Murder in Montmartre

Thursday, Late Evening

AIMÉE CURSED HER BAD luck. The mec who’d chased her after Zette’s murder was holding a knife to her face.

“You don’t pay attention, do you?” the mec said. He’d backed her against rain-soaked broken chairs and old tables piled up in the alley, evidence of an eviction. This street lay off the beaten track and was deserted.

“I don’t know what you mean. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

She wanted to know whom he worked for. Why threaten her . . . here. But first things first.

She grinned. “I get it now, big boy. If you like me, just ask.” She pointed to the Hôtel Luxe, a run-down, soot-blackened sagging hotel across the street. “For you, a five hundred franc special treatment.”

A flutter of doubt appeared in his eyes. She was not the kind of hooker he was familiar with.

“I don’t have to pay for it,” he boasted, advancing closer. “You’re the curious type.” He eyes traveled her legs. “Poking your nose in everywhere.”

His leather pants glistened with beaded rain mist. Just let him take one step closer.

“Respect is a two-way street, big boy.” She smiled and licked her lips. “Put that knife away and come here.”

In his nanosecond of indecision, she kicked with all her might at his kneecap. He doubled over in pain, clutching his knee, and howled. The knife clattered on the cobblestones. Thank God for pointed stiletto heels.

She scooped the knife up and took off. Tripped on a chair leg, scrambled, and pulled herself up the moss-embedded stone wall. At the corner she skidded into him again, the mec from the doorway whom she’d just bumped heads with. Deep-set, intense black eyes, chiseled features, black curly hair, sideburns: a good-looker, as Cloclo had said.

“Looks like you can handle yourself,” he said.

Lucky this time, she slipped the knife into her pocket.

“You’re Lucien Sarti, right?” she asked.

His concerned gaze changed to suspicion. “Who are you?”

And then trouble walked up the street. The limping mec had a cell phone to his ear. Was he calling for reinforcements? He swung the thick leg of a broken chair at her.

“Keep walking,” she said.

From the frying pan into the fire. Why was Lucien Sarti here? And the mec? Had Cloclo set her up?

“Quick,” she said, gesturing Lucien to a half-open gate. She hoped it led to another street, to escape.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or how you know my name,” he began.

“Explanations later. Hurry,” she said.

He hesitated. She pulled him by the arm and they ran past filled Dumpsters beneath a row of rose bushes sheeted, ghostlike, against the frost with clear plastic. Two-story townhouses bordered the quiet impasse. A dead end. Aimée’s pulse quickened. Where could they go?

Behind them, footsteps pounded. She turned left, up an unevenly paved passage, and ducked behind a wet hedge, pulling him by the arm to join her. They crouched in a gutter. His denim thigh rubbed hers. His look was intense and his breath was warm against her ear.

“Why’s that mec chasing you?” he asked.

She put her finger to her lips. From his backpack peeked an instrument case. On the right stood a Louis Philippe-style townhouse; oeil-de-boeuf round windows in its facade were like eyes watching them. She couldn’t see any doors leading from the courtyard to another street.

She felt a prickling on her skin, gasped for air. The footsteps stopped. Receded. And then it was quiet.

He stared at her as the water in the gutter gurgled over his feet. “He’s gone,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Sarti’s long black lashes were so close she could see how they curled.

She stood, brushing off the sodden, dead leaves. Grime streaks and grease soiled her stockings. She had to collect herself, and try to get information from him.

“You’re looking for me. Why?” he asked.

“I saw you in Montmartre the night the flic was shot.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “How did you find me? I don’t like flics. Like you.”

“Did you shoot him?”

His jaw dropped. “What kind of flic are you?”

Why did he have to look vulnerable and fierce at the same time?

“My friend was framed for the murder,” she told him. “And I’m not a flic, I’m a private detective.”

Before she could ask more questions, an automatic garage door rolled up, revealing a late-model Mercedes driven by a frowning mustached man. “Allez-y! You’re trespassing on private property,” he said.

With quick steps they walked back the way they had come. She peered into the street. All clear. She took a deep breath. And froze.

The man who’d threatened her, along with two others with black caps, emerged grinning from the doorways. Reinforcements had arrived.

“So you like foreigners, too,” the mec she had kicked said. “Looks like a Corsican, my specialty.”

She glanced around the passage, recognized it for the kind of place where street hawkers had once stored their carts at night. A fire-alarm box was affixed to the stone wall. No time for anything else. She elbowed it hard, breaking the glass, and pulled the handle. Only a loud whir resulted. Weren’t these things supposed to send off an air raid-siren-like whoop?

Another mec with black curly hair, wearing a leather jacket and boots, was just visible in a doorway. The hair on her neck rose. He could have been the musician’s brother. A twin brother. Her heart raced. If he was the one Cloclo meant, could they all be in league together?

The musician took the knife from her and pushed her behind him.

He spit and said something in Corsican. Her shoulders tensed, expectant.

“Look, there are four of them . . .” she began. Her palms were damp. Where could they go?

A siren bleated nearby. Talk about high alert and quick response from the local fire department. Had the Mercedes owner called the flics?

The sirens wailed closer. Louder. And the gang scattered, including the musician’s double.

She couldn’t control the shaking of her hands. But she didn’t want to be there when the fire brigade blocked the street looking for the fire. Or the flics appeared.

“Let’s go. We need to talk, somewhere safe,” Lucien Sarti said, palming the knife. “Whoever you are.”