Murder at la Villette, page 1
BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
Murder in the Marais
Murder in Belleville
Murder in the Sentier
Murder in the Bastille
Murder in Clichy
Murder in Montmartre
Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis
Murder in the Rue de Paradis
Murder in the Latin Quarter
Murder in the Palais Royal
Murder in Passy
Murder at the Lanterne Rouge
Murder Below Montparnasse
Murder in Pigalle
Murder on the Champ de Mars
Murder on the Quai
Murder in Saint-Germain
Murder on the Left Bank
Murder in Bel-Air
Murder at the Porte de Versailles
Murder at la Villette
Three Hours in Paris
Night Flight to Paris
Again, for the ghosts.
Copyright © 2024 by Cara Black
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
227 W 17th Street
New York, NY 10011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Black, Cara, author.
Title: Murder at la Villette / Cara Black.
Description: New York : Soho Crime, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023037990
ISBN 978-1-64129-447-8
eISBN 978-1-64129-448-5
Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3552.L297 M77 2024 | DDC 813/.54—dc23/eng/20230919
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023037990
Printed in the United States of America
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The April moon doesn’t pass without frost
—French proverb
Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.
—Michel de Montaigne
He who pees in the wind wets his teeth.
—French saying
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 fol
“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.
Abort? That meant no paycheck. Couldn’t these people follow security protocol? He needed more confirmation and a reason before he’d abort a mission. Meanwhile he’d stay in the quartier and catch Aimée.
He legged it down the canal, past the anchored péniches. Wavelets lapped the quai. The lanterns were dark and broken, and he stepped on broken glass. He hadn’t noticed this last night—the streetlights had been working then. He paused where the canal narrowed into the lock—Napoleon’s design for sending barges to the Seine—and inhaled the mossy, wet smells. Water gushed over the lock’s rim. He’d waited for Aimée here every night this week, watching her going to the Metro or whizzing past on her scooter.
A long aluminum barricade paralleled the canal and hid the walkway on the quai. He stepped through the gap he always used, summoning his courage.
He had a new plan—he would admit his selfishness in insisting on moving to Brittany. If he gave her the moral high ground, maybe she’d agree. Then he’d forget taking her to court. He would raise his daughter however Aimée wanted—as long as it was in Brittany.
He rang Aimée yet again. As usual she was late leaving work. Late, always late.
A noise caught his attention: the fluttering of wings, a soft splash. Then the rushing sound of the water draining from the lock filled the air. The fishy algae smell had gotten much better since they’d cleaned up the canal.
He passed a homeless man, sans domicile fixe, or SDF—to use the politically correct term. The man had camped out under the passerelle, the art nouveau arched metal bridge. Melac had noticed him before—once a flic, always a flic. He’d never lost his roaming eye and awareness of his surroundings. If you let down your guard, you won’t last—that’s what Jean-Claude Leduc, Aimée’s father and one of Melac’s teachers at the police academy, had taught him.
The SDF stood at the old metal doors under the passerelle. He flicked a match, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette. Then another.
Melac hit Aimée’s number again.
“Monsieur, got a light?” The SDF gestured with his unlit cigarette.
Was there something familiar about his voice? Melac had been a flic in this quartier on his first assignment. Could the man be an old “client,” the jargon beat flics used for serial offenders?
Melac never forgot a face, which had served him well in the counterterrorism unit.
“Mais oui.” He scrounged in his pocket for a lighter, then handed it to the man as the call went to Aimée’s voice mail. Again.
The man sparked the lighter. The flame wavered in the wind. He cupped his hands to shield the flame. For a moment the man’s face was illuminated.
That face. So familiar.
But it belonged to a dead man. Someone Melac had seen buried—he’d attended the funeral himself.
His breath caught. Without thinking, he spoke into Aimée’s voice mail: “Aimée . . . I’ve just seen a ghost.”
A smile painted that familiar face. The man hissed. Batted the phone away. “Naughty boy. You shouldn’t have said that.”
A flash of silver arced through the air.
Monday Evening • The Square at Marché Secrétan
AIMÉE CHECKED HER phone and saw Melac had called. Multiple times. She was fed up with his demands, his threats, his protestations about how much he cared. He hounded her day and night.
She’d fight a court battle to keep Chloé with her. The girl had grown up in Paris—it was all she knew. It would be cruel to uproot her so abruptly, and besides, Aimée’s work, her whole life, was in Paris. Brittany was the countryside. Not enough cafés for her. As the biological father, Melac had claimed paternity and could, in theory, have a legal shot at part-time custody.
He’d never win. Would he?
The first message was static, buzzing like the alarm on his watch, then a muttered curse and what sounded like the word morgue. Was he late for an appointment at the morgue?
Not her business.
She wanted to hit delete all. Instead she clicked to the next message.
He panted as if he’d been running.
“Aimée . . .” A pause. “I’ve just seen a ghost.”
A clattering as the phone fell. Then silence. The voice mail was cryptic and unlike Melac. What did he mean?
Guilt assailed her. What had happened? But then, it could be a ploy. Would he be waiting outside her work to hound her again, like the other night? Or would he stalk her on her way to the Metro?
She stepped outside the theater side door and scanned the empty square, the dark hulk of the covered market, the doorway of the butcher next door.
No Melac.
She needed to go home. But how? Her scooter, temperamental and Italian to the core, was in the shop, where it lived most of the time.
There were no taxis in sight.
It would be faster if she took the direct Metro line 5 from Jaurès.
