Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page A

and Viard, the crime-lab head Aimée had introduced him to, had been together for eight months . . . a milestone for both of them.
    “Every man wants Paul Bocuse in the kitchen, Mother Teresa to care for his children, and a whore in the bedroom.”
    No wonder she had no man. “What kind of dinosaurs think like that?”
    “Not that we get it.” He grinned. His face wiped clean, Michou reared back in horror. “What did you do to this formula? It’s like cement, nom de Dieu! ”
    Aimée rubbed her eyes. “I was up all night, Michou, watching her, afraid she’d stop breathing. I couldn’t figure out that damn diaper. And this formula . . .” She shrugged. “You get it in and it comes right up again.”
    Michou patted Aimée’s arm. “You need some coffee.”

    AIMÉE SHOWERED, SLICKED back her hair, hoped that concealer would cover the rings under her eyes, then rimmed her lids with kohl. She slid into her pinstriped suit, a Dior from a consignment shop, and picked up the daily Le Parisien from outside her door.
    In the kitchen Michou hummed, hot milk frothing on the stove as he held the baby in his arms. Rays of sun haloed the baby’s head. Through the open window, Aimée saw sunlight glinting on the Seine, a tow barge gliding under the Pont de Sully’s stone supports. Another warm day. She scanned the quai for someone surveilling the apartment but saw no one lingering behind the plane trees or the stone wall. Just the man she recognized from the first floor walking his dog, a plumber’s truck idling out front. A morning on the Ile Saint-Louis, like any other. No sign of a stalker.
    Michou stroked the baby’s cheek. “Notice how she turns toward my finger—she’s ‘rooting.’” He placed the bottle between her lips and she sucked. “ Voilà, she’s a pro! Tilt the bottle up so the formula fills the nipple, otherwise . . .”
    “Some kind of baby voodoo, Michou?”
    “I’m serious, air’s the enemy,” he said. “If air gets in, she gets gas. Gas you don’t want.”
    “ Merci , Michou, you’re a lifesaver.”
    “Such a little beauty, Aimée.”
    She was.
    He looked at her. “So she’s on loan, to see if you want to order a model?”
    “Do I look the type?” Aimée gave him a brief version of how she had gotten the baby.
    “Et alors, the minute the mother calls, I’ll let you know,” he assured her, rocking the baby, blowing air on her toes, eliciting a gurgle.
    “You have the touch, Michou.” Some people were born with it . . . a woman’s touch, a maternal side.
    “Maybe you do, too, Aimée.” He gave a knowing wink. “It comes with practice.”
    “They should come with instruction booklets . . .”
    “Like your computer? If only it were that easy,” he said. He grimaced at her chipped lacquered nails. “If you waited long enough for your nails to dry properly, they wouldn’t chip like that.”
    As if she had time. She was lucky when she could grab a manicure at all. Still . . . “Gigabyte green, Michou, it’s the new color.”
    “Quel horreur. Without that, you’re naked, Aimée.” He pointed to the tube of Chanel Stop Traffic Red on the counter.
    As she wiped the lipstick over her lips, she checked Le Parisien for a mention of an abandoned baby or of a woman being attacked on the Ile Saint-Louis. But the headline was about the MondeFocus protest erupting into a riot. The accompanying story alleged that the CRS had provoked the demonstrators. She turned to the short articles from the police blotter, but saw nothing about a woman having been assaulted or a kidnapped baby. The crime section continued on the next page. There had been incidents of purse snatching and an attack in the Châtelet Metro. Strange, nothing about . . . then she saw a short notice in the lower corner: Body of a young woman found in the Seine by Pont de Sully near Place Bayre.
    Her hands clutched the rim of the steaming café au lait bowl as she read: Police request help in identifying a young woman,