Murder in Montmartre

Wednesday Afternoon

RENÉ LEANED FORWARD IN his orthopedic chair, staring at their computer screens. On the first, he updated and audited the database-registry settings and user-account configurations, something he could do in a half-sleep. On the other computer, he studied a display of the magnified six-groove rifling and RH twist of the bullet from a Manhurin .32 PP. He scanned the specifications text, wishing he could understand it: a 3.35 barrel length, operating as a direct blowback, double- or single-action semiautomatic pistol, it had a spring/momentum locking system that could take an eight-round box magazine with front blade and dovetailed rear sight. So, in human terms, what did that mean, René wondered. His phone rang and he jumped, knocking a batch of printouts to the floor.

“Allô?”

“Find anything interesting in the ballistics, René?” Aimée asked.

He heard something in Aimée’s voice; the words seemed to catch in her throat.

“Like I’m an expert?” he said. “Hold on a moment.” He put on a headset, hit the lever lowering his chair, and bent down to gather the papers. The pain in his hip flared and he winced.

“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to examine the ballistics report and check on something?”

The bleep of a truck backing up came over the line.

“I e-mailed the file to you,” she said.

“I got it. But the autopsy report is not in Laure’s dossier,” René said, setting the papers on his desk. “So it’s impossible to compare.”

“Compare what? You noticed something, didn’t you, René?”

Notice? More like a lurking question. Could be off the track but . . . “It’s just a question that bothered me.”

He readjusted the height of his chair and sat.

“Come on, René!”

“Haven’t you wondered why these men used Laure’s gun, if they did?” He pulled his goatee, studying the laptop screen.

“All night long,” she said.

“Well, I was thinking, too, after what you said last night. If they saw Jacques had brought backup, and lured him to the roof—”

“Alors, René,” she said, an impatient edge to her voice.

“If, as little Paul claims, he saw two flashes on the roof, what about the other bullet?” It was an obvious question, he realized. “In your diagram of the rooftop, the area seemed partially enclosed. It could be in the chimney, or the walls.”

“Good point,” she said.

“Meanwhile, I’m updating our new accounts,” he said, placing a hot-water bottle against his hip. Heat eased the pain of his hip dysplasia, which increased in the damp cold. “Someone’s got to work here.”

Pause.

“René: Zette, the bar owner.”

“The one Jacques moonlighted for?” he interrupted.

“I just found him, René, garroted. Vendetta-style, with a Sicilian necktie.”

He took a deep breath. No wonder she sounded on edge. Things were going from bad to worse.

“Then mecs chased me through Marché Saint Pierre.”

“What?” René clutched the water bottle and listened as she told him.

“What if Zette was the victim of a vendetta, Aimée? Let the flics handle it.”

“Or someone made it look like that,” she said. “Zette knew something.”

From her tone he knew she wouldn’t give up. Not yet. He shivered. “If they were on the lookout, you gave them an eyeful.”

“I’m giving Laure’s file to Maître Delambre,” she said.

“Aimée, be careful. Watch yourself.”

“I will. And you’ve got to arrange for Paul to see him.”