Free Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black

again.
    “Let’s meet for lunch and you can tell me all about your new job,” she said.
    “Things seem tight….”
    “I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say,” she said. “I’m in the Sentier, but you name the place.”
    “M AKE IT good, Leduc,” Morbier said over the dog-eared menu. “I don’t have much time.”
    Outside, hookers plied their trade by the open brasserie window.
    “Does murder qualify?”
    “Important things first. We order.”
    A true Gallic response. His mismatched socks—one tan, the other brown—his suspenders, and wrinkled jacket were as usual but he seemed different.
    “Order the formule ,” Morbier said. He didn’t look up but pointed to the blackboard, where “59 francs” had been chalked. “Cart-pusher’s special, but worth it.”
    A promising scent of garlic and rosemary wafted from the black hole of a kitchen.
    “The chef’s from Marseilles,” he said. “His son’s on parole.”
    Aimée hated that. It meant no bill and general toadying-up from the poor staff. They ordered the formule from a gap-toothed young woman, who wore an apron over her jeans.
    The brasserie bustled with a late lunch crowd: auto mechanics, white-haired ladies with full shopping bags from the outdoor marche at their feet, African security guards nursing bières , and stockbrokers from the nearby Bourse.
    “ Tant pis , my Marie’s teething,” Aimée overheard a tinsel-wigged hooker say to her sidewalk mate. Her mate, a middle-aged woman, adjusted an orange latex miniskirt, her eyes never leaving the passersby. “My sitter’s complaining,” the woman continued, “ alors , that’s all the sitter ever does, that one!”
    Why had Morbier chosen this place?
    “Jean Jaurès was stabbed at that table, Leduc,” Morbier said. “The bloodstains are still there.”
    Aimée looked over. A dark brown ghoulish stain, shaped like a butterfly, spread over the old table.
    “As always, Morbier, you pick the scenic and informative.” She set the menu down. “Food any good?”
    Was this her socialist lesson for the day? When she was in grade school, he’d insisted she read the transcript of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s trial, even quizzed her about it.
    From the next table came the tang of a Gauloise. The acrid smoke teased her. Too bad she’d quit. The second time this week.
    And then it hit her.
    “You quit smoking, Morbier?”
    He pointed to the patch on his arm.
    “I’m full of surprises today, eh, Leduc?”
    The waitress set two bowls of Provençal soupe au pistou in front of them, swirls of basil crème in the center.
    “My visit to Berlin generated some interest.”
    “And you’re proud of that, Leduc?”
    “I wouldn’t say that.” She took a big swig of the rose, light and with a peachlike aroma.
    Not bad. She took another.
    “Tell me about this murder while I eat,” Morbier said.
    She told him about Jutta Hald. “She said she’d been in prison with my mother and would give me her things, but she needed money,” Aimée said. “Later she called to say there was something I should know about my mother, but I got to the meeting too late. Jutta’s brains were all over the tower wall.” She watched Morbier run the napkin across his mouth, then snap toothpicks between his splayed fingers.
    “Doesn’t sound pretty.”
    She told him about Jutta’s photo of Romain Figeac, Christian’s behavior, and the blood-smudged wall. “Figeac didn’t commit suicide, Morbier, he was murdered.”
    “And you can prove that?”
    “Serge at the morgue concurs,” she said, hoping Morbier wouldn’t check up on her stretch of the truth. “Both Figeac and Jutta Hald were killed by high-caliber gun blasts. Serge has the evidence Baggie for testing but I know it’s the same gun.”
    “What do you want from me?” Morbier sighed.
    “I know it’s related to my mother.”
    “Leduc, I can’t help you anymore.”
    “Attention, c’est chaud,” the waitress interrupted, wedging two