Murder at the Lanterne Rouge Read Online Free PDF

the window to the smell of wet foliage and flashed René five fingers. The sluggish gray-green Seine slapped white crests against the stone banks.
    Miles Davis licked the last of the horsemeat from his new Sèvres bowl. In her bedroom Aimée pulled on a cashmere sweater over her black lace top, hitched up her stovepipe, stonewashed suede leggings, and stepped into her friend Martine’s high-heeled Prada ankle boots. At the door she grabbed her vintage Chanel jacket. Miles Davis wagged his tail expectantly and sniffed his leash. “
On y va
, furball. Madame Cachou will do the honors.”
    Miles Davis scampered down the wide marble staircase, his leash trailing on the worn steps grooved in the middle, to the concierge’s loge in the courtyard. Madame Cachou’s early morning yoga on the
télé
had finished. Perfect timing.
    In the loge, Madame Cachou ruffled Miles Davis’s ears. “My favorite little man.” The concierge, who was in her sixties, perspired in a purple yoga outfit. A matching sweatband encircled her gray hair. “I’ve lost five kilos, not even a twinge of bursitis.” Her eyes narrowed at Aimée’s pale face. “You should try it.”
    That and a lot of things.
    Aimée smiled and handed her the leash. “
Merci
, Madame.”
    Plumes of exhaust came from René’s Citroën idling at the curb. Oyster-gray clouds hovered on the horizon. Another frigid day. She stepped over slush in the cobbled gutter, felt the urge for a cigarette, and visualized her concierge’s glowing face. She could go without a cigarette. Five more hours and she’d be a month, cigarette-free.
    “I forgot Melac had the weekend off,” René said, turningdown the radio weather forecast. Another brewing storm. “
Désolé
.”
    “Not anymore.”
    She slammed the door shut. Relationships—she was just no good at them. Never picked the right man. She should know better. And a
flic!
    “The dojo’s open for early practice,” he said. They counted on finding Meizi’s real address in the dojo membership. “Thanks for coming, Aimée.” René swung the Citroën into sparse traffic on Pont de la Tournelle.
    “You think I’d let you do this alone, partner?” She checked the backseat. “Where’s your martial arts bag?”
    “Not important. Meizi’s in trouble. You were there, you saw—everything was fine until she got that phone call.”
    Aimée noted the dark hollows under René’s eyes. “You look like hell, René.”
    “Not enough beauty sleep.”
    She felt for him.
    Inside the dojo, the gong signaling a meditation session reverberated. The Thai monk in orange robes raised his folded hands in greeting. The young French nun, her shaved head covered by a wool cap, ran her fingers down the membership ledger. “I don’t see Meizi Wu listed.”
    Odd. “Try W-O-O,” Aimée suggested.
    René added, “She sometimes goes by Marie.”
    The nun shook her head.
    “But I met Meizi here at practice,” René said, exasperation in his voice.
    “Check for yourself, René,” the nun said, pushing the list over. “But we don’t let people drop in on practice; they need to join.”
    Sandalwood incense wafted from the meditation room.
    He pushed the list back to the nun. “But you’ve seen her. Black ponytail, jeans, petite, a bit taller than me.”
    “Chinese?”
    René nodded.
    “But those girls clean the bathrooms.”
    Startled, René stepped back. “What do you mean?”
    “Cash, you know.” The nun rubbed her fingers together.
    So they paid girls under the table. No tax. No trace.
    “But I met her in a martial arts class,” he said.
    “One of the perks is taking a class for free,” said the nun.
    A stunned look appeared on René’s face, so Aimée broke in. “Don’t you have an address? Or a number to reach her at?”
    The nun blinked in alarm. “It’s not how it looks. We operate on donations, and it helps the girls out. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”
    “A bit late for that,” Aimée said. “She’s