Free Murder at the Lanterne Rouge by Cara Black

within.
Domiciled Ivry, owner of Lucky Luggage, rue au Maire
.
    “But he’s not twenty-nine years old,” Aimée said loudly to Demontellan’s ruined ear.
    “Don’t shout,” he said. “My hearing’s superb.”
    “
Desolée
,” she said, abashed, averting her gaze from the painful-looking scar tissue.
    “Everyone does that at first,” he grinned. “Bet my hearing’s better than yours. I’m bionic. Cochlear implants.”
    Not knowing whether to laugh or applaud, she shrugged. “We’re all special, Demontellan. Any photo of him?”
    “For that let’s take a little stroll.” He led her to a bank of metal file cabinets, chose the W section, and pulled open a drawer at shoulder height. Oatmeal-colored fingerprint cards, filed by surname, stretched before her, some with worn, dog-eared edges, others crisp.
    “My father used these,” she said, amazed.
    “For cross verification purposes, and individuals not entered into the main system, it does the job. Zut, I can match a card’s prints faster than anyone can boot up, log in, enter the system, and search a database.”
    She nodded.
    “That’s if we had a current computer database,” he grinned. “
Alors
, the Brigade Criminelle still types reports on Remingtons.”
    Archaic, like everything else at 36 Quai des Orfèvres.
    “Plus I know the smell. I sniff better with these.”
    For any good
flic
, it came down to the nose. One’s sense of smell developed over years, illustrating Oscar Wilde’s aphorism, “Nothing worth knowing can be taught.” A good
flic
could pullout a detail cataloged in the recesses of his mind. A name or an address cross-referenced to a memory, a whisper in a bar from an informer. The methodical, painstaking accumulation of details—piecing them together, building evidence, a case.
    Computers didn’t do that.
    “W. Woo. Wu.” Pause. “Here we go.” Demontellan pulled out three cards. “Wu, Meizi, age 36; Wu, Feng, age 29; and Wu, Jui, age 30.”
    Aimée stared at the cards. None of the photos matched Meizi or her parents. What in hell was going on here?
    “Demontellan, I suggest you route these to Prévost at the
commissariat
in the third.”
    “Think I do magic, too?”
    She grinned. “You could head the report, ‘Question of identity regarding witnesses and suspect in the homicide case reported last night.” And conclude that the identity is inconsistent with fingerprints on file.”
    “Did Prévost request this?”
    “He should have,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ll craft it so he thinks one of his men did. Cite a paperwork request lost in the shuffle. I’m sure you know how to word it.”
    Demontellan took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “You must hold something over that boy.”
    “And he must hold something bigger over you,” she said.
    Demontellan gave a knowing smile. “It’s evened out.” He paused. “That help you?”
    “The more I dig, the deeper the hole.” Her finger traced the stiff edge of the Meizi Wu card. “Proving no one is who they say. But this gets me no closer to finding Meizi Wu.”
    He jerked his thumb toward his desk. “Benoit left you a file. On the house, he said.”
    She thumbed through photocopied business licenses,
carte de séjour
applications, work permits. All faux Wus. Ching Wao probably drove a Mercedes with the proceeds.
    Disappointed, she picked up her bag from Demontellan’s desk, and saw that a paper had slipped out.
    A national museum employment application for a maintenance position at the Musée des Arts et Métiers. The application was for a Wu, Meizi, dated two weeks earlier, and listing as a reference Pascal Samour, faculty department head at CNAM.
    Her heart raced. Pascal Samour had given Meizi a recommendation. While Demontellan was photocopying the application and fingerprint cards, Aimée checked the in-box on his desk.
    Two current reports from Prévost’s division. Taking advantage of Demontellan’s turned back, she scanned