René was probably right. Liane Barolet might be leading her on. But that wouldn’t stop her from finding out the truth, from finding her mother.
And what had Jutta wanted … what did her killer want … what had her mother left or hidden?
The phone rang.
“Allô?”
“So glad I caught you, Mademoiselle Leduc.”
That dense, creamy voice. “Anything new with Christian, Monsieur Mabry?”
“Some issues came up,” he said. “Can you meet me tonight?”
“Would this be a consultation?”
“You could call it that.”
“What time?”
“Eight P.M.”
She let a pause hang in the air, long enough, she hoped, to seem busy. “I’ll fit you in.”
“Let’s meet opposite the Bourse in the Yabon art squat. He’ll join us.”
“So Christian’s all right?” she asked. “I’ve been worried.”
“No more of a crisis than usual,” Etienne Mabry said. “Third floor, Hubert’s salon.”
Pleased and immediately panicked about what to wear, Aimée hung up.
SHE NEEDED to get back on good terms with René and to get up to speed with Michel’s computer system. After tackling the pile of papers on her desk, she checked Michel’s database and was struck by the volume of his supply orders, many dating from early spring, that showed up as unpaid.
How could Michel, a struggling new designer, obtain that kind of credit? She searched and discovered one of his uncle Nessim’s companies, Kookie Mode, had guaranteed his line of credit and received the invoices for his supplies; leather, fabric, and sewing needs.
She dug further. The scary thing was, Kookie Mode had sought protection from its creditors. Wasn’t that the first step on the road to bankruptcy? She made a note to check further.
Wednesday Afternoon
STEFAN UNSCREWED THE license plates of an old Renault parked near the cemetery. Once burgundy colored, the car now looked like a faded wine stain. He’d chosen Paris district plates ending in 75, figuring he’d fade into the scuffed woodwork of a teeming quartier like the Sentier. Blend in with the blue-collar crowd, the immigrants and the traffic of the sex and garment trades.
He’d worry about sending money to his old maman later. Poor Maman with her bad leg. He told himself to remain invisible, like he always did. Not to panic. First things first.
He drove with caution through Place de Clichy, past Café Wepler’s outdoor tables. Jules, he remembered, had delighted in playing the tour guide. He’d pointed out to Stefan that in the thirties Henry Miller had nursed an espresso there for hours and during the Occupation it had been a Kantine and Soldatenheim for the Wehrmacht.
He followed the bus route past Gare Saint-Lazare, down the once grand Boulevard Haussmann, built on the old ramparts of Paris, behind the gold dome of the Opera Garnier toward the Sentier. Stefan parked on rue de Clery, behind a wide blue van with broken rear lights.
He loosened his raincoat, feeling conspicuous. So many wore only tank tops in this heat. The one-way street was crammed with parked cars packed tighter than herrings in a barrel. A delicious coolness came from the leaning stone buildings that lined the sloping street.
He passed the ancien Hôtel de Noisy, elegant despite cheap wholesale clothing stores taking up the ground floor. His goal, the building on rue de Clery, was almost the same as Stefan remembered it, except for the blackened windows and smoky smell. He wondered what had happened. Stefan walked past.
He waited until dusk painted the tops of the stone buildings. Until early evening shoppers returned, climbing the narrow Sentier stairways. Until he smelled garlic frying in olive oil emanating from open windows and heard the clatter of plates at dinner tables.
Snatches of Hebrew came from the storefront on rue d’Aboukir as a man in a yarmulke carried out the trash. On the narrow street the putes clustered in the doorways, just as he remembered. Only now they carried cell phones and more were of African and Arab origin. Still the rag and shag trade carried on much the same as before.
Stefan stood until the street lamps furred with a dense glow, then he shoved open the tall dark green door of Romain Figeac’s building. In the cobbled courtyard, dark shapes contoured the walls. The glass-paned door to the main staircase stood ajar. By the time he reached the third floor, the burnt smell alerted him. Blackened wood and yellow tape forbade him to cross the charred entrance of Figeac’s apartment.
Too late … why was he always too late?
Whether because twenty years of being on the lam made him more aware or it had become second nature at the hint of danger, Stefan’s hair rose on the back of his neck, his nerves tingled. The metallic sound, like the snick of a cartridge being loaded, echoed off the the stone.
Or he could have sworn it did.
He knew he had to run. And run he did. Without looking back or pausing to see if his instincts were right.
If he had, he would have heard the bullet whiz. Seen a large hole blown in the plaster where he’d just stood, bleeding chunks of grit and mortar over the parquet.
Wednesday Afternoon
AIMÉE PUNCHED in René’s door code at the house on the rue de la Reynie. She mounted his creaking stairs, which smelled of wax polish and stepped softly, mindful of his neighbor’s sleep. He was a female impersonator who worked in Les Halles.
“Damn cyber squatters!” René greeted Aimée as she walked inside his apartment. His eyes raced up and down the screen almost as fast as his fingers did. “We registered click.mango.fr as a domain name before they did.”
“Going to boot them out?” she said.
He nodded, tugging his goatee. “It won’t be pretty.”
“Talking about squats,” she said, “we’re invited to the collectif Yabon d’Arts.” She wanted René to come and meet Christian.
René hit Save. His head turned.
“Looks like I got your attention. Now get dressed.”
ALIGHTING FROM René’s bullet gray Citroën, customized for his four-foot height, Aimée looked around. “Any fashionistas here?” she asked.
“You’ll fit right in,” René grinned, buttoning his black frock coat, then pointing to the artists’ squat. “Tomboys in lace are en vogue.”
She tucked her ruffled cuffs inside her leather biker jacket sleeves, pinched her cheeks for color, and tried for an appearance of sang-froid.
Before them, the Haussmann-era building stood out. Throbbing lime, violet, and silver graffiti mocked the staid financial district, home to the Bourse. Caricatures spread a floor high; filigreed iron balcony railings held signs emblazoned TURN EMPTY SPACE INTO ART and FIGHT POLITICAL CORRECTNESS—A NEW FORM OF TERRORISM TO THE ART WORLD.
“Talk about visual aggression!” René said. “The whole six floors are tagged.”
Aimée hid her smile. “This collectif even occupied space across from the Musée Picasso,” she said. “They claimed ‘free space for artists in Paris’ and baptized it Galerie Socapi, Picasso in verlan,” she said. “No one can afford ateliers today, like those Picasso and the Cubists found at the Bateau-Lavoir in Montmartre. They take over buildings abandoned by banks and insurance companies that have deserted Paris for the cheaper suburbs.”