By Cara Black
Parisian P.I. Aimée Leduc strives to transparent the identify of a adolescence pal, now a policewoman, who is charged with taking pictures her partner
Aimée Leduc is having a foul day. First, she comes domestic from paintings at her Paris detective corporation to benefit that her boyfriend is leaving her. She is going out for a drink together with her good friend Laure, a police officer, yet Laure’s patrol companion, Jacques, interrupts, asserting he must check with Laure urgently. the 2 go away the bar, and once they don’t go back, Aimée follows Laure’s direction and unearths her sprawled on a snowy rooftop, no longer faraway from Jacques, who's bleeding from a deadly gunshot wound.
When the police arrive, they arrest Laure for homicide. not anyone is attracted to assisting Aimée determine the reality. As she chases down more and more risky leads within the attempt to loose her good friend, Aimée stumbles right into a internet of Corsican nationalists, separatists, gangsters, and artists. may Jacques’s homicide and Laure’s arrest be a part of a bigger cover-up?
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Additional info for Murder in Montmartre
Maybe a month ago, bibiche, at the firing range, I think. I can’t really remember,” Laure said, her eyes glazing. It didn’t make sense. Then how could she have residue on her hands now? ” Aimée put her hand on Laure’s shoulder. ” Laure shook her head. “Jacques was acting strange. . ” Her voice trailed off. Aimée smelled the tang of the chemical used in GSR testing and saw Laure’s fingertips, black from the fingerprint test. They hadn’t even wiped her hands off. “So you went along with him,” she prompted.
Aimée stood and pulled on her coat. There was only one way to find out. SHE CROSSED Place Pigalle toward the mounting zinc rooftops silhouetted against the moonlike dome of Sacré Coeur. Midway, in a frame shop, the white-coated long-haired owner nodded to her as he pulled the blinds down. But not before she saw the notice of an upcoming organic market below a Warhol-style silk-screen print of Che Guevara . . black and red all over. Montmartre embodied the bohemian spirit. In its past it had been the home of anarchist Communards and then of artists and writers for whom absinthe provided inspiration.
The flic unlocked her handcuffs and gestured her inside. “Wait a minute, you haven’t charged me. ” “Sit back and relax,” he interrupted and left. The corners stank of old socks and other things she didn’t want to think about. Across from her, flyers for a police-sponsored community marathon walk and bike security tips sat piled on the counter by the glass-paned reception cubicle. She rubbed her hands, coarse from the lab soap they’d given her after the gunpowder residue test, and paced three steps across the small cage and back, hoping she wouldn’t really have to stay here all night.