Read Online Murder in the Palais Royal by Cara Black - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cara Black
Ads: Link
boyfriend’s the jealous type.”
“Manu? But we broke up. Alors, you can’t think he’d shoot René.”
“I need to eliminate him as a suspect. Where is he?”
“Good luck,” Félice said. “The salop took my keys and locked me out of my apartment yesterday. It took hours until the concierge came.”
Aimée heard an expulsion of breath over the phone.
“Manu’s got problems, but he wouldn’t hurt René, my friend, my Dojo partner. Even after. . . .”
Pause. The gong sounded again.
“After what, Felice?”
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“I need to hear it.”
“But I’m late for work.”
“René’s hooked up to machines, Félice. The flics suspect me because the shooter used the gun in my desk.”
Félice gasped.
“But Manu wouldn’t. . . .”
“Wouldn’t what?”
Pause.
“Go on, Félice.”
“ Zut. It’s nothing, but. . . .” She hesitated. “Manu met me the other day, after René and I argued,” Félice said. “René meant well, warning me about Manu, but it upset me. And he’s right, Manu’s a vicious salaud. But Manu picked up on the fact that René didn’t like him.”
“Vicious enough to get even?”
“Manu talks big, but no action. He brought over my apartment keys later. Now he thinks I’ll take him back.”
Aimée thought. “Does Manu know where our office is?”
“He picked me up there last week.”
Excited now, Aimée grabbed a pencil and wrote “Manu” in big letters on the Nadillac case spreadsheet, the first thing at hand. He had a motive and knew their location.
“Where can I find Manu?”
“Ça alors, I’m shattered that René’s been injured. I want to visit him.”
“The flics have him in protective custody,” Aimée said. “I just want to talk to Manu.”
“Manu left a message for me to meet him at Au Chien qui Fume at the bar tonight.”
“Good girl. Don’t go. Let me talk to him.”
Now she’d find out where Manu had been last night and whether he had a helmet like hers. The figure going into Tout-Moto was female. But if he’d enlisted an accomplice who had studied Aimée’s movements. . . . She wondered if he was the type who planned in detail. But prisoners learned more about crime on the inside than on the outside.
“One more thing, Félice,” she said. “Change your locks.”
* * *
A IMÉE OPENED THE door under the sign of the dog smoking a pipe, Au Chien qui Fume. An inviting warmth filled the old-style brasserie lined with mirrors above the red leather banquettes. Paintings and photos of dogs decorated the walls. A low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery came from the dining area. Ahead she saw the curved polished-wood bar taking up the rear of the room. Liquor bottles lined the shelves behind it.
She reviewed the patrons on the stools: a banker type, talking into his cell phone; two middle-aged women drinking red colored apéros; a bus driver in his RATP-emblazoned green-blue jacket, reading Le Soir . This was not a biker hangout.
Then she heard the roar of a motorcycle outside. Someone opened the brasserie door. A gust of chilled air whipped the white tablecloths. A glimpse through the door revealed that it was l’heure bleue twilight. Distant Pont Neuf’s streetlights glowed like a string of misted pearls.
“The fog’s rising tonight.”
The speaker wore black leathers; longish tousled hair curled on his neck. He had a wide forehead, prominent cheekbones, and narrow lips. He was almost handsome, except for the scar running from the corner of his eye into his hairline.
He perched at the bar, his gaze resting on Aimée’s legs for a second, then shook hands with the bartender.
“ Ca va, Charlot?” he asked.
“She’s not here, Manu.”
“A bière while I wait,” he said defiantly. He rested his boot on the railing below the bar.
No one paid him any attention. Neither did Charlot, the barman, once he’d set the foaming beer on a coaster before him. Not the most popular patron, Aimée could
“Manu? But we broke up. Alors, you can’t think he’d shoot René.”
“I need to eliminate him as a suspect. Where is he?”
“Good luck,” Félice said. “The salop took my keys and locked me out of my apartment yesterday. It took hours until the concierge came.”
Aimée heard an expulsion of breath over the phone.
“Manu’s got problems, but he wouldn’t hurt René, my friend, my Dojo partner. Even after. . . .”
Pause. The gong sounded again.
“After what, Felice?”
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“I need to hear it.”
“But I’m late for work.”
“René’s hooked up to machines, Félice. The flics suspect me because the shooter used the gun in my desk.”
Félice gasped.
“But Manu wouldn’t. . . .”
“Wouldn’t what?”
Pause.
“Go on, Félice.”
“ Zut. It’s nothing, but. . . .” She hesitated. “Manu met me the other day, after René and I argued,” Félice said. “René meant well, warning me about Manu, but it upset me. And he’s right, Manu’s a vicious salaud. But Manu picked up on the fact that René didn’t like him.”
“Vicious enough to get even?”
“Manu talks big, but no action. He brought over my apartment keys later. Now he thinks I’ll take him back.”
Aimée thought. “Does Manu know where our office is?”
“He picked me up there last week.”
Excited now, Aimée grabbed a pencil and wrote “Manu” in big letters on the Nadillac case spreadsheet, the first thing at hand. He had a motive and knew their location.
“Where can I find Manu?”
“Ça alors, I’m shattered that René’s been injured. I want to visit him.”
“The flics have him in protective custody,” Aimée said. “I just want to talk to Manu.”
“Manu left a message for me to meet him at Au Chien qui Fume at the bar tonight.”
“Good girl. Don’t go. Let me talk to him.”
Now she’d find out where Manu had been last night and whether he had a helmet like hers. The figure going into Tout-Moto was female. But if he’d enlisted an accomplice who had studied Aimée’s movements. . . . She wondered if he was the type who planned in detail. But prisoners learned more about crime on the inside than on the outside.
“One more thing, Félice,” she said. “Change your locks.”
* * *
A IMÉE OPENED THE door under the sign of the dog smoking a pipe, Au Chien qui Fume. An inviting warmth filled the old-style brasserie lined with mirrors above the red leather banquettes. Paintings and photos of dogs decorated the walls. A low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery came from the dining area. Ahead she saw the curved polished-wood bar taking up the rear of the room. Liquor bottles lined the shelves behind it.
She reviewed the patrons on the stools: a banker type, talking into his cell phone; two middle-aged women drinking red colored apéros; a bus driver in his RATP-emblazoned green-blue jacket, reading Le Soir . This was not a biker hangout.
Then she heard the roar of a motorcycle outside. Someone opened the brasserie door. A gust of chilled air whipped the white tablecloths. A glimpse through the door revealed that it was l’heure bleue twilight. Distant Pont Neuf’s streetlights glowed like a string of misted pearls.
“The fog’s rising tonight.”
The speaker wore black leathers; longish tousled hair curled on his neck. He had a wide forehead, prominent cheekbones, and narrow lips. He was almost handsome, except for the scar running from the corner of his eye into his hairline.
He perched at the bar, his gaze resting on Aimée’s legs for a second, then shook hands with the bartender.
“ Ca va, Charlot?” he asked.
“She’s not here, Manu.”
“A bière while I wait,” he said defiantly. He rested his boot on the railing below the bar.
No one paid him any attention. Neither did Charlot, the barman, once he’d set the foaming beer on a coaster before him. Not the most popular patron, Aimée could
Similar Books
