Free Murder in Montmartre by Cara Black Page A

investigation has been comprehensive and thorough,” he said.
    He not only sounded young, but as if he needed to show he was in control. She hit the button on the espresso machine, which grumbled to life.
    “So comprehensive, Maître Delambre, that they haven’t yet questioned the inhabitants of the building opposite or investigated a broken skylight?”
    “That’s the investigating unit’s responsibility,” he said. “And just how would you know this?”
    “As I said, Laure asked for my help,” she said. Better to explain and try to work with him. Not alienate him. “We’re childhood friends; our fathers worked together in the police force.”
    “You have admirable intentions, I’m sure, but your involvement won’t help the case or be looked on as anything but meddling.”
    In other words, back off.
    “I’m a private investigator,” she said, figuring it would be better not to mention that computer security was her field. “That’s what I do. You don’t even seem interested to learn that there may have been an eyewitness.”
    “Of course the police questioned all the people in the area,” he said. “I’m sure they’re aware of anything pertinent and will have it in their report.”
    “I’d like to see this report and discuss this further.”
    “As I told you—”
    “Laure hired me and it’s in her best interests that we work together,” she said, stretching the truth. “But, naturally, it’s your call.”
    Thick bitter steaming coffee dripped into the small white demitasse cup next to her.
    “Meaning what, Mademoiselle Leduc?”
    “Would you rather I turn over my findings to you or directly to La Proc?”
    Pause. “I’ll discuss this with my client,” he said.
    “Look, I found her concussed and injured. That should be in the report. Jacques’s pockets were inside out, they’d been searched. Since the flics don’t reveal information to outsiders, can you find out what the police report says?”
    The shuffle of papers was her only answer.
    “I’d like to visit Laure.”
    He took a breath. “It’s questionable whether they’d allow you to see her.”
    “I’d need to get a pass and letter from you, wouldn’t I?”
    “Let me check into that.”
    Noncommittal, avoiding a flat no. But she wouldn’t let it rest.
    “I’d appreciate that and seeing the crime-scene report,” she said. “Including the lab findings. I’m concerned about the gun residue Laure said they found on her hands. Of course, there’s some mistake.”
    “Lab turnaround time is from six to eighteen hours,” he interrupted.
    “So you could have it by this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”
    She hung up and plopped two brown-sugar lumps into her espresso. A hot drop landed on her finger and she licked it. As she had feared, Laure had been assigned a lawyer from the bottom of the barrel.
    René climbed into the orthopedic chair customized for his four-foot height. She noticed his new double-breasted suit and freshly manicured nails as he bit the glazed puff top off the religieuse, an eclairlike pastry. The shape had ancient origins and was supposed to resemble a famous convent deaconess from the fifteenth century.
    “Like one?” René pushed the pastry box across the desk.
    Why not? Did it matter anymore if she fit into that little black dress, a vintage Schiaparelli she’d discovered at a church sale?
    “ Merci ,” she said, walking to his terminal and exchanging the espresso for a coffee-cream-filled eclair. “Remember my friend Laure?”
    René nodded; he’d met her the year before.
    “She’s in trouble.”
    “So I just heard,” he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “Did she really hire you? You’ll get a check?”
    Aimée hesitated.
    “I don’t like this already,” he said. “We do computer security, remember?”
    He gestured to her desk, a pile of proposals by her laptop. “That should keep you busy.”
    “I owe her, René,” she said. “She’s been set