Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black Read Free Book Online

capable of it. She would be the only witness.
    Maybe the aura of these strong personalities was getting to her. She brushed the thought aside and stepped into the high-ceilinged room.
    Piles of heavy metal CDs along with those of the Senegalese singer Youssou D’Nour cluttered a heavy-legged Spanish-style table. Bank statements, along with letters headed by a Tallimard Presse logo, were scattered among the CDs.
    Water flushed in the background. Christian Figeac emerged from a floral-stenciled door in the hallway, his pupils dilated, his face flushed.
    Aimée shook her head. Dealing with druggies spelled trouble.
    “Does your father’s editor know what you’re doing?”
    “He’s welcome to,” Christian Figeac said, craning his neck forward like an awkward bird. He spread his arms expansively. Now he exuded an aura of confidence.
    “You know what I mean,” Aimée said. The man was a mess. “Getting your courage from a needle?”
    “Xanax,” he said. “I’m working on my equilibrium.”
    Great.
    Maybe she’d given him too much credence. His hallucinations probably came from dope, and his girlfriend had wised up.
    Aimée felt something crackle under her sandaled foot. A bright yellow feather. She picked it up. The sharp quill was beaded, a broken bit of mirror tied to it.
    “What’s this?”
    “Some ju-ju crap from Senegal,” Christian Figeac said, sighing. “I told Idrissa to stop it. She gets it from her kora player, Ousmane. He’s so superstitious.”
    Aimée turned it over. What looked like dried, crusted blood coated the feathers. Gingerly, she set it on a chair.
    She decided she’d better leave the dead air of the apartment, the ju-ju , and Christian Figeac.
    The doorbell rang.
    “Idrissa?” he asked, lurching toward the door.
    Aimée couldn’t see the look on his face, but his shoulders stiffened. A cool breeze entered from the hall, smelling of wax wood polish.
    “Monsieur Christian Figeac, son of Romain Figeac?” she heard from the hallway.
    He nodded, bracing himself against the doorjamb.
    And then she heard the metal clink … something so familiar it was like slicing bread. The sound of handcuffs. Like the pair her father had.
    “We’d like you to answer some questions,” a voice said. “It’s regarding your father’s account at the Credit Industriel et Commercial in Place des Victoires.”
    “But I’m busy right now.”
    “Down at the Commissariat.”
    Aimée walked up and stood by the door. She recognized the flic , Loïc Bellan.
    She froze.
    Bellan had been one of the new breed before her father retired, recruited to combat corruption.
    Her feet felt rooted to the ground. She wanted to hide but she was stuck. A sitting duck. Running away from a murder scene wasn’t looked on with favor. What if the police had circulated her description in connection with Jutta Hald’s murder? But would Bellan put it together?
    “Monsieur Figeac, we’d like you to cooperate with us,” Bellan said, taking her in with a quick glance.
    “You’ve made a mistake.” Christian Figeac shook his head dismissively. “My father had no account there.”
    Bellan nodded. He’d changed. His dark hair had grayed, his once thin frame had settled into a stocky middle age. If he recognized her, he didn’t let on. But flics were trained for that, she knew. Let a perp sweat, then play with him. Like a cat with a mouse.
    “We’ll just have a talk and clear all this up,” Bellan said. “After you, Monsieur Figeac.”
    He lunged past Bellan. Too bad he tripped over the flic ’s foot and landed hard on the floor. Scuffling and kicking sounds came from the landing, then a metallic snap as the cuffs closed.
    “If you haven’t charged Monsieur Figeac, you need an interpellation to demand his attendance,” Aimée said, stepping forward reluctantly. “The handcuffs are unnecessary. In fact, illegal.”
    “We’ll leave the niceties to the police judiciaire , eh, Mademoiselle Leduc?” Bellan said. He nodded