Free Murder in Belleville by Cara Black Page B

was meant to reveal how busy she was at the same time. Her glossy coral-manicured nails clicked over the keyboard, consulting her computer screen.
    Aimee wondered why she couldn’t just check an appointment book-even in this part of Paris she doubted that too many sheikhs or billionaires beat down the door to purchase rare pearls at the same time.
    Her idea of jewelry shopping was bargaining at the antique stalls in the Porte de Vanves flea market. She rifled through her Hermes bag and touched the pearl she’d stuffed in the small plastic bag. It felt bumpy and cold.
    “You may go up,” the receptionist said.
    Aimee mounted the stairs to Roberge’s upper floor office.
    “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
    Pierre Roberge stood and greeted her. A tall man, his bony shoulders were hunched, giving him a stooped look. Aimee figured him to be in his sixties, and with a good toupee. He smiled and motioned for her to sit down. The plush Aubusson carpet absorbed her footsteps. Roberge’s tall gilt-edged office windows overlooked the Ritz Hotel and the verdigris statue atop the Vendome column.
    “Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur Roberge, on such short notice.”
    Below, a fleet of chauffeured Mercedes waited by the entrance of a bank so discreet that no name was posted out front. Aimee shifted in the little gold chair to avoid the view.
    “To be honest, Mademoiselle Leduc, I was intrigued by your call,” Roberge said fitting the jeweler’s loupe over his eye. He adjusted the thin halogen lamp and donned a pair of white gloves.
    She set the odd-shaped pearl, fat and tumescent-looking, on the black velvet tray.
    Roberge sat forward and peered closely.
    “Mikimoto is renowned for cultured pearls, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Unlike these.”
    “Monsieur Roberge, I was told you are a pearl expert. I appreciate your kindness,” she said. “I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”
    Politeness would prevent him from agreeing with her even if she had.
    He turned the pearl, luminescent under the light, in his gloved hand.
    She studied the framed Provencal landscapes ringing the room. Impressionist by the look of them, less known but original. She figured everything in the room was authentic except her story.
    “Les maudites,” he murmured. The damned.
    What did he mean by that?
    “Comment?” Aimee asked.
    “Forgive me,” he said.
    Roberge’s voice had grown tight, she noticed, his tone more clipped.
    “That’s the term we use,” Roberge said. “May I ask where you obtained this pearl?”
    Irritated, Aimee wondered why he’d started posing questions. Instead she smiled and crossed her legs.
    “All in good time, Monsieur Roberge,” she said. “I’d like your impressions. Tell me what you think first.”
    “To be honest, Mademoiselle,” he said, fingering the pearl once more before setting it down on the black velvet, “the value diminished once this piece was removed from the setting.”
    She kept her surprise in check and nodded. “And the setting—?”
    “But you’re a thief,” he interrupted, “you should know.”
    “Hold on, Monsieur!” she said, alarmed. “I didn’t steal this.”
    “Security will deal with you,” he said, reaching for the phone.
    Alarmed, Aimee stood up, putting her hand on his glove. “Why do you think this is stolen?”
    He didn’t answer.
    She saw his eyes flicker with fear, but she kept her hand on his.
    “You know whom the pearl belongs to, don’t you, Monsieur Roberge?”
    “I’m an old man,” he said. He blinked so much that his jeweler’s loupe fell on the velvet. “Don’t threaten me.”
    “Tell me who it belongs to, Monsieur Roberge,” she said, perching on his desk. “And I’ll take my hand off yours and tell you who I really am.”
    He looked unsure.
    She let go, fished in her bag, and pulled out her ID. “I’m a private investigator, Monsieur Roberge.”
    He stared at it, his jaw set and stubborn. Maybe he didn’t like the unflattering photo on it.
    “From