Murder at la Villette

Book 21: An Aimée Leduc Investigation

by Cara Black

Genres: General Fiction; Mystery; International Crime & Mystery; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Parisian private investigator Aimée Leduc has been framed for the murder of her daughter’s father—now she’s on the lam, and must find the real killer to clear her name in this thrilling 21st installment of Cara Black’s New York Times bestselling mystery series.

Parisian private investigator Aimée Leduc doesn’t know that her life is about to be upended. Her ex, Melac, has been hounding her to move their daughter, Chloé, to Brittany. Aimée is fed up with his threats to take her to court and has stopped answering his calls. Which is why she doesn’t know he’s waiting for her by the Bassin de la Villette as she leaves a client’s office late one night. When she finds him there, bleeding in the canal, he has just been stabbed by an assailant, who knocks Aimée unconscious and plants the bloody knife in her hands.

Now Aimée is in police custody, debilitated by a concussion, with overwhelming evidence pointing to her as Melac’s killer. She must figure out who murdered Melac—not an easy job, given the target on his back as a former homicide investigator. Cut off from her typical network and forced to operate under multiple layers of cover, Aimée must go deep into the underbelly of Paris’s 19th arrondissement, where she rubs shoulders with biker gangs, paranoid journalists, grieving parents, and frustratingly tight-lipped ex-cops on her hunt for justice.

Release date: March 5, 2024

Publisher: Soho Crime

Print pages: 288

Sample

April 2002 • 11:00 p.m.
Monday, Avenue Secrétan, Paris



April in Paris rarely feels like the song, thought Aimée Leduc, shivering as she buttoned her leather jacket. Glocron’s cold, cavernous office, in a threadbare 1930s movie theater that had been chopped into workspaces, was embellished with faux rococo swirls and chipped plaster ceilings. It felt as aesthetically pleasing as an aircraft hangar.
     Last time Aimée would take a job like this. Too much working overtime. It didn’t help that this whole consulting gig was fake—she was really here at this tech start-up on an undercover contract for the Ministry, trying to nail down evidence of a saboteur in the IT department in between her humdrum security work. Plus the added strain of constantly battling with her ex, Melac, the biological father of her daughter, over custody was taking its toll.
     She hit save on her computer terminal and logged out of her security program.
     To Aimée, this odd open office plan had only one redeeming feature—a view of the Marché Secrétan, a covered market where she used to go shopping with her grandfather, her hand in his, to buy rabbit from his favorite butcher. Now the dilapidated art nouveau covered market looked in need of some love. Just like her.
     She packed up, rubbed her chilly hands. Thank God her workspace had an outlet for a portable heater. The other employees wore their coats indoors and huddled by the espresso machine for any kind of camaraderie.
     Shouts and the scrape of chairs came from a terminal nearby. “Who cares about your disabled brother!” Pépe, the wiry Basque programmer, was yelling at Isabelle, the cleaner. He twitched in anger. “Clumsy salope, you spilled my coffee over my printouts!”
     Isabelle, her long dark braid clipped up, paused mopping the floor. Her silver nose ring glinted under the harsh fluorescent light.
     Before Aimée could stand up, Pépe’d taken a swing at Isabelle.
     Isabelle ducked. Not soon enough. His blow knocked the mop she’d held in her tattooed arm clattering to the floor.
     Was the fool jacked up on caffeine or wired on something else—like speed?
     Aimée rushed over, catching Isabelle before she hit back, and shoved the programmer back into his chair.
     “Are you all right, Isabelle?” Aimée asked, concerned. “Let me see your arm.”
     “He barely grazed me,” said Isabelle, her eyes like daggers.
      L’idiote—the programmer didn’t know who he’d bullied.
     Isabelle, a biker fille from up the canal, had gone to school with Aimée’s cousin, Sébastien. Both had been junkies who’d cleaned up, gotten straight. Staying clean was hard, but Aimée’s cousin had done it. Aimée sometimes wondered if Isabelle had gone back to her old ways.
    Once a junkie . . . No—think positive.
     Isabelle looked healthier than Aimée had ever seen her.
     Aimée turned to Pépe and summoned authority in her voice. “Since when do you hit women?”
     She pulled her digital camera out of her purse and started snapping photos of the mark on Isabelle’s arm.
     He sputtered, “Hey, you can’t do that.”
     “Too late. I have.”
     “They’ll fire you when I report this, salope,” Pépe said to Isabelle. He had spotty skin, potato ears, and a temper.
     “Report what? You’re a lying weasel. I didn’t spill your coffee.”
     “Et alors, aren’t you aware of the firm’s policies against violence?” said Aimée.
     “This isn’t over,” Pépe said, grabbing his backpack and storming out. “You’ll never get that recommendation!”
     Isabelle picked up her mop. Her hands were shaking. “Merde!”
     “Isabelle, take a second. Calm down,” Aimée said. “Tell me about your brother. Is this about him? Is he okay?”
     Isabelle took a deep breath. “Muscular dystrophy. It’s getting worse. He’s going downhill.”
     Aimée vaguely remembered hearing Sébastien mention it.
     “I need a recommendation from my employer to qualify for adapted housing. Pépe knows it, too.”
     “I’m sorry,” said Aimée.
     “Pépe pretends he cares, then attacks me. Just because I won’t go out with him.”
    Mean to the bone.
     Aimée couldn’t believe the toxic work culture fermenting here.
     After Sébastien had gotten clean, Aimée had guaranteed Sébastien’s business. He’d branched out as a building contractor and now owned several framing shops. Sébastien had been the one to steer Isabelle toward the program that matched her with this job—the tech start-up got tax incentives for hiring locals. The locals benefited from jobs and access to fast-track housing. It was a win-win.
     Too bad the boss, Robért, a preening narcissist, had no management skills to speak of. Just last week he’d reduced the intern program and frozen the promotions of five programmers, who’d then quit. Isabelle would not be able to count on him to be sympathetic.
     “I’ll report Pépe and back you up,” said Aimée.
     “You shouldn’t,” Isabelle said. “The boss is a salaud, I don’t want you in trouble.”
     Defending Isabelle would be thorny—Aimée couldn’t afford to rankle Robért if she wanted to keep her undercover Ministry job. But she had to help Isabelle with this second chance.
     “Excusez-moi.” Robért was striding toward them. The hanging fluorescent lights reflected off his rimless glasses. He wore a tight bargain Monoprix suit and clearly thought it looked good on him. “Pépe’s filing a report against you,” he said to Isabelle. He probably didn’t even know her name. “Look, we can’t tolerate harassment from contract workers.”
     Isabelle’s eyes welled. Aimée wondered if she’d break out in tears or slug him. Before either could happen, Aimée wedged herself between Isabelle and Robért.
     “Harassment by whom?” She held up her camera for him to see. “I’ve recorded Pépe’s demeaning insults here and documented his physically assaulting Isabelle. She will be filing a complaint and charges against him. This will go all the way up to the board of Glocron.”
     No company board relished dealing with a problem like this. Robért knew that could impact their funding. He looked deflated.
     Isabelle’s eyes widened. She was scared but defiant. She needed this job.
     “But,” Aimée added, thinking on the fly, “Isabelle might consent to continue working here if Pépe took anger management classes and she was transferred to a different floor and office.”
     Too harsh? Would this get her fired? Working undercover, Aimée needed to stay under the radar.
     Her handler in the Ministry was on her case every day.
     But right now she couldn’t care less.
     Robért steepled his fingers. “If we do that, she wouldn’t press charges or file a complaint?”
     Isabelle’s jaw clenched but she nodded.
     “I’ll get that in writing and have you sign it.”
     With that, Robért hurried to his office.
     “Merci, Aimée,” said Isabelle. “I owe you.”
     “Pas du tout,” Aimée said. “The creep can’t get away with what he did. And he won’t. What’s your number?”
     She wanted to follow up and make sure Isabelle didn’t suffer a fallout.
     “Can you remember nobodylu?” she said, then spelled it out: “N-o-b-o-d-y-l-u?”
     Aimée nodded. “Why?”
     “Easiest way to remember my phone number. 06 26 39 58.” She mimed typing it on a phone keyboard, which would spell the phrase. “Contact me any time.”
     Aimée went back to her desk, logged back on, downloaded the photos from her digital camera—just in case—trashed her junk mail and powered off her computer. As she was reaching for her bag, she found an envelope with Aimée Leduc Détective Privé typed on the outside—and URGENT written underneath in familiar hard-to-read scrawl. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she opened the envelope.
     We have to talk. There’s something you need to know. It’s important. Last time, Aimée, and I won’t take no for an answer.
     Melac, hounding her again. Chloé’s biological father wanted to move Chloé to Brittany. Melac also wanted to get back together, but that train had left the station long ago. Aimée’d let nothing jeopardize her new relationship—which was already tricky—with Bellan, a divorcé who cared part-time for his three children.
     They’d already talked about this ad nauseam, including yesterday—a long conversation that had gone nowhere. She’d had enough.
     Why had he left her a note at the office? Why not at home? The only thing she could think of was he was working nearby. Great.
     Her phone rang. Melac. Again.
     She hit the red button and sent him straight to voice mail where he belonged.
 

Monday Late Evening • Quai de la Loire


Melac clicked off his phone. Why wouldn’t Aimée answer? The tarnished spring moon filtered through a wispy web of clouds. Pale pewter lights reflected on the choppy canal’s surface farther down the lamplit quai.
     He ground out his cigarette on the stone bank with his toe. The place felt dark as a witch’s derrière, as they said in Brittany.
     He needed to stay alert.
     Brrr. He rubbed his hands and paced in front of a weather-warped shed bearing a plaque with the Paris city motto, Fluctuat nec mergitur, Latin for It rocks but does not sink.
     He didn’t like doing surveillance here—he was exposed. An open target.
     He climbed over a fence to get better reception and finally found it by the old bridge crossing the canal. The pulleys that controlled the lift deck, opening and closing the bridge twenty-five times a day, cast rippled shadows on the quai.
     He called his liaison on the surveillance job but only got voice mail. Irritating. He hated working with amateurs. As soon as he’d put his phone back down, it rang. Fuming, he looked at the tiny screen.
     It wasn’t Aimée. It was the liaison whose line crackled and kept breaking up. This latest security contract was a pain, too. He hated surveillance and wished he were back working with his colleagues in counterterrorism. But surveillance work was the only way he’d get the steady paycheck he needed to guarantee shared custody of Chloé.
    “Allô?”
     “Abort . . .”
     He couldn’t hear the rest and stepped out of the wind to shelter by the ancient hydraulic lift bridge’s toll house.
     “Abort why?” he said. The job was still an hour off. Tense, he looked around, alert to what had gone wrong.
     The bridge railings were cast iron and finished in light blue. On either side the two old warehouses stood like hulking sentinels, narrowing the Bassin de la Villette.
     The call broke up. Static.