Free Murder at the Lanterne Rouge by Cara Black Page A

the contents. And almost whistled.
    “
Merci
, Demontellan,” she said. “Get creative with Prévost. He needs the mental stimulation.”

Saturday, 10 A.M.
    “N EW SPARK PLUGS , oil change. Your scooter will run like a dream, Aimée,” said Zaco, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls at her local garage on the Île Saint-Louis.
    Zaco told her the same thing last month. Her secondhand pink Vespa, Italian and temperamental, broke down with annoying regularity.
    “
Merci
, Zaco.” She knotted the cashmere scarf around her neck, donned her leather gloves, hit the kick-starter, and headed over Pont de Sully. She wove her scooter through the narrow backstreets to her office. The wrought-iron balconies cast long shadows in the gray winter light. She longed for the sun, even a glimmer.
    Scenarios played in her mind. Was this a simple case of Meizi cheating on René? Maybe complications arose, as they usually did. Wrong place, wrong time? Say Meizi used the Wus, whoever they were, for a front. But why? To wangle René into marrying her? To use him for citizenship?
    Or could Meizi’s boyfriend, or the man who mistreated her, have threatened to hurt René?
    Layered over that was the RG surveillance of the quartier. Did Samour’s murder connect? Why had Samour recommended Meizi for a job?
    All Aimée had were questions.
    • • •
    A T L EDUC D ETECTIVE , warm air and a floral fragrance greeted her. At least the office heat worked. Unlike last winter. She hung up her damp coat, put her scooter keys in her bag.
    “About time,” René said, looking up from one of the three terminal screens on his desk. Beside him, Saj, their permanent part-time hacker and analyst, sat on a tatami mat with his laptop—his preferred mode of working. Despite the season, Saj was barefoot.
    Aimée bit her lip, adrift on a sea of conflicting emotions. She was not eager to voice more suspicions of Meizi, fracture her crumbling image, or hurt René. Every part of her wanted to protect him.
    “Those came for you,” Saj said, unfolding from his lotus position and gesturing to her desk, where a bouquet of lush rose-blushed hibiscus sat. Who in the world sent hothouse hibiscus in January? She opened the card, which came from the florist on rue du Louvre.
    I’ll make up for this weekend in Martinique. Clear your calendar mid-February
.
    —Melac
    Her heart jumped. Melac, Martinique, and sun. All in one?
    Guilt worked wonders. The card fell from her hand.
    Saj caught it. Grinned. Flashed the card for René to see.
    “Road trip, Aimée?” René asked, his eyes narrowing.
    Could she afford to take time off?
    “We’ve got two projects for the end of the month,” René said, his voice strained, “and a possible third if we land the Sofitel security contract.”
    Routine computer security surveillance. Nothing he and Saj couldn’t handle for a week. Had Meizi’s disappearance,compounded by his hip pain, made him irritable? Or did she detect a note of jealousy? For a moment guilt invaded her.
    She couldn’t worry about that.
    “Time to deal with that later, René,” she said, slipping the card in her bag. “We’ve got more pressing things to discuss. Let me get you two up to speed. First, the Wus are not who we thought they were.”
    René’s face reddened. “Lies.” He slammed his fist on the desk. “You can’t prove that.”
    She pulled out the copies of the fingerprint cards from her bag, spread them on René’s desk. “Matter of fact, I can.”
    René leafed through the cards. Shook his head. “Who the hell are these people?”
    “Illegal émigrés, I don’t know,” Aimée said. “Meizi could be part of something larger.”
    A hurt look wrinkled René’s brow.
    “Think back to the map in Ching Wao’s office, the circles around cities,” she said.
    “Maybe they’re part of a smuggling ring,” Saj said, lifting up a newspaper. “The front page today in
Le Monde
has an article on rhinoceros horn pirated from China. It’s