Murder in Montmartre

Saturday Afternoon

THE DARK, HYPNOTIC PULSE vibrated from the stage, which was washed by red-, orange-, and pink-hued lights. Lucien’s song, layered with hip-hop and the rippling chords of his cetera, took Aimée to a faraway place swept by the southern sirocco. Even on painkillers, the music thrilled her, evoking the maquis-scented air, the flapping of silver-scaled fish caught in nets, and a sun-drenched granite island. Under a dull black ceiling, Lucien’s music transported his audience.

Applause. People milling, and then Aimée grew aware of Lucien’s hand—large, warm, and on her shoulder. She tried not to wince.

“You have a gift,” she said, looking up into his deep-set eyes.

“Can I show you something?”

She nodded.

They left the Conservatoire National de Paris and climbed the hilly streets. Beside a glass-fronted building, an old workshop, Lucien pulled aside the wire fence.

“Make it good, musician.”

“Go ahead. I know the owner,” he said.

She crossed the weeds and picked a path through the brush, thankful for her leather pants. A deserted terrace with many round tables met her eyes. “It’s a restaurant.”

“How about a one-of-a-kind view?”

He led her to the back and unlocked a door with a long black key. She followed him up the musty winding stairs. He opened a creaking window. The view took her breath away. The wooden arms of a windmill framed a sea of zinc-covered roofs and chimney pots stretching below. They stood in the windmill of the Moulin de la Galette.

“It’s still a village here,” she said. “Untamed by Paris.”

“I’ve been invited to the World Music Festival in London,” Lucien told her.

“Congratulations! Wonderful for you.” She glanced at her Tintin watch. “Before you go, I have a view to show you.”

HER LEGS touched Lucien’s under the sheets. His warmth enveloped her. She sighed and nudged him. In answer, he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her neck, and continued what they’d been doing.

Some time later, she blinked her eyes open. Miles Davis nestled, spooned between her and Lucien. Weak winter light shone on Lucien’s cracked leather jacket hanging over the door of her armoire. The train ticket to London stuck out of its pocket. His denims were on the floor. His cetera case was silhouetted against the window overlooking the Seine.

“Hey, musician,” she said, peering at the clock on the dresser. “I’m late.”

In answer, he pulled the pillow over his head.

She stood up, slipped on her black leather pants, eased her bandaged arm into the sleeves of her turtleneck, and stepped into her boots.

SHE FOUND Morbier in the hospital at Laure’s bedside, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Nice of you to show up, Leduc,” he said. “I gave Laure the rundown, but I’m sure you’ll spice it up with the details.”

She kissed Laure on both cheeks. Yellow bruises, a sign of healing, framed Laure’s temples.

“Without your help, Laure, the flics couldn’t have caught him.”

“Bibiche . . .” Aimée could make out that much; the rest came out garbled. Laure tapped furiously on the computer keyboard.

Morbier read out loud: “I’ve been reinstated, Jacques cleared. Get me a new speech therapist, this one’s slow and stupid!”

Aimée smiled, then turned away. Half an hour later, she walked arm in arm with Morbier over the tiled floor. They paused at the glass windows overlooking the dry fountain in the courtyard. A coating of ice sparkled the basin’s lip.

“You won’t tell her, Leduc,” Morbier said.

“Is that a question or a statement?”

He sighed. “A little of both.”

“Ludovic Jubert told me you made a pact in the police academy. A one-for-all, all-for-one kind of thing. Right?”

Morbier averted his eyes and shifted his worn brown shoes.

“So Papa didn’t inform on Rousseau despite his corruption, bound by that promise. Neither did you or Jubert. After Papa died . . . ,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “Rousseau’s report said Papa took the bribes and knew of the arms shipment. It was easier that way, so you two kept your mouths shut as long as Rousseau agreed to retire.”

Morbier stood still. So still she could hear the gurney’s rubber wheels gliding on the floor, the muted sobs of a woman rocking on the bench, covering her face in her hands.

“Life and death hold secrets, Leduc,” he said. “Some are best kept.”

Her papa was clean. She knew, they all knew. Except Laure. But she wouldn’t tell her. Couldn’t.

Out on the quay, they paused, the lighted facade of the Hôtel de Ville before them, Notre Dame illuminated on their right. All in her backyard.

She smoothed down the tweed lapel of Morbier’s jacket and stared at the slow-moving Seine. Pinpricks of ice glinted on the iron rungs once used to anchor barges. And at this moment, in the lingering shadows of dusk, with the whine of sirens in the distance, a child’s laughter from a passing stroller, and the Seine lapping below her, she felt at ease with her ghosts. For now.

“Hungry?” she asked.