Murder in the Latin Quarter by Cara Black Read Free Book Online

no flic. My name is Edouard.”
    Yet she couldn’t trust him. He could say anything; how would she be able to tell if it was true?
    She sat, and so did he.
    The owner appeared with her half-filled glass, setting it down on the marble-topped table. “ Merci, ” she said. “But why talk to me?” she asked the stranger.
    “It’s personal.” He set down a folded issue of Le Figaro and ran a hand through his hair. “Benoît’s murder didn’t even merit a short column on the back page. But the speculation about Princess Di’s Mercedes hitting the thirteenth pillar in the tunnel occupies pages.”
    “So?”
    “ She knows who murdered Benoît,” Edouard said.
    Was he fishing? Trying to get her to confirm Benoît’s death?
    “Who does?” She’d feign ignorance and see what he knew.
    “The woman you’re looking for. Mireille,” he said. “I need to speak with her.”
    With effort, Aimée kept her hand steady. Get in line, she almost said.
    “How do you know that Mireille has that information?”
    “Makes sense, doesn’t it?” he said. “And no one can find her. She’s disappeared.”
    “I don’t know who you are or why you’re interested.”
    “Edouard Brasseur. Import/export, lucrative and boring.” He set a high-end cell phone down on the table, switched the ringer to low. “I haven’t asked why you’re looking for her.”
    True. He hadn’t. And she had no intention of telling him.
    “Edouard, convince me that you don’t know where she is.” She sipped the fizzing water.
    A fly buzzed, trapped between the window panes.
    He ran his fingers through his hair but said nothing.
    She shrugged and gathered up her bag, ready to leave.
    He caught her arm. His hand was warm as he held on to her. “Wait. Why do you think I know where she is?”
    “If you were close to Benoît, you wouldn’t be here.” She paused waiting for his comeback, a protest, but he remained quiet. Pensive.
    Finally, he spoke. “They say the past is a foreign country.” He shook his head. “I hadn’t seen Azacca Benoît in a year or so. He was part of the past. But recently he telephoned me out of the blue. If only I’d met him.”
    “He wanted to meet you?” she said. “When?”
    “I came to Paris from Brussels on business. Maybe he’d be alive today if we’d met on Sunday,” he said. “Benoît mentioned that he needed proof. Then he said he couldn’t talk, asked that we meet later that night, said he’d call back . . . mentioned ‘Mireille.’ That’s it.”
    “Sounds vague to me,” she said. She didn’t buy it.
    “How can I say this?” Edouard looked up, searching for words. “I had a feeling that he was waiting for something.”
    “You would know the places Haitians congregate, and his contacts, wouldn’t you?”
    “His contacts? I’m a stranger in Paris.”
    He sounded as clueless as she felt. She was conscious of his hand, still resting on her arm.
    His eyes caught hers. And bored into them with laser-like intensity.
    “I can’t figure you out,” he said.
    Ditto, she almost replied. She wondered about him. His change from cocky, to sad, then to vulnerable had been rapid. But the vulnerable quality seemed real. And appealing, she admitted to herself. She sensed he would be trouble. Those eyes, the way he filled out his jacket. His citrus scent reminded her of Yves, her dead fiancé. Stop! She had to stop this.
    “Your big eyes get in the way,” he said to her. His voice softened. “A nice way.”
    Warnings rang in her head. Don’t get involved with this one, a little voice in her head cautioned. She twisted Yves’s Turkish puzzle ring, which she still wore on her third finger.
    “Don’t even try,” she said.
    “Nothing comes for free, I know.” He shrugged. “Why should you help me, even if you could?”
    “Something like that,” she said.
    “Benoît’s work meant everything to him,” he said. “He would have been killed because of it.”
    “You sound sure,” Aimée