Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Sunday, 8 A.M.

AIMÉE INHALED THE algae-scented wind, watching wavelets crest on the Seine below. The oyster sky mirrored the gray-tiled rooftops overlooking the quai. No snow, the ice had melted, as the homeless man had forecast. Perfect for a wool coat, scarf, boots and a chocolat chaud.

Miles Davis’s leash tugged her toward the damp stone steps leading down from Quai d’Anjou. He did his business under the bare-branched lime tree. Like every morning.

Her phone rang.

“Got dinner plans, Leduc?” her godfather Morbier asked.

A bolt of surprise shot through her. But she had a rendezvous with Jean-Luc. Vital for information on Pascal.

“Matter of fact, I do.”

“Another bad boy, Leduc?” He coughed. “Given up on Melac? Non, I don’t want to know. Lunch tomorrow, d’accord?”

“Anything to do with why you haven’t returned my calls, Morbier?”

She debated telling him about the attack last night. But that necessitated telling him about Pascal’s murder, the DST, her mother.

His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“See you at 1 P.M., Chez Louis.”

A three-star Michelin resto? “It’s not my birthday.”

Pause. He cleared his throat again. “It’s been a while, we should talk.”

Talk? Morbier, the original clammed mouth? This sounded serious. Or was that a trace of guilt she sensed? She could use that to her advantage.

“But you can bring me a present. The Hôtel-Dieu report on Clodo, a homeless mec, thrown on the Métro line last night.” God willing he’d made it through the night. “Can you arrange for me to visit him tomorrow, Morbier?”

“What’s this Clodo got to do with anything?” Pause. “You’re not inviting him to lunch?”

“Not in his condition.” Let him wonder.

“No promises, Leduc.” He clicked off.

As always, he kept her wondering. He’d engineer repayment. Nothing came free from Morbier.

She stared at the torpid gray currents. Morbier was the last link to her parents. Her only family now, besides her cousin Sebastien and René. Morbier had been her father’s first partner. The only one left who’d known her American mother. Not that he’d talk about her. He’d avoided Aimée’s questions for years.

She was bending down to scoop Miles Davis’s morning contribution into a plastic Printemps bag when her eye caught on the trash bin. Another matchbox was visible under the metal lip. Apprehension rippled through her shoulders.

They watched her, knew her schedule, her movements. If they were so good, why hadn’t they prevented her attack last night? She bit her lip. Before she defeated them at their own plan, she needed to discover it.

She dropped the plastic Printemps bag in the bin at the same time as she slid the matchbox in her pocket. Comme d’habitude, she left Miles Davis with Madame Cachou, her concierge, and followed her morning routine. Hitching up her leather skirt and black lace tights, she climbed on her Vespa and scootered across arched Pont Marie, the wind hitting her cheekbones. By the time she parked her now debugged scooter on rue Bailleul, she had a plan. Instead of turning to Leduc Detective’s door, she stopped at the red-awninged corner café.

“Un double, Aimée?” Zazie, the owner’s redheaded daughter, asked.

“Make it un double chocolat chaud.” Aimée’s smile turned serious. “You’re not at school, Zazie?”

“It’s Sunday, Aimée.” Zazie made a face as she knocked out the coffee grinds with a loud thump. “We let Papa sleep in. Not everyone works all the time like you do.”

Everyone else had a life.

“I’m in the lycée now,” Zazie said, “or did you forget that too?”

And grew up. It felt like yesterday that Zazie had to stand on a stool to serve from behind the counter.

“Of course not.” How could she have missed Zazie’s touch of mascara and blush, and her red hair now tamed with clips?

“Nice blusher,” Zazie said. “New tone?”

Aimée nodded. At least her makeup covered the cuts.

At the counter stood several suits and an older couple arguing over last night’s game show, Questions pour un Champion. Two men in windbreakers entered, accompanied by a rush of cold air. They took a table by the window overlooking rue du Louvre, read the menu with studied preoccupation. Too obvious on an early Sunday morning. Even on a bad day her surveillance skills were better than theirs. What did this cost the government?

“Merci, Zazie.” She sipped her chocolat chaud and left ten francs on the counter. “Your mother working the accounts this morning?”

Zazie nodded. “Bien sûr.”

“I’ll just stop by, eh?”

Zazie set the dishtowel down on her school cahier and winked. “This way.”

Aimée followed her through the narrow passageway by crates of Orangina. She nodded to Virginie, who was sitting in the cluttered office with Zazie’s toddler sister on her lap, and headed to the back service door.

“Plan B, n’est-ce pas, Aimée?”

“Good memory, Zazie. A detective always needs a Plan B.”

And plans X, Y, and Z.

“Those two men who just came in are following you?” Zazie said.

Sharp, too. “Let’s hope it’s only two.” Aimée pulled out her LeClerc compact, touched up her lips with Chanel Red. “When you take their order, count to ten and keep them busy. Eyes away from the window, okay?”

Zazie nodded, serious. “This goes on my recommendation, non? I’m ready to go undercover, pass messages anytime.”

Aimée blinked.

“For my internship in your office next summer.”

Didn’t she want to be a dancer? Or was that yesterday?