Murder on the Left Bank Read online

  Goosebumps rose on Aimée’s arms.

  “Maybe you can find out more about this Karine. Computer investigation, that’s your expertise, non?”

  He made it sound easy.

  “It’s not much, but all my notes are there. Please find her.”

  “Why should I get involved in any of this, Éric?”

  “Your father was murdered by the Hand. I read in the papers about what you did. But is it really over, Aimée? A lot of people got ‘retired,’ and a lot of scandal got swept under the rug. Whitewashed. But Léo wrote it all down.”

  “And an old man’s notebook is going to prove what? No doubt it’s been destroyed by now anyway, c’est ça?”

  “Please, Aimée. My sister asked me to give her son a part-time job, and instead I got him killed. All I’m asking you is to help me find Karine.”

  She hated missing-person cases, even if her grand-père had built Leduc Detective’s reputation on them. Bile rose in Aimée’s throat as she scanned the photocopied police report.

  “You’ll find her, Aimée?”

  She had a baby to raise, a business to run, and a partner who’d shoot her if she took on any more cases. But Papa . . . Papa’s name . . .

  She nodded. “We keep this between us, Éric.”

  If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the whole computer security meeting. She stuck Éric Besson’s materials in her secondhand Vuitton bag. In her head she could already hear René, her partner, saying, Don’t get involved.

  In the taxi, Aimée checked to make sure there was no lipstick smudged on her teeth. Despite her sweating palms, she reapplied mascara and paged through her notes. Checked there were no teething biscuits hiding in the pocket of her vintage Lanvin suit—a steal at the flea market.

  Now she stood in a makeshift office on the ground floor of the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand. It reeked of fresh paint. Leduc Detective had snagged the new bibliothèque’s contract, along with a headache. This library had been President Mitterrand’s baby, although it was realized only after his death, and it had been riddled with technical glitches from day one. The ground it was built on was cursed, the old timers said—it had once been the rail yard where Jewish deportees’ confiscated goods were packed and sent on to the Reich.

  The pink-faced, fiftysomething fonctionnaire threw a report on the office desk. “Mon Dieu, network connection problems? Isn’t that what we hired you to iron out?”

  “Bien sûr, monsieur, and we have,” she said.

  René Friant, all of four feet tall, took out a handkerchief to wipe his wide brow. “However, subsequent problems have arisen.”

  “Évidemment!” the fonctionnaire snorted. “Eh, why has the system crashed? What are you doing about it?”

  René opened a file. “Our reports show an external system caused the disruption.”

  “What does that mean, ‘external’?”

  As if they’d ever be able to make this clueless administrator understand the inherent problems in the library’s poorly designed computer system. An old-school classicist, he’d proudly boasted he didn’t own a computer himself. If the fonctionnaire didn’t appreciate how complicated their job was, they’d lose this big contract.

  Eyeing the tight suspenders he wore over his blue button-down, Aimée summoned a smile. “Let us show you how we’ve outlined the problem.” Aimée prompted René with a meaningful look. René was much better at outlining complicated tech concepts for laypeople.

  “We’re here to help, monsieur.” René beamed, exuding the famous Friant charm. “Let me explain.”

  Again wiping his brow with his handkerchief, René launched into his spiel.

  Trying to keep her distracted mind from wandering back to Éric Besson and his missing notebook, Aimée surveyed the showpiece library, which had been open fewer than three years and plagued with catastrophes from day one. She knew it had been built not only without consulting technicians but also without consulting librarians. Mitterrand had dreamed of glass-windowed towers, which had looked breathtaking on the architectural plans but had ruined the books with direct sun exposure. The computer system crashed daily; students were unable to check out books; the librarians went on strike. The list went on.

  “We’ve employed antivirus software to detect malware that’s exploited your system’s vulnerabilities,” René was saying. He reached for his bottle of water. “We have automatic patching systems fixing that.”

  “You mean this service?” The fonctionnaire pointed to a report.

  René nodded midgulp.

  “Exactement,” said Aimée, stepping in. “However, monsieur, you have to remember that software vulnerabilities aren’t the most common attack vector.”

  “What do you mean by that?” The fonctionnaire plopped down on a large leather chair, which emitted a “puahh.”

  It sounded like a fart.

  “The most common way hackers of all stripes break into networks is stealing passwords,” she said. “Then they set up man-in-the-middle attacks to piggyback on legitimate log-ins and masquerade as authorized users.”

  The administrator rubbed his forehead. “So you’re saying what exactly?”

  “Credential stealing was how your network was penetrated,” Aimée said, trying to keep her voice even. “With your permission, monsieur, we’ll revamp your authentication systems with two-factor authentication, one-time passwords, physical tokens, and a bar code authentication.”

  Hydrated now, René took over again. “None of these measures is foolproof. But our firm will monitor constantly, detect attacks, and respond quickly to maintain your network security more effectively.”

  René handed the administrator a folder with Leduc Detective’s logo on it.

  “It’s all in there,” René said. A final dashing smile to close the deal. “We know you want the system humming efficiently. We want to help you achieve that.”

  Ten minutes later, a semipacified administrator signed off on their updated services proposal.

  Outside, Aimée and René stood on the pedestrian walkway. Behind them loomed Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand’s four glass towers and a forest of cranes over construction sites. Forlorn abandoned factories, covered in graffiti, stood semigutted amid the revitalization of the new Rive Gauche.

  She noticed accusation in René’s large green eyes. “You were winging it in there, Aimée.”

  “Let’s get away from the relentless earthmovers.”

  At the quietest café they could find, Aimée gravitated to the counter and ordered a large mineral water. Only when she noticed René’s wince of pain as he climbed up on the high stool did she remember how badly his hip dysplasia was acting up. Merde. Thoughtless.

  Better to pretend she hadn’t seen it.

  But she couldn’t.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  A snort. “Apart from having a partner who comes unprepared for a huge client meeting?”

  “Alors, I did prepare! But you were parfait. Comme d’habitude. You got the deal done.”

  The Badoit, beaded with moisture, arrived. The waiter, in his long white apron, averted his gaze from René’s short, dangling legs.

  René’s eyes flashed with anger. Instead of massaging his ego, her remark had had the opposite effect. “And you were late. Like always.”

  “Desolée.” She had to shift his mood. “Très distingué,” she said, pointing at René’s new cocoa cream linen suit. René set the bar for dapper at any height.

  “Don’t think you can distract me like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  René pointed to the police report sticking out of her open bag, only half-obscured by baby wipes. “Why do I have a bad feeling that was what made you late?”

  Great. Why did she always forget he read her like one of those sun-damaged books in the library? She’d tho
ught she could get away with not even telling René about Éric’s visit, had planned to dedicate a few online hours that afternoon to finding Karine. Or trying to, at least.

  “We agreed when Chloé was born, Aimée. No cases beyond our workload and to always be up front and transparent with each other. And absolutely no criminal cases. Remember?”

  “You’re right.” Up front and transparent? Bon, instead of lying to her partner, she’d give him an edited version. “Remember Éric Besson, the nerdy lawyer who is always at Martine’s parties?”

  René sipped his fizzing Badoit. “You mean the Dungeons and Dragons aficionado?”

  René, an aficionado himself, never missed an opportunity to find fellow D&Ders. So far, a good sign.

  “That one.” She pointed to the police file. “So the poor guy blames himself for this kid’s murder.”

  “How does it involve you?”

  She hesitated. Bought time by downing her Badoit. The mineral water’s sodium on her lips made her stomach growl. All she’d had to eat that day were the remnants of Chloé’s yogurt and a crumbling teething biscuit she’d found in her bag. No time for breakfast.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She sighed, described haggard Éric Besson’s visit, his begging her to find his murdered nephew’s missing girlfriend. She left out the part about the notebook and her father.

  “Terrible but not your problem, Aimée.”

  “Did I ask to get involved, René? Two hours digging and I’ll find her.”

  “You agreed to help him and weren’t going to tell me?”

  Hurt filled his big green eyes.

  “It’s not like that, René. Éric needs help. You would have done the same, non?”

  René’s phone rang. Uncharacteristically, he answered it right away. “Oui. At two?” He glanced at his watch. Wiggled off the stool. “I’ll make it.”

  He hung up and set down his phone to root in his linen jacket pocket for his car keys. A new girlfriend? Hot date?

  She hoped it was that programmer she’d introduced him to the week before. Curious, she stole a glance at his phone. But at the top of the call list was a medical office. “Got a doctor’s appointment, René?”

  He paused. “Why do you say that?” He sounded more startled than annoyed.

  “Psychic powers.”

  “You snooped,” he said, glancing at the call list as he picked up his phone. “Allergies.” He threw some francs on the counter. “Back at the office later.”

  And he’d gone.

  Downstairs, she looked up the clinic’s name in the old much-thumbed phone book in the phone bank by the WC. Back at the counter, she called the clinic.

  “Bonjour, I’m looking for an allergy specialist—”

  “Mademoiselle,” interrupted a stiff voice, “this is a cardiac unit.”

  Aimée hung up. Talk about being up front and transparent. Why hadn’t René told her?

  She couldn’t get it out of her head as she rode the bus to the office. René’s thirst, his perspiration, his bad temper. There’d probably be a simple explanation—maybe he’d just gone for a checkup. He’d be all right, wouldn’t he?

  She drummed her fingers on the bus seat as her call to his phone went to voice mail. Left a message. Next to her, a middle-aged woman was reading a recipe in Femme Actuelle. Aimée felt the hunger pangs. Tripes à la mode de Caen sounded good to her right then, and she hated tripe. She pushed the thought of food aside and tried to concentrate on the homicide report, which she shielded from prying eyes with an ELLE magazine. A breeze carried the smell of freshly watered greenery and musky foliage through the open window as the bus passed the Jardin des Plantes.

  She’d need to multitask when she got to the office, try to squeeze in her search for Karine while she was implementing the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand project. Finish it all in time to get home and give Chloé a bath.

  As the bus crossed Pont de la Tournelle, Aimée turned a page. Read the horrific details about the discovery of Marcus’s body when it was recovered in the rue Watt and let out a gasp.

  “Those models. Too thin, eh?” The woman next to her nodded knowingly. “A scandal.”

  If only it were that.

  Struggling out of the wire-cage elevator onto her office landing, Aimée hoisted her heavy Vuitton bag, which kept slipping off her shoulder, and punched in the door code. Leduc Detective’s frosted glass door clicked open. In her rush, her Louboutins slipped on an envelope lying on the wood parquet.

  She grabbed the door frame in time and righted herself. Merde. Someone must have slipped the envelope under her door. Another notice from the landlord attempting to hike up her rent?

  She tossed the envelope on her desk, ground coffee beans, and brewed herself an espresso. The real thing—hopefully it would get rid of the bad taste left by the homicide report. Afternoon light—the hue of faded parchment—warmed her wrists as she powered up her computer.

  The first sip of espresso, sweet and strong, was just hitting her as Maxence, their Québécois intern, entered. He was lugging a box of computer paper. Grinning, he dumped the paper in the corner and set a stack of mail on her desk.

  “I’m making up hours, Aimée,” he said, peering at her for approval through his long Beatle bangs. He wore a black turtleneck despite the September warmth. “René said it was a good time, with all the Y2K preparations and the bibliothèque’s issues. Shoot me anything you need updated.”

  “Parfait.” She’d off-load those mind-numbing report updates and tick that off her list. Already this afternoon looked more manageable. She downed the rest of her espresso and plugged in her phone to recharge.

  But no sooner had she sat down than the phone started ringing. A seemingly endless parade of client calls—it wasn’t until two hours later that she got back to Éric’s notes on Marcus.

  Éric had little information about Karine—he didn’t know her last name, address, or school affiliation. Marcus had never told him how they’d met, where they hung out.

  Great.

  What Éric did know was that she lived in the housing towers in the thirteenth arrondissement and that she was of Cambodian origin. No wonder the flics couldn’t find her. Who could without a name, a school? A Cambodian girl in the notorious block towers in la petite Asie, the area of the thirteenth often mistakenly referred to as Chinatown, where many of the inhabitants were of Southeast Asian heritage.

  That information narrowed it down to what, thousands of possibilities? If Karine had been murdered, no corresponding bodies had appeared at the morgue. But as the saying went, “no one ever dies in Chinatown, left or right bank.” Passports and IDs were sold and passed on.

  And no one talked to the flics.

  In the margin of the homicide report, someone had written in red pencil, Find a grain of rice in that rice bowl?

  She listened to her recording of Éric’s visit, replaying it to see if she could catch anything between the lines. Éric mentioned Marcus’s mother, his own sister, but no additional information. Where was she, and what would she know? Aimée made a note to ask Éric.

  Meanwhile, where had Marcus and Karine been headed on their date? A date meant what to an eighteen-year-old—a movie, a meal? In her student days—not so long ago—it was a jump under the sheets in the hours stolen from study group. Never at home, where you might run into family, or at a hotel, which cost money. In her case, she’d usually made use of a friend’s place.

  According to the investigation file, there were no reported fares from the taxi stand on Boulevard Arago the afternoon Marcus disappeared. Nor were there any young male passengers matching Marcus’s description deposited at le Tribunal within an hour on either side of his departure. She studied the police note regarding Marcus’s cell phone. They’d triangulated his last call location via the cell phone towers. A place to start. She pu
t that on her follow-up list.

  René always said, think of statistics as your friend. Using her newly won streamlined Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand portal access, Aimée started paging through census records she would otherwise be able to review only onsite. By law, French censuses didn’t ask questions regarding ethnicity or religion, but they did gather information concerning one’s country of birth. As of the 1990 census, there were almost eight thousand Cambodian-born Parisians, and close to half were former Cambodian citizens who had become naturalized as French.

  She sat back. Drummed her pencil.

  How could she find Karine?

  Many of the Cambodians in Paris had fled the Khmer Rouge’s bloodbath. If Karine’s parents had been part of that wave fleeing Pol Pot and emigrated in the seventies and Karine was Marcus’s age, give or take—so born around 1981—she most likely was a French citizen. But no missing person report for her had been filed, according to these notes.

  The single police line of inquiry to find Karine had been confined to the known Cambodian clubs and bars. The usual path flics investigated for call girls. It had turned up nothing. Aimée saw no link to vice—where had the idea that Karine worked the streets come from anyway?

  Aimée put that aside. Would think about it later.

  She’d widen the census search net, define new filters using a three-year age range and targeting the thirteenth arrondissement.

  Two hundred and sixty Asian females, not one with the name Karine. Her parents might have registered her with a Cambodian name—but then how in the world would Aimée find her?

  She scanned Éric’s notes again. There was no mention of the flics’ checking out the towers.

  She combed through the homicide file. It showed a thorough investigation in some areas, in others only very cursory inquiry or no inquiry at all. That bothered her. A lot.

  She glanced at Maxence, who was working on René’s computer, headphones on.