Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black Page A

Media 9 contract status?”
    “Pending,” she said, pointing to the thick folder labeled MEDIA 9 on his desk.
    “ Attends , let me look at Nessim’s business structure,” he said.
    “There’s tons of legalese. I’ll have to decipher it after I return.”
    “Return?” He peered at the dated Post-Its on the pile. “This was due yesterday.”
    She paused, feeling guilty. “ Désolée , René, but these things …”
    He tugged his goatee. “It’s more than that, about your father, Aimée. All that time poking around government departments, then the trip to Berlin. I thought you’d pick up the slack when you returned. Now, this new wild goose chase …”
    “René, I know I need to be here more, helping you out.”
    Remorse assailed her. But she couldn’t postpone investigating this lead to her mother.
    She stood up, paced to their office window overlooking rue du Louvre. Below, leafy lime trees shifted in an arid breeze, throwing shadows over a roadwork crew. Her hands shook. She didn’t want René to see.
    But he did. “What’s wrong?”
    Aimée hesitated. “It’s worse than bad.” She told him about Jutta Hald, her suspicions concerning Romain Figeac’s suicide, and her mother. “I can’t stop now, René. This woman was murdered almost in front of me. And there’s news about my mother. After all these years, I have a chance to find out what happened to her.”
    “I know, but …” He looked away. “But you borrowed money from Michel and we need it!”
    “Yes, of course we do,” she said, conflicted. With Jutta gone she might as well use the money, think of it as a temporary business loan. “And we’ll use it for the business. We’ll survive, we always do.” She pulled out all but five thousand francs of the fifty she’d borrowed from Michel. “Here, this should help.” She stuffed her laptop in her bag, then made for the door. But she had to make him understand. She turned around. “René, you know I have given everything I have to the business. But for once, this has to come first.”
    René’s eyes flashed. “Dot-coms court me, Aimée,” he said. “All the time. Offering me nice sign-up packages, stock options. The works.”
    Shocked, she sat down. She’d had no idea. She felt stupid. Of course they would, but she’d been too distracted to notice.
    “What are you saying, René?”
    He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, his goatee quivering.
    He slid down from his orthopedic chair, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the office door. She’d never seen him so upset.
    “René!”
    No answer. She ran into the hallway after him. The wire-cage lift rumbled and creaked below her. She ran down the spiral steps, her high-heeled sandals clattering, meeting René as he opened the curlicue-work metal door.
    “Look, René,” she said. “We’re in this together, I need you. Please understand….” She wasn’t prepared to tell him she simply couldn’t focus on anything else.
    “Friends honor commitments, it’s that simple.” René snorted. “Your mind’s been somewhere else.”
    So he’d noticed.
    She was obsessed: her mother, Jutta, the terrorists. Yet, René had always been there for her, time and again in the past. She knew she was jeopardizing their relationship.
    She hung her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She rocked on her heels. “I’ll catch up. I promise. Forgive me, partner?”
    His green eyes fluttered and he dusted invisible lint from his trousers. “Writing code all day bores me but I like to pay the rent and eat out once in a while.”
    “We’ve got receivables. Like you said, people owe us! I’ve sent them warnings, next step is the collection agency. They cough up when they get that red-bordered notice.”
    She took a deep breath. “Hungry?”
    René gazed at the sushi bar opposite them on rue du Louvre. “Are you buying?”
    She nodded.
    “Later,” he said, looking at his pocket watch. “I have to meet our bank manager about a