Murder in the Sentier by Cara Black

and then pulled on his jacket. “How can I help you?” he said, as he reached the door.
    “Aimée Leduc,” she said, handing him her card. “Your uncle’s looking for you, too.”
    He set down his worn brown leather briefcase. “Leduc Detective?” he asked, reading her card. “Is there some problem?”
    “Christian Figeac’s been taken in for questioning,” she said. “He wants you to bail him out.”
    Etienne Mabry’s brow creased with concern. “Not again.”
    So this wouldn’t be the first time Mabry had rescued Christian from jail.
    “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time,” she said.
    He patted the breast pocket of his fine-checked blue shirt. He even wore a red tie de rigueur for a businessman. “My fault … I forgot my phone. So sorry to make you come here to find me! I sponsor the Young Investors from the local lycée , the high school where my partner and I volunteer.”
    To her relief she realized he wasn’t her bad-boy type.
    “What happened to Christian?” he asked.
    “The flics took him to the Commissariat,” Aimée said. “Something to do with the Crédit Bank.”
    Etienne Mabry looked puzzled.
    “Which Commissariat?” he asked, turning to lock the door.
    “Nearby, the SPQ * on rue d’Amboise,” she said. “I’m sure this isn’t news to you but he seems to have …” She paused on the stairs.
    Mabry watched her intently, waiting. He didn’t help her finish her sentence. He guided her downstairs with his warm hand under her elbow, and she detected a faint smell of citrus in his cologne.
    “… substance abuse problems,” she finished.
    “Chronic ones,” Mabry said, his brow still furrowed, as they arrived outside. “Why are you involved, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “Something in the past involving his father and my mother.”
    She winced. Had she said that out loud?
    “Crédit Industriel et Commercial, you said?”
    She nodded.
    “Odd, both Figeacs banked with Barclays.”
    He pulled out a helmet and mounted the black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson parked on the cobblestones in front of them.
    Maybe there was some bad boy in him after all.
    A IMÉE WAS puzzled. As she walked toward her office, she tried to make sense of Mabry’s comment about Christian’s bank account.
    She wondered why Romain Figeac lived in the Sentier amid garment sweatshops, fabric wholesalers, and working girls: the rag and shag trade. It wasn’t fashionable or arty like the Left Bank, though she vaguely remembered that Balzac had set dramas in the Sentier and Zola had been born there. Had Romain Figeac been an antihero, opposed to the literary establishment?
    * Service de Police du Quartier
    She leaned against a column and pulled out her cell phone. She punched in the private number for Martine, her friend from the lycée and current editor at Madame Figaro , the watered-down right-wing women’s magazine.
    “Allô, cheri? ” breathed Martine after the first ring.
    “Not even close,” said Aimée. “Should I call back?”
    “Just wishful thinking, Aimée,” Martine said. “Jérôme’s taken his kid en vacances . Just because I moved in with him doesn’t mean I go on holidays en famille .”
    Aimée hadn’t been too surprised when, after almost a year helming the right-wing daily Le Figaro , Martine had jumped to the women’s magazine. And she’d moved in with Jérôme, the publicity director, a divorce with a child. Joint custody was something Jérôme’s ex pursued with vigor, insisting on shared vacations. Martine walked on shards of glass until they returned. A boyfriend vacationing with his ex would bother Aimée, too.
    “Mind if I pick your brain?”
    “Do you ever do anything else?” said Martine, her voice husky. “Just take me to Alain Ducasse’s new restaurant, then I’ll be putty in your hands.”
    That would cost next month’s rent. Martine sounded bored, and edgy.
    “ Madame Figaro having problems?”
    “The Madame and I might soon agree to