Free Murder in Montmartre by Cara Black Page B

up.”
    “And you know this for sure?” René stirred the espresso, his green eyes on the beige froth lining his demitasse cup. “It would be refreshing to get paid. Make for a nice change, Aimée.”
    “No argument there,” she said.
    If only their clients paid for their computer security on time! She perched on the edge of his desk. Walnut furniture oil, dense and heavy, stained her palms. He’d been cleaning again!
    “Shooting her partner on a roof doesn’t make sense, René.”
    “What do you actually know?” René’s green eyes narrowed.
    She sipped her espresso and explained what had happened.
    “This sounds like an accident,” René said. “Perhaps Laure tripped in the snow and her gun went off.”
    “Manhurins are designed to prevent that,” she interrupted. “The sécurité de shock keeps the hammer from descending accidentally. Impossible.”
    René pulled his goatee. “Internal Affairs will conclude it was an accident, won’t they?”
    “René, I found her unconscious and Jacques shot. . . . His heart responded briefly, but it was too late.”
    She paused, shook her head, seeing the image of Jacques’s snow-fringed eyelashes, his blood seeping onto the snow. She struggled with the feeling that he had tried to tell her something.
    René stared. “I’m sorry, Aimée.”
    The steam heater sputtered, sending forth waves of heat that evaporated somewhere at the level of the high ceiling. She made herself continue. “Later, on the adjoining roof, Sebastian and I discovered a broken skylight and wet footprints on the rug underneath. That spelled escape to me.”
    “Escape?”
    “The killer’s escape. Then flics appeared and we beat a quick retreat over the roof.”
    René let out a sigh. “You promised to stop all that, didn’t you? Let the flics handle it.”
    He sounded like Guy. But Guy wasn’t around to say those words anymore. She combed her chipped copper lacquered fingernails through her spiky hair.
    “Laure may face prison.” She didn’t like to think of the overcrowded eighteenth-century prison La Santé; the unheated cells and the reaction of the inmates when they discovered Laure was a flic . “I feel responsible.”
    “ Responsible? Sorry to say it, but it sounds like Jacques brought this on himself.”
    “Laure has to keep trying to prove herself, to follow in her father’s footsteps. Of course, she’d do whatever Jacques asked. Not like me.”
    “No one’s like you, Aimée,” René said, rolling his eyes. “Thank the Lord.”
    “René, Laure’s the closest I’ll ever have to a little sister. She’s self-conscious, sensitive about her cleft palate. I know her; she’ll break if she goes inside.”
    Break into little pieces.
    Aimée sniffed, aware of a floral scent from somewhere in the office. “Anyway, I caught up. I did three-quarters of the proposals last night.” And missed Guy’s reception as a result.
    “Morbier left you a message,” René said, “something about keeping your paws clean. Maybe you owe him an apology.”
    “What can I do?”
    “You’re asking my advice?” René expressed mock horror. “It will cost you. Say you’re sorry with flowers. He’s a romantic.”
    “Are we talking about the same person?”
    She surveyed the office. A jam jar with sprays of paperwhite narcissus sat on the printer stand, filling the air with fragrance. A harbinger of spring.
    “Celebrating spring already? Or is this a special day?” she asked, trying to find out where they’d come from without asking outright. “What’s the occasion? Good news?” She let her sentence dangle, hoping he’d say Guy had sent them.
    “Pull up the Salys data,” was his only reply as his fingers raced over the keyboard. “We need to draft a proposal. By noon.”
    Her heart thumped. Guy hadn’t sent them.
    The way René avoided answering, his appearance . . . that twisting feeling in her gut . . . could it be jealousy? Had he met someone? How could she be jealous? Why,