Murder in Clichy by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page B

to the Saint Eustache church. He pointed the way, then hit the digicode. Inside their building, the wire-frame birdcage of an elevator was out of service—out of service more often than in service. He faced a climb of three high floors on the dark, narrow spiral staircase to the office. He paused, wondering how the world would look from two feet higher up.
    His hip ached and he dreaded a discussion with Aimée. Right now his cowardly side wanted some way out. He’d ignored the flutter he’d felt deep down the last time she’d hugged him. The hope that soared and flew away as he reminded himself that for her, it was platonic.
    At the second flight of stairs, he paused. His leg throbbed and only a hot epsom salt bath would ease the bone-chill in his marrow.
    “Monsieur Friant . . . Monsieur René Friant?” a man’s voice called from above.
    “Oui.”
    “There’s been an accident,” he said, footsteps clattered down the stairs. “Mademoiselle Leduc’s in Emergency.”
    “Nom de Dieu! What happened?” His pulse raced. Something to do with her eyes? A car accident? He pumped his legs faster. Had she been trying to call him on his dead cell phone?
    He never saw their faces as they blocked the light, only felt the net over his face and arms, hands pinning him down as he struggled.

Wednesday Morning

    AIMÉE SAW TWO BLUE and white police cars parked on the pavement of rue de Chazelles in front of Guy’s office.
    “Not a professional job,” the flic was saying to Marie, the receptionist.
    She saw the broken door lock and overturned chairs. Heard the static of police walkie-talkies.
    “I don’t understand,” Marie said, shaking her head. “The small narcotic supply we keep under lock and key wasn’t touched. Dr. Lambert and his partners have just renovated this office. New cabinets, redone the examining rooms . . . tout! ”
    The flic nodded, writing in his notebook. “Knocking off a pharmacy makes more sense. There’ve been several break-ins this month.”
    “Excuse me, I’m Dr. Lambert’s patient and I forgot my bag. I’ve come for it.”
    “There’s nothing here,” Marie said. “We’ve had a robbery.”
    Aimée felt guilty. She should have stashed it somewhere else. “May I just check the examining room?”
    “We’re dusting for fingerprints,” the flic said. “You’ll have to wait.”
    Just then Guy walked into the office, his coat beaded with rain. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her.
    “Dr. Lambert, I’ve already called the insurance company,” said the receptionist. “The claims adjuster’s on the way.”
    “Good job, Marie,” he said, taking in the damage with a glance. “I left at six-thirty. I was on call and had rounds at l’hôpital des Quinzes-Vingts. They must have broken in after that.”
    “Thank you doctor, I’ll talk with you in a moment.”
    Aimée took Guy aside.
    “I feel sick that this happened.”
    Guy’s eyes softened.
    “Does your arm hurt?”
    Aimée shook her head. “Not much.” Only when she breathed. The fingerprinter, carrying his metal case, edged past them into the reception area.
    “Didn’t you go to the police last night?” he asked.
    “Guy, I left something in that room . . .”
    “What? ”
    “I have to get in there,” she said edging toward the examining room. “Please!”
    “You don’t mean . . .”
    “Just block the door. For one minute.”
    She slipped past him into the antiseptic white room. A rain of stainless steel instruments and surgical gloves littered the linoleum floor. The cabinets lay open and gaping. She bent down. Under the sink, the bacterial soaps had been pushed aside, the particle board was askew. The backpack with the jade was gone.
    She stood up. Stumbled. Guy grabbed her arm. Concern and anger warred in his eyes.
    “You owe me an explanation,” he said.
    “I meant to tell you. It’s my fault, I thought it would be safe here.”
    She looked around the trashed office, sick. Patients arrived and Marie