Authors: Cara Black

Murder in the Sentier (30 page)

BOOK: Murder in the Sentier

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She wedged it back and forth, easing it out of the hole, but it felt light.

He’d shoot her next.

Jules shot the lock off, stooped, and opened the box.

Empty.

Aimée rammed Jules with her shoulder and dove to the dirt. Her leg hit the two-by-four and it came loose. She scrabbled up on her elbows and tried to get behind the stack of thick three-meter-high panes of glass. Each must weigh several hundred kilos, she figured. They’d deflect the bullets.

But the stack of glass wobbled. One pane tipped and fell on top of Jules with a loud, shuddering thud.

“Get this off … me!” Jules gasped. The glass glinted, pinning him on his stomach in the dirt. He was caught under the glass up to his shoulders. Short of breath, he waved his arms. “Help!” And then the next glass sheet teetered and fell with a jarring crash. His chest was being compressed as the sheets of glass, like shimmering dominoes, fell on top of him, making the earth and the stacks of metal lockers jump.

Stefan tried to crawl away but fell bleeding onto the tiles.

Aimée kept her head down and curled up in the space where the stack of glass had leaned against the wall.

Then the metal lockers toppled over, blocking her way, jamming her behind them. All she could hear was moans, as Jules slowly suffocated to death.

She couldn’t move, she was stuck.

Behind the old lockers was a hole in the crumbling cement wall, rebar sticking out. She tried to ease her way around them. And then Aimée knew. The backward arrow from the treasure chest pointed here.

Carefully, she reached in. She felt something damp and smooth. She pulled it out. The moldy smell from the Neufarama bag made her gasp, but not as much as what was inside.

S
ATURDAY

Saturday Early Morning

A
FTER THE AMBULANCE
picked up Stefan, and the
pompiers
of the emergency squad and the forklifts had cleared things away, Aimée hitched a ride to the Commissariat on Place Goldoni. Fueled on espresso from the nearby cafe, she asked the sleepy-eyed night clerk for Lieutenant Bellan.

“Not in yet,” the clerk said.

“Hand these to him, will you?” she said, shoving several heavy, mildew-smelling Neufarama bags onto the desk.

The clerk’s nose wrinkled.

“Please, make sure these go to the robbery detail and to Lieutenant Bellan right away,” Aimée said. “But first I want them signed for and your stamped receipt.”

She walked into the dawn, which spread like a golden yolk over the Seine. When her Tintin watch showed seven
A.M
. she punched in Edith Mésard’s number on her cell phone.

“
Bonjour
, Madame Mésard,” she said. “Refresh my memory, but does the state show leniency if a fugitive wanted for twenty years gives himself up?”

By the time Aimée made it to her apartment, Edith Mésard had struck a deal for Stefan.

Saturday Early Evening

“H
OW COULD YOU TURN
in all those diamonds?” René sat at his desk, shaking his head in wonder. “Our rent, the equipment we need, and the new insurance premium …!”

“I don’t like
flics
remembering Papa as dirty,” she said. “Or me. Sorry, but I had to show we weren’t.”

She tore the
WANTED
posters from the office wall, balled them into the trash. A breeze carried the Seine’s scent through the open window. Lights twinkled on the distant quai.

“I understand.” He nodded. “
Désolé
, Aimée, about your mother.” He meant because he’d been right. She remained an enigma. And probably always would.

“Thanks, René,” she said, not looking up. Keeping the pain from welling up again. “Seems I’m just not meant to know. But I owe you a new scooter.”

“Don’t worry, that beat-up thing …”

She reached into her pocket, then scattered a handful of unpolished rocks over his keyboard. “Think these will cover it?”

He picked one up, turned it between his stubby fingers. His eyes bulged.

“Have them polished before you get them weighed. Here’s a ticket to Antwerp.” She grinned, handing him a train ticket. “Belgians do world-class
moules-frites
and chocolate!”

T
HE SOFT
evening air beckoned her and she walked slowly toward the Sentier, trying to ignore the three stitches in her leg. The life and bustle in this untamed part of Paris had grown curiously comfortable to her. Her steps carried her past the shadowy Bibliothéque Nationale. From a
crêperie
stand, she bought a Nutella
crêpe
. Then she wandered. Some time later she looked up and saw the old building where her family had once lived. Aimée mounted the worn stairs and stood on their old landing.

She knocked on the door. Silence. A peephole moved.

The wide wooden door opened. A small, stooped woman peered at her.

“
Bonsoir
, Huguette,” she said. “It’s Aimée. Do you remember? I lived across the hall?”

“Mais oui!”
Huguette smiled and her face crinkled in fine lines. “Such a long time. Come in.”

Aimée stepped through the foyer into the front room. Ceramic gnomes lined the shelves.

“Come to the kitchen, I was making some tea,” she said, taking Aimée’s arm. Her hand trembled and age spots covered her skin.

“I remember you taught me how to make apple cider,” Aimée said, sitting down at the same table she’d sat at as an eight-year-old.

“Don’t let anyone fool you,” Huguette said, “we Bretons make the best, eh? I showed you.”

They talked until the moon rose outside Huguette’s window and traveled across the sky, only interrupted by Huguette’s stroking of her gnomes every so often or her need to bring them in from the window ledge as it got late.

Aimée stood up, hoping it wouldn’t be as long before she saw Huguette again. As Huguette made her painful way to the door, she leaned more heavily on Aimée’s arm. She stopped.

“Tiens,”
she said. “Something came for you. I almost forgot, but it was so long ago.” She gave a small smile. “Sorry, but your papa wasn’t good at keeping in touch.”

Huguette opened the small hall desk, rummaged under some papers, and handed Aimée an envelope tied with a faded pink bow.

“See, I did that so I could find it when you came,” Huguette smiled.

The envelope was addressed to:

Amy Leduc c/o Huguette Loisir

The faded postmark was illegible. All she could read was “… USA.” The date was too smudged to decipher.

“
Merci
, Huguette,” Aimée said, her eyes filling with tears, and kissed her on both cheeks.

She walked through the warren of streets, holding the envelope to her heart.

Dear Amy,

I want you to know I think of you. All the time. You are my little girl. Always. But your life now is with Papa. Mine is somewhere else. You will grow big and strong and take care of yourself because I know you can … and you will.

Emil misses you, too.

Love,

Mommy

Under the luminous Paris moon, big hot tears dripped onto the ink, smudging it, but they were happy ones.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks and appreciation belong to so many: Jean Satzer, Dot Edwards, Grace Loh, always in my corner, merci, James N. Frey, the Tuesday gang, Mark Haddix, AIA, Dr. Terri Haddix, for her patience and humor, Isabelle and Marion, Tim Fewell and Joe Scannell of the San Francisco Fire Department, Mark Baenziger and Mark Miller on cyber patrol, and in Paris: Anne-François, for her generosity and spirit, Pierre-Olivier, the true
Sentier titi
, Elke, Martine, Jean-Jacques Cabioch and Stéphanie Pasquet,
agents de recherches privées
, Pierre Ottavioli, former Commissaire with the Préfecture, officer Cathy Etilé and Commandant Michel Bruno, of the Commissariat Central du 12ème Arrondissement, David, Herve, Elise, Donna and Earl Evleth for the Frésnes visit, Bertrand, Linda Allen for her support, Melanie Fleishman for her encouragement, and deep thanks to Laura Hruska, to my son, Shuchan, who lets me, and, always, to Jun.