Murder in the Palais Royal Read Online Free PDF Page A

midday traffic, and cooing from a pigeon perched on the black iron grillework.
As usual.
But it wasn’t.
    Graphite powder dusted the woodwork and file cabinets. The contents of her desk drawer—a tube of mascara, software encryption manuals, keys, and stop-smoking patches—littered the floor.
    “Didn’t you notice the tape? No entry,” said the fingerprint technician.
She pursed her lips.
“It’s my office, Monsieur.”
“And it’s my crime scene.”
    She needed to get inside. “Then you can take my prints now. It will save you an extra step later.”
    La Crim had taken her prints already, but she doubted the technician knew that.
    “If I need your assistance, Mademoiselle,” he said, “the investigator will inform me.”
    This technician went by the book.
    “Then don’t let me disturb you,” she said, tiptoeing a few steps farther inside. “You can watch me, make sure I don’t touch anything.”
“Afraid not, Mademoiselle,” he said, blocking her path.
“How long does this take?”
His mouth pursed.
    And then she saw the dark red brown patch of René’s bloodstains on the parquet floor. Her stomach lurched and she grabbed the door ledge.
    “That’s my partner’s blood. Could you hurry, Monsieur?”
    “I’ve got a job to finish,” he said. But a flicker of sympathy crossed his face. “I must follow procedure.”
At least he might let her look around.
“And that means?”
    “Finish fingerprinting the crime scene, call in the results, and then, after approval, I can release the crime scene.”
    She opened her mouth to speak, but before she’d said a word he continued, “So if you’ll leave and let me get to work, Mademoiselle?”
    She backed out. She’d use the time to question Luigi at the travel office next door. He’d moved in a few weeks ago and the smell of fresh paint still hovered in the hallway. She’d find out what he’d really seen.
    First, she had to inform the New York detective that she’d missed her flight. Yet each time she attempted to leave a message, his voice mailbox was full. She’d have to try again later.
Aimée knocked on the door of Viaggi Travel.
No answer. “Luigi?”
    Still no answer. She was about to knock again when the door opened.
    “What now?” said Luigi, a young man in his twenties, dark-haired, with charcoal stubble shading his chin. His wrinkled shirt looked like he’d slept in it. After a moment, his face darkened as he recognized her.
    “ Madonna mia . . . you!” His bloodshot eyes widened. He tried to shut the door. “Get away.”
    She’d stuck her boot inside. “Been to the eye doctor’s lately, Luigi?”
    She pushed the door open. “ Non? Time to get your eyes checked.” The odor of stale smoke and spilled beer met her. The little travel agency needed airing out. Peroni beer bottles filled the garbage bins, and ashtrays overflowed. A large-screen télé filled one wall; posters of Roma and Isle of Capri along with red and gold soccer pennants adorned another.
    “ Assassina! ” Panic showed in his eyes. “You tried to kill Monsieur René. I call the flics .” He began to run and tripped, sending beer bottles scattering over the floor.
    “Why are you accusing me? It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Remember, yesterday you recommended a shop to me for antipasto and truffles? Why would I—”
    “Drugs. You take drugs. Act crazy.” He pulled himself up and reached for the phone, then clutched his stomach as a wave of nausea passed through him. “You go to jail.”
    “Look at this place.” She tapped the bin of beer bottles with her pointed toe. “How much beer did you drink? All that partying, watching the game, the noise, the dark hallway. What did you really see?”
    He clutched his stomach again.
    “René’s my partner, my best friend, Luigi,” she said. “I want to find the person who did shoot him.”
    He backed away, eyeing the phone. “Maybe you have gun, want to shut me up too?”
“You need Schoum,” she