Murder in the Palais Royal by Cara Black Page A

near this amount, Monsieur Guérin. There’s some error.”
    “Given your long standing as a customer, of course I meant to call you,” he said. He gave what sounded like a short, embarrassed cough. “You have beat me to it, as they say.” He paused. “But I’ve been at La Defense all day. I’m sorry, an inquiry has started.”
    “An inquiry?”
    “With a sum of this size, originating from a Luxembourg bank—”
    “We have no clients in Luxembourg.”
    “As instructed by my chief, I filled out the regulation paperwork.”
    De mal en pis, from bad to worse. “Paperwork” meant a SAR—a suspicious activity report—kicking off Treasury alarms. This would entail forms, certificates, and affidavits to unravel the bureaucratic quagmire.
    “Please, let’s correct this right now.”
    “Mademoiselle, the Luxembourg bank wire-transfer deposit is a fait accompli ,” Guérin said.
A frisson passed through her.
“Which bank wired it, Monsieur Guérin?”
    “The bookkeeping report only indicates a Luxembourg origin.”
    This wasn’t the helpful Guérin she knew. Why couldn’t he answer a simple question?
    “I don’t understand,” Aimée said. “You’re my banker and I want to know the bank origin of the funds sent to our account. More to the point, I need to see this wire transfer record.”
    “Mademoiselle Leduc, I’d like to help you, but the report contains no more information. The inquiry’s out of my hands; it’s been routed to the department that deals with these matters.”
    The tax man? Or a criminal fraud investigative unit?
    No one in their right mind would wire her a hundred thousand francs. Even a money launderer knew better than to attempt a transaction of over fifty thousand francs, the sum that triggered an automatic inquiry.
    “Can’t you send back the wire transfer?”
    “The bank processed the deposit in accordance with procedure. It’s too late, Mademoiselle.”
    “But Monsieur Guérin, we’ve been customers for a long time.”
    “Correct. We have a long history, Mademoiselle.”
    Her grandfather had opened a bank account with Paribas’s predecessor when he founded Leduc Detective. As a little girl, she’d accompanied him to the Place de l’Opera branch. She recalled trying to keep up with his long strides over the cobblestones.
    “Whoever wired the deposit must have showed photo ID and proof of the existence of the transferee’s bank account with Paribas?”
    “Again, the details. . . .” A sigh. “Financial regulations forbid me even telling you this much, once this inquiry has started.”
    This wasn’t like Guérin at all. He talked like a bank fonction-naire, not the man who sent her a fruit basket at Christmas, a card on her birthday, the occasional note with a biscuit for Miles Davis. Was he trying to tell her something in an oblique way? “It’s out of my hands. I’m so sorry.”
    She wouldn’t give up. “Then who can I talk to, Monsieur Guérin?”
    “It pains me to tell you that I can’t help you, Mademoiselle.”
She doubted that. More like he wanted to keep his job.
“What’s going on, Monsieur Guérin?”
There was a pause.
    She continued: “Listen, you know Leduc’s finances, know this doesn’t make sense. It’s like someone’s framing me. A name, Monsieur Guérin?” she said. “My grandfather and my father valued your advice, as I have. We’ve trusted you.”
    Another pause. “Fine men, your grandfather and your father.”
    “So entre-nous, eh? That’s not breaking rules. Just a name, Monsieur Guérin.”
    Another sigh. “Just a moment. I have another call.”
    But she heard no click of another call on the line, just what sounded like creaking wood, like the creak Guérin’s ancient leather chair made when he shifted his weight.
    “Tracfin,” he whispered.
    And he hung up, but not before she registered the sound of footsteps. Had someone else been sitting in his office?
Wednesday
    “ W HY BLACKMAIL US now?” Gabrielle asked.
    She