Free Murder in Belleville by Cara Black Page A

tailored for his height, had dripped a puddle on the parquet floor under the coatrack by the door.
    “Sorry, Rene,” she said. “I had guests.”
    “I’ve refined our Electricite de France systems vulnerability scan,” he said. He sat on his customized orthopedic chair, clicking on his keyboard, eyes fastened on the flashing screen in front of him.
    “Any word on the EDF probationary contract?” she asked, picking out her black leather coat from the rack.
    “The EDF manager liked you—liked you a lot,” he said. “He had some questions.”
    Too bad she hadn’t spent time discussing their services with him since she’d hurried to meet Anais.
    “But it’s the big guys at headquarters who need persuading,” Rene said. “I’m meeting EDF’s lawyer later.”
    “Did you check the data report?” she asked. “See any virus?”
    “So far the EDF system looks clean. But there’s a nasty little virus going round,” he said. “Think I’ve isolated its birth mother. She’s uglier than her spawn!”
    “You’re the terminator at the terminal.” She grinned. “The virus’s days are numbered.”
    Rene watched her. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
    “I had visitors last night,” she said. “One thanks to you. Yves.”
    “Did everything work out?” Rene said, a smile in his voice.
    “Let’s say Yves took my mind off the first one. A rat. Sorry I didn’t make it—long story.”
    He hit Save. “Want to talk about it?”
    She told him. Most of the story, anyway. She kept her hands in her pockets so he wouldn’t see them tremble.
    Rene shook his head.
    “No wonder you look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said. Rene swiveled his chair toward her. “You, of all people, get nervous with things that ignite. Can I help?”
    “Merci, I’ll let you know,” she said. “Time to change.”
    She wedged her feet out of the damp chunky-heeled boots, setting them by the door. In the storage room she changed into her Chanel suit. It was black, tailored, and short, the one classic she owned. Her father’s face had lit up whenever she wore it. “That fits the Parisian in you,” he’d always said.
    “Who died?” Rene’asked, his eyes quizzical when she emerged.
    Startled, Aimee almost dropped her Hermes bag.
    “You only wear that to funerals,” Rene said.
    She doubted one would be held for Sylvie Coudray: There wouldn’t be anything to bury.
    “I’ve got an appointment with a pearl expert,” she said. “See you later.”

Tuesday Afternoon
    S TANDING ON RUE DU Louvre, Aimee took several deep breaths. She told herself she could do it, and began the ten-block journey.
    It was time.
    It had been five years since she’d walked up rue St-Honore toward Place Vendome. She concentrated on keeping her high-heeled feet one in front of the other, planning what she’d say. But, as if it were yesterday, she saw her father’s half grin, heard his low voice say “Attends, Aimee, let me check. Wouldn’t want anything exciting to happen.”
    But it had.
    The bomb exploded into a fiery ball of metal, blowing him and the surveillance van through the fence and into the column base. The blast slapped her backward with the van door handle in her hand, still burning. Debris rained over the column. Glass shards, burned bits of rubber and flesh—just like the explosion that killed Sylvie.
    Aimee turned her head away; she still couldn’t look. She hurried to Mikimoto, where she stepped into the high-ceilinged foyer lined with mirrored doors. She was glad to be off the street, away from the painful memories and with a purpose. How Sylvie and Eugenie connected was what she hoped to find out at Mikimoto.
    “Mademoiselle, do you have an appointment?” the blond coiffed receptionist asked, looking Aimee up and down.
    Aimee smoothed her skirt and smiled at her. “Monsieur Roberge at two o’clock,” she said.
    “Let me confirm,” the receptionist said with an intake of breath that brooked no argument and