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Copyright © 2013 by Cara Black All rights reserved. Published by Soho Press, Inc. 853 Broadway New York, NY 10003 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Black, Cara Murder below Montparnasse / Cara Black. p. cm. ISBN 978-1-61695-215-0 eISBN978-1-61695-216-7 1. Leduc, Aimee (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—France—Paris—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title. PS3552.L297M785 2013 813’.54—dc23 2012032374 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Monday, Late February 1998, Paris, 5:58 p.m. A i m é e L e d u c b i t her lip as she scanned the indigo dusk, the shoppers teeming along rain-slicked Boulevard du Montparnasse. Daffodil scents drifted from the corner flower shop. Her kohl-rimmed eyes zeroed in on the man hunched at the window table in the café. Definitely the one. Gathering her courage, she entered the smoke-filled café and sat down across from him. She crossed her legs, noting the stubble on his chin and the half-filled glass of limonade. He sized up her mini and three-inch leopard-print heels. “Going to make me happy?” he asked. “They said you’re good.” “No one’s complained.” She unclipped the thumb-drive from her hoop earring and slid it across the table to him. “Insert this in your USB port to download the file,” she said, combing her red wig forward with her fingers. “Et voilà.” “You copied the entire court file to that?” The thick eyebrows rose above his sallow face. “Cutting-edge technology not even patented yet,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She wished her knees would stop shaking under the table. “How do you do it?”  “Computer security’s my business,” she said, glancing at her Tintin watch. This was taking too long. “We’ll just see to make sure, non?” He pulled a laptop from his bag under the table, inserted the thumb-drive. More techsavvy than he’d let on. Thank God she’d prepared for that.


Cara B lac k

“Satisfied?” She fluffed her red wig. A grin erupted on his face. “The Cour d’Assises witness list with backgrounds, addresses, and schedule. Nice work.” He’d lowered his voice. “Perfect to nique les flics.” Screw the cops. She grinned. Glanced at the time. “Don’t you have something for me?” Under the table he slipped an envelope, sticky with lemonade residue, into her hands. In her lap she counted the crisp fresh bills. “Where’s the rest?” Perspiration dampened the small of her back. “You trying to cheat me?” “That’s what we agreed,” he said, slipping another envelope under the table. Winked. Thought he was a player. “Count again,” he said. She did. “No tip? Service compris?” “Let’s do business again, Mademoiselle. You live up to your reputation. Glad I outsourced this.” He smiled again. “I couldn’t be more pleased.” She smiled back. “Neither could Commissaire Morbier.” His shoulders stiffened. “Wait a minute. What . . . ?” “Would you like to meet my godfather?” She gestured to the older man sitting at the next table. Salt-and-pepper hair, basset-hound eyes, corduroy jacket with elbow patches.  “Godfather?” he said, puzzled. “Did you get that on tape, Morbier?” “On camera too. Oh, we got it all,” Morbier said. Two undercover flics at the zinc counter approached with handcuffs. Another turned from a table with a laptop, took the thumbdrive and inserted it. The man gave a short laugh and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Zut, that’s entrapment plain and simple. It’ll never fly in court, fools. My lawyer will confirm. . . .” “Entrapment’s illegal, but a sting’s right up our alley,

M urde r b e low M ont parnas se


according to the Ministry’s legal advisor.” Morbier jerked his thumb toward a middle-aged man at a neighboring table, who raised his glass of grenadine at them. “Don’t worry, I had the boys at the Ministry of the Interior clear the operation technicalities, just to err on the side of caution. Makes your illegal soliciting, paying for and reading confidential judicial documents airtight in court. ” “Lying slut,” the man said, glaring at Aimée. “But you’re not a flic.” She shook her head. “Just another pretty face.” “To think I trusted you.” “Never trust a redhead,” she said, watching him be led away. Aimée removed the red wig, scratched her head, and slipped off her heels.  “Not bad, Leduc.” Morbier struck a match and lit a cigarette. The tang of his non-filtered Gauloise tickled her nose.  “That entrapment business, you’re sure?” She leaned forward to whisper. “I won’t get nailed somehow? Alors, Morbier, with such short notice. . . .” “Quick and dirty, Leduc. Your specialty, non? I needed an outsider.” “Why?” What hadn’t he told her in his last-minute plea for help? “But I told you.” A shrug. “He broke my last officer’s knees.” She controlled a shudder. “You forgot to tell me that part.” He shrugged. Not even a thank-you. And still no apology for what had happened last month, the lies he’d told about the past, her parents. A hen would grow teeth before he apologized. But she’d realized it was time to accept that he’d protected her in his own clumsy way. And make up for her outburst—she’d thrown caviar in his face at the four-star resto. “So we’re good, Leduc?” The lines crinkled at the edges of his eyes, the bags under them more pronounced. His jowls sagged.  She blinked. Coming from Morbier, that rated as an apology.


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She pulled on her red high-tops, laced them up. Scratched her head again. “Au contraire.” She stood, slipped the wig and heels in her bag, buttoned the jean jacket over her vintage black Chanel. “Now you owe me, Morbier.”

Monday, 7:30 p.m. I n t h e q u a r t i e r below Montparnasse, the Serb shivered in his denim jacket, huddled in the damp doorway, watching Yuri Volodya close and lock his atelier door. Why do they lock the doors and leave the windows open? Just foolish. Yuri Volodya walked across the wet cobbles and disappeared up the dark lane. The old man kept right on schedule—he’d be out for the evening. Now for this simple snatch-and-grab job. The Serb noted a few passersby taking the narrow thread of a street—the shortcut to the boulevard—the general quiet and cars parked for the night. Perfect. He peered over the cracked stone wall of the back of the old man’s place—part atelier, part living space. A small garden wreathed in shadows, the windows dark. He heaved himself up and over. The garden was redolent with rosemary. The Serb waited a few seconds, then moved without making a sound on his padded soles to the side window. He slid it fully open and slipped in. He reached into his pocket and checked the syringe filled with the tranquilizer, just in case the old man came back. All capped tight. “Don’t kill him,” they had said. Would have been easier. A couple of lamps were lit, so the Serb didn’t need his flashlight. The atelier was small enough to search quickly. He looked behind the worktable and under it, too—but nyet—no one would store a painting flat.


Cara B lac k

He had to think . . . What was wrong here? His eyes scanned the room and he noticed some fresh scuffing in front of the armoire, as if it had been moved back and forth—more than once, too. He moved the armoire aside to find a locked door. He searched the armoire drawers for a key, and when he found it, he put it into the lock. Then he heard a switch click, and the room plunged into darkness. The Serb sensed someone behind him. He flung out an arm, hoping to strike before being struck, but he tripped instead. Someone kicked him in the stomach. He felt gutwrenching pain and the hypodermic needle rolled in his pocket. His attacker went down on his knees and roped him around his neck, but the Serb fought him off. That was when he felt the jab in his rear. The liquid ran cold into his muscle, and he felt the freeze go up his body. He went limp. His attacker let him go, thinking his job was done. A small penlight went on and the key turned in the lock. The wall cabinet opened to reveal . . . nothing. The painting was gone. The Serb’s attacker turned on his heel and walked out. The Serb, disturbed by the strange buzzing in his ears, knew he had to leave too. The simple snatch-and-grab complicated by a rival intruder, and then no painting. He stood, unsteady, and realized it was much harder to breathe. He needed to go outside into the fresh air. . . .  He managed to unlock the door and stumble onto the sidewalk before he realized he couldn’t catch his breath at all. A rock-like weight pressed into his chest. Gasping, he reached out between the parked cars. His sleeve caught on something and the world went black.  

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