Murder in Montmartre

Thursday evening

LUCIEN PUSHED OPEN THE corrugated metal siding that had been nailed over the warehouse door, slid out, and hitched the music case onto his back.

Three years in Paris and he had achieved nothing.

Kouros, he figured, had pulled out of the recording deal at the hint that he might be connected to terrorists. And now, instead of a SOUNDWERX contract, the law was after him and, almost worse, a fellow Corse had tried to frame him as a terrorist.

In the damp street, a line of customers trailed out of the door of the kabob place. He noticed a jean-jacketed, spiky-haired woman peering into a shop window with her back to him. Her long black-stockinged legs ended in stiletto heels.

He might as well call the Chatelet ethnic music organizer and make an appointment. Since his DJ jobs were in alternative clubs the flics didn’t police, he’d survive.

He passed Kabob Afrique, its faded green shutters latched open. Right now, he’d prefer a canastrelli biscuit, the traditional late-afternoon Corsican treat, with wine. And to be near sun-drenched, rose-yellow stone houses, basking in the last copper rays of the sun. Instead, he stood in a densely packed lane of silvery gray nineteenth-century buildings, in the wan wintry light.

The woman wearing the jean jacket was asking him something.

“Pardon, Monsieur . . .” Her bag dropped on the cobblestones in front of him.

He bent down to retrieve it at the same time she did. They knocked heads as their hands touched. “My fault, sorry,” she said.

Her flushed cheeks, huge eyes, and striking face put him off balance. He’d forgotten other women, stunning women, existed.

And then he saw fear in her eyes. She clutched her bag, stood, and retreated. She edged around the street corner into a narrow lane, getting away.

Women! He readjusted his cetera case. Then he glanced down the lane. He was aghast to see the glint of a knife being wielded by a man who had cornered the woman against a pile of broken furniture.