Murder at the Lanterne Rouge by Cara Black Read Free Book Online

tree, and now the birds had flown.
    But frustration wouldn’t get her answers. Aimée ducked behind the counter and explored the back of the shop. Boxes, cartons, a cracked, stained porcelain sink. Dark, empty cupboards. Wet mops leaning against the cobwebbed, padlocked back door. No one had used this door in a long time. Barred windows filmed with dirt looked onto the narrow walkway. The place reeked of damp and mildew. No one hid here, or would want to. She followed the cartons into the side hallway. The young woman looked up from the carton she was taping.
    “Why are you afraid?” Aimée asked. “Did they tell you to keep quiet?”
    The young woman dropped the tape dispenser. Perspiration beaded her lip. “Why you bother me? Why you make problem?”
    “Problem? I think you’ll have a problem when the
flics
ask to see your ID, your residence permit. Or don’t you have one?”
    “You no understand.” The girl’s lip trembled.
    “Understand what?” Aimée said. “Look, if Meizi’s in trouble, I can help her. So can my partner.”
    She could tell the girl understood more than she let on. Aimée’s scarf fell from her arm. “It’s hard feeling alone and afraid. I want to talk with Meizi. Won’t you help me, tell me where she’s gone?
S’il vous plaît
?”
    The girl stepped closer, picked up Aimée’s scarf. Met her gaze and pressed the scarf into her hand.
    “No good to ask questions. People watch you. Understand?”
    A IMÉE PAUSED AT the walkway behind the shop, still blocked off by orange-and-white striped crime-scene tape. She wondered what evidence besides the wallet the crime-scene techs found. Wondered if the evidence had degraded in the melting snow. Or with the rats. Could the
flics
identity Meizi from the picture? It would be almost impossible if Meizi were illegal.
    L IKE FINDING A single snowflake in a gray snowpile in the gutter.
    Dejected, she walked, glad to get away from the synthetic smells hovering in the street.
    Fake. Like everything else here, in this conspiracy of silence.
    The feeling she’d been beaten dogged her.
    So far she’d learned the Wus didn’t live above the shop. Meizi cleaned toilets, Monsieur Wu was a different Monsieur Wu. And things stank.
    But she had someone’s fingerprints on her
rouge-noir
nail polish bottle. Five minutes later, she’d reached Benoit, a fingerprint analyst in the crime-scene unit on 36 Quai desOrfèvres. He’d gone to school with her cousin, liked heavy metal. And with the promise of highly coveted concert tickets, agreed to meet her.
    With two hours until their rendezvous, she needed to keep busy. Sniff around.
    Where rue au Maire elbowed right, she noticed a small hotel, the one-star variety. A
hôtel borné
, her father had called them, a fleabag demi-pension with rooms rented by the hour, typically by working girls, or old men who couldn’t afford anything else rented by the month.
    The hotel’s open door led to a booth, then winding stairs. The smell of turmeric and onion mingled with the sweetish odor of tobacco.
    A North African man in a red-and-green striped djellaba smoked a hookah in the cubicle of a reception booth. “We’re full,
complet
,” he said. “Try later.”
    Aimée wanted information, not a room. She saw hotel business cards on the chipped counter. Sophisticated for a one-star hotel. “Hôtel Moderne, proprieter Aram,” she read. “You’re Aram?”
    He shook his head.
    “Did you know the man who was murdered last night? Or his girlfriend Meizi, from the luggage shop?”
    The man shook his head again. Gave a big, gold-toothed smile. “Better you ask Aram. Knows everybody. Here a long time. But he’s at
le dentiste
.” He pointed to his teeth.
    Good chance, then, Aram knew the street talk. Or saw something. At least she figured he didn’t buy into the Chinese wall of silence.
    “
Mon dentiste. Très bon
,” he was saying. “You need
dentiste
?”
    “
Non, merci
.”
    Did she have something stuck in her