Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black

scratched. On my turf.”
    Now she was stroking his fur the right way. He always wanted a favor in return and would bargain until he got it. Being his goddaughter gave her no exemption.
    “But you do it so well, Morbier,” she said, “and you always come out on top.”
    Morbier reached into his pocket, found an empty packet of cigarettes, and crumpled the cellophane on the table. He reached again, pulling out a half-full packet.
    “You quit, remember?”
    He nodded, threw the packet on the table, and picked up another toothpick. A glimmer of a smile passed over his face.
    “Include yourself, Leduc,” he said. “At payback time.”
    Morbier ran true to form. Nothing came free.
    “I’ll make some calls, but no promises,” he said, hitching up his suspenders.
    He’d lost weight. A lot.
    “You’ve slimmed down,” she said. “Gone for your annual checkup, Morbier?”
    “I’ll ignore the last part and take that as a compliment.”
    She doubted but asked anyway. “On a diet?”
    “Grapefruit, seaweed, and raisin capsules!” he said. “Drains the toxins, fatty lipids, eliminates cellulite buildup.”
    Morbier … talking about cellulite?
    “You might try it,” he said.
    She’d struggled with the zipper in her leather skirt that morning.
    “My new concierge, Madame Guegnon, told me. She buys them in bulk at the Carrefour.”
    Before she could recover he stood up. “I must get the train tickets; I’m taking Marc to Brittany for les vacances .”
    A doting grandfather? Morbier certainly was full of surprises.
    Guilt flooded her. Morbier’s daughter, Samia, a young half-Algerian prostitute, had been killed by the underground before Aimée could protect her. The image of Samia’s eyes open to the rain in the Belleville alley, the red bullet hole in her peach-colored twinset, flashed before her.
    Marc, her honey-faced son, attended Catholic boarding school and had made his first Communion under the proud eyes of his grandfather, Morbier.
    Her face reddened. Determined, she pushed her guilt aside. “I’ll keep my cell phone on,” she said. “You know the number.”
    B ACK IN the Leduc Detective office she tried Etienne Mabry again.
    Still no answer. And none at Christian Figeac’s apartment.
    Worried, she wondered if he was still in custody.
    She looked up from her computer terminal as René entered, wearing a tailored straw-colored linen suit, wiping perspiration from his large forehead.
    “Diuretics!” he said. “The humidity’s equal to the temperature and the doctor prescribed diuretics!” He unbuttoned the linen jacket, tailored to his four-foot height. “I need another glass of Evian!”
    She passed him bottled water and one of the Baccarat tumblers, the only glasses they had left from her grandfather’s time.
    “I heard you borrowed money from Michel. But I’ve learned that his uncle Nessim needs extra laundry service,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We need to play it safe.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Nessim’s wholesale fabric business needs outlets besides the Deauville casinos in which to launder money.” René shrugged. “And Michel’s couture is one of them.”
    “But I want to help Michel.”
    “So do I,” he said. “A lot of questionable bankruptcies are declared in the Sentier. I wouldn’t want Michel to be a victim of his uncle. We should see what security his computer system needs.”
    René pushed up his shirtsleeves. “The Société Générale’s account is overdue. They owe us but the manager keeps stalling me.”
    Insurance companies were the worst when it came to paying for contracted services.
    “It takes two weeks to authorize issuance of a check.” René tugged on his goatee, something he did when worried. He mounted his orthopedic chair and swiveled to face his computer screen.
    She gathered up papers and stuffed them in her black leather backpack.
    “In the meantime, rent’s due,” René said, looking at the pile of bills on her desk. “What’s our