treasure because it had provided an underground escape route to the Seine for nobility during the Revolution, and had been closed for repairs. Closed for as long as she could remember.

She kept buying lottery tickets. Someday, she told herself,
Architectural Digest
would visit. But maybe not in her lifetime.

She remembered her mother calling her
Aamée
in a flat American monotone, unlike her father’s French
A-yemay
, his syllables dipping at the beginning. Had he refused to speak of her mother, because of shame that he, a
flic
, had a wife in prison?

Aimée consulted the Minitel. No listing for Romain Figeac. She tried his publisher, Tallimard.

“Can you help me reach Romain Figeac?”


Tiens
, this is a joke, right?” the receptionist said.

Taken aback, Aimée paused. “If you can’t give his number, his address …?”

“Such bad taste,” the receptionist interrupted.

“Look I need to talk with him,” said Aimée.

“Don’t you know?” the receptionist said.

“Enlighten me.”

“His funeral was yesterday.”

BOOK: Murder in the Sentier
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