Murder in the Sentier Read Online Free PDF Page A

coppery smell of blood made her uneasy.
    Outside the curtain, she heard the flic questioning the makeup artist in the next room. No way could she go out there now.
    The tattooist tapped his fingers on a Formica table lined with instruments.
    “So, what would you like?”
    Nothing, she wanted to say.
    “Try the old Pigalle gangster designs,” he said. “A rooster symbolizing hope, the butterfly with a knife dripping blood for joie de vivre ….”
    “Like hers,” she whispered, pointing to the tanned, topless woman.
    She pulled up her shirt and put her finger midback to the left of her spine. “Here. I don’t want to look.”
    “Aah, a Marquesan lizard,” he said. “The symbol of change. With the sacred tortoise inside?”
    “ Oui , delicate and trés petit .”
    The man’s smiled faded. His lips pursed. “That motif doesn’t work in less than a six-millimeter format.”
    Footsteps approached.
    “Go ahead.” She nodded, then put her head down. She covered her face with a towel and pulled a sheet over her leather skirt, praying it would be over quick. And that the flic would leave.
    “I trained with Rataru in Tahiti,” he said, as if Aimée would know. “Of course, he’s the master of the Marquesas.”
    Not only would it hurt, René would never let her forget this.
    He swabbed her back with alcohol. Cold and tingling. He rubbed his hands, probably in glee.
    “ Tout va bien , Nico?”
    So the tattooist was Nico.
    “No complaints, Lieutenant Mercier,” he said.
    From the direction of the conversation, she figured the flic stood a meter away. Keep going, she thought, don’t stop.
    “Any news for me … anybody run in here?”
    Aimée’s heart hammered. Something clattered in the metal tray by her ear. If she bolted, she’d send the tattoo machine flying but she wouldn’t make it to the door.
    “We sent runners for coffee,” Nico said, “but they’re not back yet.”
    So Lieutenant Mercier was the friendly type, taking the pulse of his quartier. Maybe he contacted his informers here. Or he was on the take. Or looking for her.
    The tattoo needle ripped her flesh like a fine-toothed hacksaw.
    Twenty tears to the minute, searing and precise, the needle punched tiny holes in her skin. She blinked away tears, gritting her teeth, praying it would end soon.
    After what seemed like forever, Aimée heard Mercier move away. A long while later the tattoo artist switched off his torture machine.
    Aimée got up slowly and reached for her wallet. “In case service isn’t included,” she said, slipping him an extra hundred-franc note.
    “Like a complimentary makeover?” a woman’s voice asked. “You’ll love it.”
    Aimée turned and saw a petite smiling woman standing near the chair. Beyond the curtain, another flic had joined Mercier.
    “Seems it’s time for me to get a new image,” Aimée said, her mouth compressed.
    “Speed bump … like it?” the makeup artist asked, as she traced the arch in Aimée’s brow using a tapered makeup brush. “It does wonders for those lines.”
    Aimée’s shoulders tightened in pain. The tattoo hurt. In the outer room, Mercier’s voice competed with the whirring of the tattoo needle.
    “Try this too,” the woman said, holding out swabs of glittery peach powder. “This brightens up your skin tone and makes you glow. Positively glow.” She brushed a velvety sheen over Aimée’s arms, shoulders, and neck. “I’m writing a book,” she said, talking nonstop, “called How to Look Like a Goddess When You Feel like a Dog . Full of useful hints for fast-living people who have to look good at airports even in times of excess or trauma.” The woman grinned. “You know, big sunglasses, fur collars to make you appear frail and exotic, that sort of thing.”
    By the time Aimée got out of the tatouage parlor, her back ached and she positively glowed. The flics were gone and she’d signed up for a copy of the book.
    Aimée’s uneasiness followed her all the way