Free Murder in the Rue De Paradis by Cara Black

buildings. More evidence of the new face of the tenth, wrought by the urban gentry: bobos — bourgeois bohèmes— the young, affluent and casually dressed, leftist-leaning sophisticates, like Michel. Eager for this central, cheap quartier bordered by the grand boulevards in the south, the canal to the east, the train stations in the north, and the upscale Place Saint-Georges to the west. Buying property, as René intended, when small garment sweat shops and old leather warehouses and varied manufacturers vacated, was in vogue. Still, pockets of decaying hôtel particuliers remained, and the members of the traditional working class. Only now the working class and immigrants were Pakistani, Turkish, African, and bobos whereas at the turn of the century they’d been Poles and Russians.
    Rue Jean Poulmarch curved below the level of the canal in front of the loft she’d left this morning. She parked at the curb before an old wine merchant’s shop. Its black 18th-century grillework featured a sculpted gold lion, clusters of grapes, and the smiling god Bacchus.
    Inside the loft courtyard complex, she hiked up the stairs of the old printing works, hearing the tinkling of wind chimes. There was no answer to her knock on the loft door. She rapped again and waited.
    Still no answer. She scanned the other doorways, but the closed shutters and bulging mailboxes below indicated that many tenants were away. Snipping sounds came from behind tall bamboo trees on the ground floor. She looked down. Just visible on a small terrace, a figure wearing a loose-tied floral kimono and wide-brimmed straw hat was trimming yellow leaves off the trees.
    The figure paused but didn’t look up. “That’s Charlotte Vaudier’s place. She’s not here,” came a man’s voice.
    Charlotte . . . . A green pang of jealousy hit her. Of course, she could be Yves’s colleague . . . could have been.
    “Pardon?”
    “I saw you this morning,” said the figure, the voice low-pitched.
    “I forgot something—” her throat caught. Yves’s warm arms and his lopsided smile came back to her. He had been here, with her, not even twelve hours ago. Now it felt like another life.
    “I don’t keep track of her friends.”
    Yet he’d been observant enough to spot her.
    She walked downstairs to the terrace.
    “Can you help me?”
    “So you can tell the junkies and they’ll break in again?” A young man pulled off the sun hat, revealing narrow cheekbones, widespread eyes, and tweezed eyebrows. He reached for his cell phone as if it were a weapon. “I don’t think so, Mademoiselle. You’d better leave. Now.”
    She pulled out her card and showed it to him through the stalks of bamboo.
    He reached for it with clear-polished fingernails. A better manicure than hers! “You need more ID than this little detective card anyone can print up.”
    She stifled her frustration. He might be able to put her in touch with the owner . . . this Charlotte. She rooted in her worn Vuitton wallet and then flashed her detective license.
    He stared. “It says computer security here on this card,” he pointed out.
    “Correct. That’s my job now, but I was trained in criminal investigation. Now, Monsieur . . . ?”
    “Lolo,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “We don’t let just anyone in.”
    “But I’m not just anyone. I stayed with Yves; ask Charlotte. Where can I reach her?”
    “I forward Charlotte’s mail to Ulan Bator,” he interrupted. “She’s researching the Uighar tribe.”
    Outer Mongolia. Not much hope of information here. She’d struck out again.
    “Did you see Yves leave early this morning?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “If you’re checking up on behalf of his wife, some kind of spousal surveillance, forget it. We mind our own business here.”
    Her patience vanished.
    “Nothing like that, Lolo. He was murdered this morning. If you saw or heard anything. . . .”
    “ Nom de dieu . . . where?”
    She shook her head. “Nearby. I’m