Murder in Montmartre

Thursday Night

THE OVERHEAD LIGHT POOLED on the table. René stared at a worried Isabelle.

“It’s your fault,” Isabelle said. “You! We were fine until you appeared, asking questions, pretending to be . . .”

“Blaming me won’t help find Paul,” René said.

Inside he felt sick and full of guilt. If the killer was on to Paul, no place he’d hidden could keep him safe.

René saw himself out of the apartment where Isabelle kept vigil. Above him, a lone brown leaf from a plane tree drifted in a slow dance on the breeze. He watched it, feeling as lost as the leaf. He had already checked the rooftops and the cave where Isabelle said Paul sometimes hid. No trace. Where would a frightened boy hide? He tried to think the way Paul would.

The darkened Montmartre street lay deserted at this time of night. René walked, the ache in his hip exacerbated by the freezing temperature. Around the corner, past the building where Jacques was murdered, he saw the construction site. Frost laced the corrugated metal fencing the courtyard.

Could Paul have hidden here? He searched the fence for holes or loose siding. Nothing.

He tried Aimée’s phone again. There was no answer, so he left a message that was cut off by static. Why was she always breaking her phone?

Further on, he found a padlocked Cyclone fence. The thin timber slats blocked any view from the street. He retraced his steps, running his hands along the fencing, with no better result.

He tried to ignore the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that Paul had been kidnapped before he’d had a chance to hide.

As he was about to give up, he heard scraping sounds from a doorway. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He thought back to the photos that had been delivered to their office. Had someone followed him?

Perspiration beaded René’s forehead. He smelled mildew, old earth, and gypsum. Then he heard a creaking, followed by a louder cracking sound. Vandals, stray cats, or—?

“You lied,” a young voice accused him.

“Paul?” he said, with relief.

Paul’s white face shone in the streetlight. The faint mewling of a cat and running footsteps sounded from somewhere down the street.

“Your mother’s worried to death,” René said. “It’s freezing. Where’s your coat?”

“More lies! Maman knows I take care of us,” he said, defiance in his eyes though his lip trembled. “I’m the man of our house.”

René didn’t know what to say to this shivering “man of the house” with smudged dirt on his face and mismatched space-invader socks, one blue and one yellow, showing over his rain shoes.

“Come upstairs, Paul,” he said. “If you mean I lied about Toulouse-Lautrec—”

“You’re not a detective,” Paul said.

“I’m a computer detective,” René said.

“Prove it.”

Footsteps echoed in the distance.

“Here’s my card,” René said, looking around nervously, try- ing to herd Paul forward. “Be happy I didn’t tell your mother about those model airplanes! Now get inside before you freeze.”