Murder in the Rue De Paradis by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page A

Giséle.”
    As Giséle, the blond medic, pulled off her latex gloves and headed to the driver’s door, Aimée reached for her damp sleeve. She had to seize her chance before they drove away, no matter how awkward it felt.
    “ Excusez-moi, I overheard that you knew Renaud Vorner. You’re leaving now?”
    “I wish,” Giséle said. “They have to catalogue his belongings. Who knows how long that will take?”
    “Do you have a moment for a coffee?” Aimée said, pointing to the café awning behind them.
    Giséle’s eyes swept over Aimée: the black pencil skirt, sandals, damp tank top sticking to her chest, and laptop bag slung over her arm. “Nice offer, but we’re on call, we never know when we’ll get—”
    “How about the counter?” Aimée interrupted. “I’ve only got a few minutes myself.”
    Giséle hesitated, checking her pager.
    Aimée motioned to the other medic. “Bet you both could use one.”
    Giséle stifled a yawn and nodded. “Two more hours on shift; caffeine’s a good idea.”
    They passed the rattan café chairs bunched behind small circular marble tables on the terrace. Inside the café, the whooshing from the milk steamer and the clatter of saucers being stacked greeted them. A ceiling fan, circa 1930, sputtered overhead suspended from a ceiling patinaed yellow by years of cigarette smoke.
    “Three expressos, s’il vous plait. ”
    “ Serre for me,” said Giséle. Half the water.
    “Me, too.” Aimée said to the man behind the counter. Any other time, she’d relish a seat in a café overlooking the canal, imagining Yves joining her. Not now, she needed answers.
    “How well did you know Renaud Vorner?” Aimée said.
    “You’re a reporter?” Gisèle asked.
    Aimée handed her the card reading detective privé she kept for moments like this. “Aimée Leduc.”
    “A detective?” Her partner joined them at the counter and stared at her card. His eyes narrowed. “We provide services to the community, not to vultures like you.”
    A nice attitude, this one.
    “Yet the flics let this man die,” she said, turning to the blond medic. “He had an asthma attack, but the flics didn’t respond in time. Right, Giséle?”
    “Forget the coffee,” Jean said. “I don’t like types like you.”
    This Jean had a chip of concrete on his shoulder.
    “Like me . . . what do you mean?”
    “Nice act.” Jean shook his head. “Snooping around. You’re paid to report to the ministry and close down even more services to the homeless.”
    Giséle shot Jean a look as if to remind him of his manners.
    “Not at all,” Aimée said. “I just have a hard time buying him as a murder suspect.”
    Giséle’s eyes narrowed. “A suspect?” She thought for a moment, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “The flics don’t deal well with habitués like Romeo. But he had charm. If only he’d gone to the clinic,” she said and shrugged. “Last week, I gave him an inhaler, prescriptions. Usually he stayed on top of his condition.”
    “What happened?”
    A look of hopelessness crossed her face, then disappeared. “Some of them come round, attend the clinic, get into rehab. Better talk with the sergeant.”
    The sergeant who’d insisted she fill out forms.
    “I imagine you know more than anyone else. Do you think Romeo would kill for a fix?”
    The waiter set the small white demitasse cups on the zinc counter. Steam curled in a thin wisp and evaporated. Her fingers tensed on the small handle.
    “In our job, we save people. Try to,” Giséle said. “The rest I don’t think about.”
    “He was the main suspect in my . . .” she paused, “. . . friend’s murder.”
    Aimée felt their stares burn into her. Then tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked, willing them back.
    “Are you kidding me?” Giséle said, leaning forward. “Not Romeo. I know the ones who’d slit your throat rather than shake your hand. But not Romeo. A romantic, we called him. Sure, he hustled, got by on his looks. But