Murder in Montmartre

Monday Night

THE RED LIGHT FLICKERED on Jacques’s grinning face, giving him a devilish look. He stood by the dirty snowdrift, buttoning his jacket.

“It’s not funny, Jacques!” Laure said.

He shrugged and his expression changed to one he bestowed on puppies or assumed when he’d surrendered a seat to an old lady on the bus. “A shame to make such a scene, Laure.”

“You know why!”

“Sweet, you’re sweet, Laure. Quit worrying about my prescriptions. The clinic prescribes these pills to keep my back from tensing up.”

His nervous twitches had grown more pronounced. And the cocktail of pills he’d just swallowed with his drink hadn’t stopped them.

“Look, Jacques, it’s my career, too. And this is my first patrol assignment.”

“Who helped you, eh? Who talked the commissaire into overlooking your test results?”

She’d had low scores, it was true. She ignored the flashing neon Sexodrome sign that was casting red flashes onto his face as well as the large photos of semiclad women advertising the fading allure of Pigalle.

He flicked his cigarette into the gutter. Its orange tip sputtered and died in the gray slush. “I wanted you along, partner,” he said. “In case.”

“In case?” Surprise and a quick ripple of pride coursed through her. Yet nothing was simple with Jacques.

“Why do I feel you’re going to do something stupid?”

“But I won’t if you’re with me. I’m meeting an informer. I’ll play it right.”

Like he’d played it right into divorce and pills?

The falling snow that had carpeted the street turned to slush under the buses but frosted the LE SEX LIVE 24/7 billboard above them like confectioner’s sugar.

As he’d just reminded her, not only had Jacques recommended her, he’d taken her as a partner when no one else volunteered. He’d invited her for drinks after work and made her talk about her day; gotten her to laugh and bolstered her confidence. She owed Jacques.

“Who’s this informer and why is meeting him tonight so important?” Laure asked.

“No questions. Trust me.”

The new Citroën he made payments on and the hip flask he sipped from when he thought she wasn’t looking bothered her. Jacques had a stellar record, but . . . his divorce had hit him hard.

“I know you’re under pressure,” she said. “You worry me. Before we go to the meet, let’s talk it over.”

Jacques beamed a smile at her. “I haven’t asked you for anything, Laure. I need this.”

“Like you need . . . ?”

“It’s personal,” Jacques said.

The rising wind gusted snow over their feet. “This informer’s complicated.”

“Doesn’t vice handle informers these days?” Laure asked.

“Building trust and gaining an informer’s confidence takes time. Little by little, laying the groundwork. I’m teaching you, remember? You with me, partner?”

Her reluctance wavered.

Jacques winked. “Like I said, five minutes and then we’ll go back to L’Oiseau, OK?”

She ignored her misgivings as she pulled a wool cap over her thick brown hair, determined to discover what had made Jacques’s upper lip glisten with perspiration, what had made him twitch.

Place Pigalle, deserted by pedestrians, lay behind them. Only the sex-club barkers who rubbed their arms while greeting the taxis pulling up in front of their doorways were still out. Jacques gestured to his parked Citroën.

“I thought we were only going two blocks?” she said.

“That’s right,” he said, “but we’ll get there and back faster in this weather if we drive.”

They passed the corner guitar store, a heavy-metal hangout in the daytime, in a quartier thick with instrument shops.

Turning into rue André Antoine, they rode by a small hotel. Fresh snow layered the mansard roofs of the white stone Haussmann–style buildings. A black-coated woman teetering in heels and fishnet stockings stood under a lampadaire in a doorway at the corner, then stepped back into the shadow.

Jacques parked at the curb where the street curved. He pushed a button on a grillwork gate and it buzzed and the gate clicked open. Laure caught up with him as he strode across the small courtyard, her feet crunching on the ice. The building’s upper floors and roof were wrapped in wooden scaffolding.

She stamped the snow from her feet, wishing she’d worn wool socks and different boots. Her gloves . . . she’d forgotten them in the car. Jacques hit the digicode and a door opened to a tattered red-carpeted hall.

“Wait here,” Jacques said.

“In a freezing vestibule?”

He was going to do something stupid. Police procedure required that a pair keep together, not split up.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?”

Team? On the job they were. “We’re off duty, remember?” she said. “How personal is this?”

“More than you know. But you can quit worrying. I know what I’m doing.” He tugged his earlobe, a mannerism some women might find endearing. Grinned. Monsieur Charm was what they’d nicknamed him at the Commissariat.

“Tell me what’s going on, Jacques.”

“I just need some back up.”

Was she reading this wrong? “So you want me to warn you in case some thug shows up?”

He put his fingers to his lips and winked. “Trust you to figure it out.”

Jacques ran up the stairs. She listened as his footsteps stopped on the third landing.

Laure studied the names on the mailboxes uneasily. It didn’t add up. A cold five minutes later she followed the red carpet up the creaking staircase. Three flights up, in a dim hallway filled with piles of wood and an old sink, cold drafts swirled against her face. An open door led into a dark apartment.

“Jacques? Quit playing games,” she called out.

No answer. What had the fool done now?

She stepped into the apartment, into musty darkness, her footsteps echoing on the wood floor. It seemed vacant. From an open window, gusts of snow blew onto the floor. And then she heard a distant sound of breaking glass.

Alarmed, she unzipped her jacket and drew the gun she’d only fired previously on the shooting range. Her heart raced. Drugs! Was he on the take? No way in hell would she risk her badge for his dope habit. She peered out the window. No Jacques.

She climbed out onto the scaffold and navigated the slippery two-plank walkway gripping the stone building, her bare hands frigid.

“Laure . . .” Jacques’s voice, the rest of his words, were lost in the wind.

A howling gust whipped across her face as she pulled herself up from the scaffolding and reached for the gray-blue tile edge of the slippery roof. A punch knocked her to her knees. The second blow cracked her head against the scaffold with a bright flash of light.