Free Murder in Montmartre by Cara Black

school.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The countryside’s full of glue sniffers,” she said, her voice rising in anger. “I went back last year. The young riffraff lie around in train stations sniffing glue.”
    Glue sniffing? Where had that come from?
    “Excuse me but—did you water your geraniums last night?” Aimée asked.
    Madame Tardou started and dropped her tissue on the floor. ”What if I did?”
    “We think some men escaped across the rooftops and descended through your building’s skylight. Did you see them while you were watering your plants?”
    “It’s not safe anywhere any longer.”
    Aimée paused. “Madame, did you hear any gunshots or see anyone?” she asked.
    The woman shook her head. “The world’s full of opportunists.”
    “I agree,” Aimée said, trying to humor her before returning to her line of questioning. “But when you watered your geraniums, did you see men on the scaffold or any on the roof?
    “I’m going to call the locksmith to get more chains and bolts installed.”
    Did Zoe Tardou fear retribution if she gave Aimée information? She seemed to be afraid of something.
    “Please, Madame Tardou,” Aimée said. “A man was murdered. We need your help in this investigation. Whatever you tell me will remain confidential.”
    Now the doorbell buzzed.
    “Let me get that for you,” Aimée said. Before the woman could protest, she answered the door, accepted a proffered package, and returned to find Zoe curled up in a chair.
    “Here’s your medication.”
    “I’ve told you all I know, I watered my geraniums, but I saw nothing. I don’t feel well.”
    “Madame Tardou, your information may be important,” Aimée said. “If you don’t wish to cooperate with me, I’m sure investigators will insist on taking your statement at the Commissariat.” A threat; she hoped it would work.
    Zoe Tardou clutched her flannel nightshirt, pulling it tight around her. “Why question me, why not that pute on the street?”
    Aimée didn’t remember seeing a prostitute on the street. “What pute ?”
    “The one who hangs out around the corner. The old one, she’s in the doorway all the time. Ask her.”
    “What does she look like?”
    “You know the type, lots of costume jewelry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you must leave.”
    At least she had someone to look for now.
    WITH RELUCTANT steps Aimée retraced the route she and Sebastian had taken. She pulled out her cheap compact Polaroid and took photos of the hall carpet, skylight, and the broken lock.
    Outside, on narrow rue André Antoine, passersby scurried, late to work or school. She walked to the doorway of the building opposite. No prostitute. Disappointed, she tried Conari’s number.
    “Monsieur Conari’s out of the office,” his secretary said.
    All the reasons she’d hated criminal investigative work came back to her. Half the time potential witnesses were out of town, or at the doctor’s, or the hairdresser’s, and tracking them down took days. Leads turned to dust. Evidence deteriorated.
    But Laure needed help. Now.
    “When do you expect him?”
    Aimée heard phones ringing in the background.
    “Try again later.”
    AIMÉE OPENED the frosted-glass-paned door of Leduc Detective, ran, and caught the phone on the second ring. Gray light worked its way through the open shutters into a zigzag pattern on the wood floor. She nodded to her partner. René’s short arms were full as he loaded paper into the printer.
    “Allô?” she answered the phone, at the same time grabbing the ground coffee beans.
    “Mademoiselle Leduc? Maître Delambre here, Laure Rousseau’s counsel,” a high-pitched male voice said.
    Thank God. But he sounded young, as if his voice hadn’t changed yet.
    “I’m between court sessions so I’ll get to the point. We have reservations concerning your involvement in Laure Rousseau’s case.”
    “Who’s we ?” Aimée said, catching her breath. “Laure asked for my help.”
    “The police