Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black

Author:Cara Black [Black, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2002-04-25T03:00:00+00:00

THURSDAY

Thursday Morning

AIMÉE WOKE UP with a start in Martine’s guest room. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunlight on her pillow. Why hadn’t she thought of it before … the old Interpol wanted posters! She’d find this Jules!

But before that she had to ask the reporter, Jacques Caillot, about the article he’d written. Specifically, how he had obtained his information.

She gulped a bowl of café au lait. Her head was hazy so she followed it with an espresso to help her wake up.

She called the visiting office at Frésnes to find when she could see Liane Barolet again.

“Lockdown,” the officer said. “No visitors or mail.”

“For how long?”

“Depends on the warden’s mood,” he said. “Big riot last night. It could last a week.”

A disappointment. But she’d become suspicious of Liane’s having any letters from her mother. Liane was too good a liar. Still, she’d send the papers proving payment to Liane’s lawyer, as she’d promised.

After several calls she discovered Jacques Caillot no longer worked at Le Figaro but ran the Agence France-Presse archives.

“Sorry,” the switchboard operator said. “Monsieur Caillot only takes appointments with press staff. Our archive is limited to journalists, correspondents, and news wire organizations.”

Saying she was a researcher, Aimée made an appointment. Martine handed over her laminated clip-on Madame Figaro ID and her presse card to Aimée, then offered to take Miles Davis and drop him off at the Leduc office later. Aimée borrowed Martine’s black linen Chanel dress and a straw hat. Ten minutes later, she was speeding along the Seine on her scooter.

“Credentials, s’il vous plaît,” the wiry security man said from the booth at Agence France-Presse’s door. His partner watched the monitors fed by surveillance cameras panning the small glassed-in sixties lobby. Outside, the Bourse and the graffiti-covered squat opposite glimmered in the midmorning heat.

Aimée flashed him Martine’s ID and a large smile.

“Archives, please,” she said.

He studied the card, turned it over. She held her breath, hoping he didn’t ask for another piece of ID.

“Through these doors, Mademoiselle, take the second staircase to the basement.”

“Merci,” she said.

She rushed ahead.

“Mademoiselle!”

She stopped. Afraid.

“Sign in, please.”

“Bien sûr,” she said, and wrote “Martine Sitbon” with a flourish.

She passed through the double-swing doors he buzzed open for her. Photographers gripped portfolios, assistants scurried, and the world of breaking news engulfed her.

To the left, narrow linoleum-tiled stairs led down two dank flights. The cisternlike bowels of the building seemed much older than the modernized floors above. Sixteenth century, or even older, she thought.

At the microfiche desk, a pale-faced woman in overalls took her request.

“Attends, he’s on the phone,” she said, her tone listless. Maybe she’d worked down here too long.

By the time she nodded permission to go in, Aimée had written down her questions.

“First door on the right.”

Aimée held her breath as she entered an arched door. The vaulted rose brick walls and stone floor resembled a medieval abbey. Maybe, originally, it was.

Jacques Caillot sat at a stainless steel desk, halogen beams illuminating an old card file he was sorting. Aimée noticed the framed press clippings on the walls from Saigon, Lagos, and Kabul with his byline.

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