Better salvage a scrap of dignity and see him to the door.
“Bet you thought I meant it, didn’t you?” she said. “I was testing you.”
“Liar.” His scent wafted in front of her. He pulled her close. “But you’re beautiful. Banged up knees, spikey hair, and all.”
She didn’t expect that.
“You’ve as much as said I’ll never see again.”
“What does that matter?”
“A lot.”
“To you,” he said. “But you have to get over that hurdle. Move on. Try. You’ll be happier when you do.”
Could she be happy without seeing?
This felt all mixed up and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time a man refused to sleep with her. Time to take her wounded vanity and climb into a hole.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.
“Enlighten me.”
“Before medicine, I studied literature,” he said. “Scribbled poetry. You make me think of Byron’s lines . . . ‘She walks in beauty like the night.’ ”
Out in the night, a police siren wailed.
“I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he said.
Now she was more confused than ever.
And then suddenly he was kissing her like last time. Her leg wrapped around his and she held him tight. He pulled her down onto the horsehair sofa.
His scent was in her hair, his lips brushing her neck. She gripped his back. And that’s when his pager went off, beeping near her elbow.
“Merde!” he said.
Non. Non, non, she almost shouted.
“You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear it, could you?” she asked, feeling his elbow and warm breath in between kisses on her arm.
She heard clicking as he read his message. Felt his body stiffen. “Not when a three-year-old’s spilled acid base photograph developing emulsion and rubbed it in his eyes.” She felt him pulling away, his hands helping her up. “If I hurry I’ll get there when the ambulance does.”
And in two minutes he was gone. Only his Vetiver scent lingered.
SHE WOKE up to the rain spattering on the skylight above.
And she felt safe, cocooned in the big warmth of the duvet.
Her senses were heightened. Every part of her tingled remembering his kiss, the way he hadn’t stopped. . . .
And then she heard the accordion strains of Nini le peau de chien . . .
Again . . . like the background of the phone call on the stranger’s cell phone.
She froze.
Was the killer here? In the apartment?
But how?
Doubt invaded her. And for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong. Made a mistake. The serial killer was alive and still . . . non, that made no sense.
Yet her blood ran cold.
She pulled the duvet off, crawled her way to the door. Listened.
Madame Danoux’s voice joined the chorus of Nini on the record. Footsteps beat a pattern on the floor as if she were dancing. The old folkdance, la bourrée. So Madame Danoux danced by herself on Saturday nights.
But Aimée couldn’t sleep any more. She felt for the bed, then sat down on the floor and combed her fingers through her short hair.
She’d set the talking alarm clock to wake her up, but there was no reason to wait. She called Le Drugstore, followed the procedure, and within four minutes spoke to Martin.
“It’s like this, ma petite mademoiselle,” said Martin, as if imparting a confirmation gift. “No news at all, nothing really.”
She figured his usual police informants had clammed up. “But Martin, you of all people have impeccable connections.”
“So some say,” he replied. She heard a pleased chuckle in his voice.
“There’s a whisper. Something to do with Don Giovanni,” he said. “Know him?”
“Not personally. It’s an opera.”
“My source says a Romanian caught in the 11ième for selling Ecstasy died.”
“Dragos Iliescu?”
She heard Martin expel a deep breath. Tinged with smoke, no doubt. “Why do you need me? You know already.”
“Was it bad dope?”
“The BRIF got involved immediately.”
That meant heavy duty. And Morbier was with them.
“If it’s not dope, Martin, what is it?”
“Not known by my usual channels. A mystery, they say. Probably the Romanians had a sweet deal. But they got careless, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. People got burned.”
Her excitement mounted. Where had she heard that before?
“Burned?”
“And I don’t mean figuratively.”
FROM THE the hallway, she heard water running in Madame Danoux’s kitchen.
She pushed the talking clock, which said 1:00 a.m., then pulled on the nearest things she could reach. Her leather skirt, the tight zip-up sweatshirt. She struggled into her ankle boots and felt her way into kitchen.
“Madame Danoux, are you dressed?”
“What a question! Of course, I haven’t even taken my makeup off yet . . .”
“Bon,” she interrupted. “Be an angel.”
“And do what?”
“Come for a drink with me,” she said, reaching for Madame Danoux’s arm. “Let’s go down the street. To the corner.”
IN THE bar-tabac on rue Moreau, a block away, Aimée’s hand trembled. She couldn’t lift the panache to her lips without spilling.
“Why so nervous?” asked Madame Danoux, beside her at the counter, yawning. She sounded petulant. “You wanted to come here!”
She gripped Madame Danoux’s warm hand. What if the killer was here tonight? But she hadn’t confided in her, she had to see if her hunch was right.
“I need to talk with Clothilde, the owner, Mimi’s friend,” said Aimée.
“Aaah, I know the one.”
“Did you see her tonight?”
“By the door,” she said. “The accordion player comes, she lets in those she likes. Then locks the door. Only a natural disaster will get you out before dawn.”
“Please, can you ask her to join us,” she said.
“Let me try and get her attention.”
Around her, glasses tinkled, the milk steamer hissed and grumbled, and a woman’s shrill laughter came from somewhere farther down the counter. Aimée smelled the thick tang from a cigarette burning somewhere in an ashtray. Here she stood in a smoke-filled café and didn’t have one.
She turned toward a conversation. The barman?
“Sorry to interrupt, a pack of Gauloise light please.”
“Too bright in here for you?”
“I wish.” She’d worn dark glasses, a pair Martine had sent.
“But, I see,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I mean, sorry . . .”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Everyone stumbles over those phrases. Me, too. How much?”
“Won’t your doctor get upset?” he asked.
“I’m a big girl,” she said, sliding a twenty franc note along the zinc counter.
She felt Madame Danoux’s breath in her hair. “Clothilde’s busy. That drink hit me, I’m tired. Let me take you back.”
Part of her wanted that. The other part refused. She had to find out who had called.
“You go ahead,” she said. A frisson of fear passed through her.
“You seem nervous.” Madame Danoux squeezed her arm. “Sure?”
“Bien sûr,” she said. “I’ll get help to go back.”
Her landlady left.
“Monsieur, where’s the phone?”
“End of the counter.”
“Remember a person who used the phone on Monday night?”
“Could have been anyone.”
“Someone called me, then they hung up,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort. “I heard the accordion in the background.”