{"product_id":"murder-at-the-lanterne-rouge-isbn-9781616952143","title":"Murder at the Lanterne Rouge","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe twelfth Aimée Leduc investigation set in Paris\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLost secrets of the Parisian Knights Templar, dangerous Chinatown sweatshops, dirty policemen, and botched affairs of the heart—the 12th Aimée Leduc mystery is the most exciting yet!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée Leduc is happy her longtime business partner René has found a girlfriend. It’s not her fault if she can’t suppress her doubts about the relationship. And her misgivings may not be far off the mark: Meizi disappears during a Chinatown dinner to take a phone call and never returns to the restaurant. Minutes later, the body of a young man, a science prodigy and volunteer at the nearby Musée, is found shrink-wrapped in an alleyway—with Meizi’s photo in his wallet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée does not like this scenario one bit, but she can’t figure out how the murder is connected to Meizi’s disappearance. The dead genius was sitting on a discovery that has France’s secret service keeping tabs on him. Now they’re keeping tabs on Aimée. What has she gotten herself into? And can she get herself—and her friends—back out of it alive?\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMurder at the Lanterne Rouge\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e“Black expertly weaves the social issues of Chinese sweatshops and illegal immigrants with current science and computer technology, 14th-century Templars and guilds, and the local police and French secret service.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eColumbus Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Outstanding . . . Readers will relish realistic villains and an evocative atmosphere that begs for a trip to the City of Lights.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The Paris investigator is a perpetual-motion machine, and she’s almost always inappropriately dressed for highspeed galivanting: heels, miniskirts, leopard prints—Aimée never sacrifices style for convenience . . . Thickening her plot like a French chef stirring coq au vin, Black throws a murdered scientist, a human-trafficking scandal, the Knights Templar, and revelations about Aimée’s long-presumed-dead mother into the pot, leaving readers nearly as breathless as Aimée, who hurtles her way toward the conclusion. Fans of the series know the formula and don’t mind a bit that it rarely varies. Paris never needs a new look, and neither does Aimée Leduc.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The pace accelerates as fast as Aimee’s Vespa. The details of the series, Aimee’s love of vintage couture, her love life, and the specter of her mother’s disappearance, all make welcome appearances here. \u003ci\u003eMurder at the Lanterne Rouge \u003c\/i\u003eis wonderfully plotted, and Cara Black ties together the past and present with élan.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—New York Journal of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for the Aimée Leduc series\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Transcendently, seductively, irresistibly French.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Alan Furst\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wry, complex, sophisticated, intensely Parisian . . . One of the very best heroines in crime fiction today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So authentic you can practically smell the fresh baguettes and coffee.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Val McDermid\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCara Black\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of twenty books in the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling Aimée Leduc series and the thriller \u003ci\u003eThree Hours in Paris\u003c\/i\u003e. She has received multiple nominations for the Anthony and Macavity Awards, and her books have been translated into German, Norwegian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and visits Paris frequently.Friday Evening\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToo small for a bomb, Aimée Leduc thought, nudging\u003cbr\u003ewith her high-heeled toe at the tiny red box on the cold\u003cbr\u003elanding outside Leduc Detective’s office. No card. Curious, she\u003cbr\u003epicked up the red gift-wrapped box, sniffed. Nothing floral. A\u003cbr\u003esecret admirer?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe timed hallway light clicked off, plunging the landing\u003cbr\u003einto darkness. She shivered, closed the frosted glass door\u003cbr\u003ebehind her, and hit the light switch. The chandelier’s crystal\u003cbr\u003edrops caught the light and reflected in the old patinated mirror\u003cbr\u003eover the fireplace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor once the high-ceilinged nineteenth-century office was\u003cbr\u003ewarm, too warm. The new boiler had gone into overdrive. Her\u003cbr\u003enose ran at the switch from the chill January evening to a\u003cbr\u003etoasty, warm office. She set down her shopping bags—January\u003cbr\u003ewas the season of \u003ci\u003esoldes\u003c\/i\u003e, the big sales. She’d blown her budget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eEt alors\u003c\/i\u003e, yogurt and carrots at her desk for the next week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe slung her coat over the chair and noticed a chip on her\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003erouge\u003c\/i\u003e-\u003ci\u003enoir\u003c\/i\u003e-lacquered pinkie. \u003ci\u003eZut\u003c\/i\u003e. She’d have to spring for a\u003cbr\u003emanicure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe office phone trilled, startling her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell me you found Meizi’s birthday present, Aimée,” came\u003cbr\u003ethe breathless voice of René, her business partner at Leduc\u003cbr\u003eDetective. “The damned jeweler screwed up the delivery.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Small red box? You mean it’s not for me?” she joked. She\u003cbr\u003eshook the box and heard a rattle. Maybe those jade earrings\u003cbr\u003eshe’d seen him looking at. “You’re serious about Meizi? I mean,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ethat\u003c\/i\u003e kind of serious?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One day you’ll meet your soul mate, too, Aimée.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoul mate? He’d known Meizi what, two months? But\u003cbr\u003eAimée bit her tongue. So unlike René to rush into something.\u003cbr\u003eA surge of protectiveness hit her. She ought to check this girl\u003cbr\u003eout, see what she could learn from a quick computer background\u003cbr\u003esearch. Could be a little ticking bomb, all right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Save my life, eh?” René said. “Bring it to the\u003ci\u003e resto\u003c\/i\u003e, Chez\u003cbr\u003eChun.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But I’m in the middle of a security proposal, René,” she\u003cbr\u003eanswered, hoping he didn’t hear the little lie in her voice. She\u003cbr\u003esurveyed their bank of computers, which were running security\u003cbr\u003echecks, updating client systems she’d programmed before she\u003cbr\u003eleft. The boring bread and butter of their computer security firm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Take a taxi, Aimée,” he said, his voice pleading. “Please.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeizi must have something his previous girlfriends from the\u003cbr\u003edojo didn’t. Better to check her out in person. Aimée put the\u003cbr\u003ebox in one coat pocket and dug through the other for her cell\u003cbr\u003ephone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A taxi, with this traffic? Métro’s faster, René.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe grabbed her leopard-print coat and locked the office door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty minutes later she ran up the Métro steps, perspiring\u003cbr\u003eand dodging commuters. Frustrated, she found herself at the\u003cbr\u003eexit farthest from where she wanted to be, by the Romanesque\u003cbr\u003echurch that was now the Musée des Arts et Métiers. Harmonic\u003cbr\u003eGregorian chanting wafted in the cold air and drifted into the\u003cbr\u003eenveloping night. Petals of snow lodged like nests of white\u003cbr\u003efeathers in the bare-branched trees. What a night, the temperature\u003cbr\u003efalling, a storm threatening in the clouded sky. The\u003cbr\u003efrigid air sliced her lungs, shot up the mini under her coat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreat. She hadn’t thought her wardrobe through, as usual.\u003cbr\u003eRené had better appreciate this. Listen to sense and slow\u003cbr\u003ethings down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe ran across the boulevard into the medieval quartier,\u003cbr\u003estill an ungentrified slice of crumbling\u003ci\u003e hôtel particuliers\u003c\/i\u003e, narrow\u003cbr\u003ecobbled streets lined by Chinese wholesale luggage and jewelry\u003cbr\u003eshops. Red paper lanterns hanging from storefronts shuddered\u003cbr\u003ein the wind. From a half-open door she heard the pebble-like\u003cbr\u003eshuffling of mah-jongg tiles. This multi-block warren comprised\u003cbr\u003ethe oldest and smallest of the four Chinatowns in Paris.\u003cbr\u003eFew knew it existed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe reached Chez Chun, the oldest or second-oldest building\u003cbr\u003ein Paris, depending on whom you talked to, sagging and timbered\u003cbr\u003ebeside a darkened hair salon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInside Chez Chun a blast of garlic, chilis, and cloying Chinese\u003cbr\u003epop music greeted her. The \u003ci\u003eresto\u003c\/i\u003e, an L-shaped affair, held\u003cbr\u003eten or so filled tables. Roast ducks dangled behind the takeout\u003cbr\u003ecounter. Not exactly an intimate dining spot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRené cornered her at the door. “Took you long enough,\u003cbr\u003eAimée.” René, a dwarf, was always a natty dresser. Tonight he\u003cbr\u003ewore a new silk tie and a velvet-collared wool overcoat tailored\u003cbr\u003eto his four-foot height.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Work, René,” she said. “I’m still running programs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe raised his hand. “Routine. We’re good till Monday.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d never seen him like this. For once work took second\u003cbr\u003eplace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yet look who came out in the cold,” she said, wiping the\u003cbr\u003esnow from her collar. “Why so nervous?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Her parents.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Use your famous Friant charm,” she said under her breath.\u003cbr\u003eShe pulled the gift from her coat pocket. “But why rush this,\u003cbr\u003eRené?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRené reached for the box, a small smile playing on his lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Time to listen to my heart, Aimée.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the table, Meizi, her black ponytail bobbing, smiled at\u003cbr\u003ethem. A warm smile that reached her eyes. “René said you’d be\u003cbr\u003ejoining us. We ordered, I hope you don’t mind.” Petite, not\u003cbr\u003emuch taller than René, she wore jeans and a green sweater as\u003cbr\u003eshe stood ladling abalone soup into small bowls. “Love your\u003cbr\u003ecoat, Aimée. Meet my parents.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBonsoir\u003c\/i\u003e,” Aimée said politely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe unsmiling Monsieur and Madame Wu stared at her.\u003cbr\u003e“My parents speak Wenzhou dialect,” said Meizi with an\u003cbr\u003eapologetic shrug. “I’ll translate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée grinned, determined to thaw the atmosphere. Her\u003cbr\u003eblack-stockinged thigh caught on the plastic-covered seat.\u003cbr\u003eUnder the disapproving stare of Madame Wu, she remembered\u003cbr\u003eRené’s complaints about how Meizi’s parents insisted on chaperoning\u003cbr\u003etheir dates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRené set the present on the table beside the steaming soup.\u003cbr\u003e“Happy birthday, Meizi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée tried not to cringe. Even if it was only earrings, it\u003cbr\u003ewas too soon. René was nuts, or crazy in love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadame Wu turned and spoke to her husband. Aimée heard\u003cbr\u003eher sharp intonation, and could imagine what was being said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Meizi’s face lit up in happiness as she untied the bow\u003cbr\u003eand opened the jewelry box. To Aimée’s surprise, it was a ring.\u003cbr\u003eA pearl ring, luminous and simple. “How thoughtful, René,”\u003cbr\u003eMeizi gasped. “I lost my other ring at the dojo.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe winked. “I hope the next one will sparkle more.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeizi blushed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadame Wu pulled the reading glasses down from her\u003cbr\u003eshort, very black hair—dyed, Aimée could see—and shook her\u003cbr\u003ehead. Round-faced Monsieur Wu, who was much older, averted\u003cbr\u003ehis gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWere they criticizing René’s gift or objecting to the relationship?\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps they didn’t want their daughter involved\u003cbr\u003ewith a dwarf? Despite her own reservations, Aimée felt a pang\u003cbr\u003efor René.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lovely, \u003ci\u003enon\u003c\/i\u003e?” Aimée said, trying to ease the almost palpable\u003cbr\u003etension.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Try it on, Meizi,” René urged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée noticed the look René and Meizi shared. Lost in\u003cbr\u003eeach other. She nudged René. He ignored her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadame Wu spoke sharply, and Meizi translated. “My parents\u003cbr\u003esay you’re too kind, René.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée doubted that. Meizi slipped the ring on her fourth\u003cbr\u003efinger. “\u003ci\u003eParfait\u003c\/i\u003e.” Aimée noticed the bitten nails, the worn\u003cbr\u003ecalluses on Meizi’s fingertips. Meizi set the ring back in the\u003cbr\u003ebox and passed out the steaming soup bowls. A large serving\u003cbr\u003efor René.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeizi’s phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the\u003cbr\u003enumber and pushed her chair back. “I’ll be right back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRené’s hand paused on his soupspoon. “Can’t you talk later,\u003cbr\u003eMeizi?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Won’t take a moment,” she said. As Meizi went to the\u003cbr\u003edoor, Aimée noticed her backward glance, her beetled brow,\u003cbr\u003ebefore she stepped outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Wus, not ones for conversation, tucked into the soup.\u003cbr\u003ePoor René. Aimée imagined the dinners he’d shared with the\u003cbr\u003ehumorless Madame and Monsieur Wu. Had she read Meizi, a\u003cbr\u003edutiful daughter, all wrong? A young waitress cleared their\u003cbr\u003ebowls, leaving Meizi’s, and brought a platter of fragrant roasted\u003cbr\u003educk with shaved scallions. At least five more minutes passed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where’s Meizi?” René asked, holding off from serving himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Meizi, \u003ci\u003eoui\u003c\/i\u003e.” Madame Wu nodded, her chopsticks working\u003cbr\u003eat morsels of duck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée wished Meizi hadn’t left them in this awkward situation.\u003cbr\u003eShe shot René a look. He flipped his phone open, hit\u003cbr\u003eMeizi’s number on his speed dial.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA stooped older woman wearing a stained apron entered\u003cbr\u003ethe \u003ci\u003eresto\u003c\/i\u003e. Madame Wu exchanged an uneasy look with Monsieur\u003cbr\u003eWu as the old woman made her way to their table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who’s this, another relative?” Aimée asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The busybody who sells tofu and groceries next to her\u003cbr\u003euncle’s place.” René frowned. “Meizi’s not answering her\u003cbr\u003ephone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly, the old woman shouted in Chinese. Madame Wu\u003cbr\u003edropped her glasses on the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old woman continued, bellowing, frantic. Loud murmurs\u003cbr\u003eand the clattering of chopsticks filled the \u003ci\u003eresto\u003c\/i\u003e. Surprised,\u003cbr\u003eAimée saw diners throw money on their tables, heard chairs\u003cbr\u003escreeching back in haste over the linoleum. As if at some mysterious\u003cbr\u003esignal, people reached for their coats and fled in a mass\u003cbr\u003eexodus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMadame and Monsieur Wu stood in unison. Without a\u003cbr\u003eword they left the table and were out the door of the \u003ci\u003eresto\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout their coats. Not only rude, but unnerving.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe ring in the red velvet box sat by the teapot, forgotten.\u003cbr\u003eLike Meizi’s coat on the back of her chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But what’s happening?” René said, bewilderment on his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée rubbed her sleeve on the fogged-up window to see\u003cbr\u003eoutside. A red glow reflected in the ice veining the cobble\u003cbr\u003ecracks. Firemen, an ambulance, the police?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young waitress by the door turned down the pop music.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s the matter?” Aimée asked her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Trouble.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Trouble as in a robbery?” Jewelry stores abounded in the\u003cbr\u003equartier, which had once been the diamond-cutting district.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The old lady said murder.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Murder? But who?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe waitress shrugged. Her fingers worried a tattered menu.\u003cbr\u003e“Behind the luggage shop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée sat up. “The luggage shop around the corner?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe waitress nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeizi’s parents’ shop. A terrible feeling hit her. Meizi?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRené had pulled on his coat and was already halfway to the\u003cbr\u003edoor. Aimée scooped the jewelry box into her pocket, left a\u003cbr\u003ewad of francs on the table, and took off behind him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• • •\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFilled with dread, Aimée hurried down the street,\u003cbr\u003efollowing René past the dimly lit Le Tango, a dance club emitting\u003cbr\u003ea reverberating drumbeat. No one stood outside. It was too\u003cbr\u003ecold for the usual drunken brawls. A horn blared streets away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA flash of red disappeared around the corner. Madame Wu.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée glimpsed a few Chinese people crowding the short\u003cbr\u003ewalkway behind the luggage shop. The dark walkway between\u003cbr\u003ethe buildings was crowded with garbage bins, wood palettes,\u003cbr\u003eold cart wheels, the view ending in a dim red lantern shining\u003cbr\u003eon back stairs. Not a hundred yards from the\u003ci\u003e resto\u003c\/i\u003e. Her shoulders\u003cbr\u003etightened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Meizi lives here above the shop.” René panted, his breath\u003cbr\u003efrosting in the cold. The windows he pointed to were dark.\u003cbr\u003eWhere were the Wus?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée fought a rising panic, picking her way through Chinese\u003cbr\u003epeople of all ages, mumbling and scraping their feet on\u003cbr\u003ethe ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Has someone been . . . ?” Aimée’s question was interrupted\u003cbr\u003eby a woman’s piercing scream. People jostled her shoulder as\u003cbr\u003ethey ran away, their footsteps thudding on the snow. Shivering\u003cbr\u003ein the cold and full of misgivings, Aimée crossed the now\u003cbr\u003edeserted walkway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot Meizi, \u003ci\u003enon\u003c\/i\u003e . . . don’t let it be Meizi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA rat, fat and brown, its tail the length of its long, wet,\u003cbr\u003efurred body, scurried down the steps over the new-fallen snow.\u003cbr\u003eIt left a trail of red in its wake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the foot of the crumbling stone stairs by Meizi’s door, a\u003cbr\u003eman’s snow-dusted trouser-clad leg sprawled from a wooden\u003cbr\u003epalette. She gasped. Bits of gnawed, bloody flesh, orange peels,\u003cbr\u003eand black wool threads trailed in the snow. Good God. Her\u003cbr\u003estomach lurched. The rat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée couldn’t peel her horrified gaze from the corpse,\u003cbr\u003ewhich was half wrapped in clear plastic, the kind used to secure\u003cbr\u003emerchandise to palettes. The man’s matted red hair, prominent\u003cbr\u003enose, and cheekbones all melded, smooth and tight, under the\u003cbr\u003eclear plastic. Her gaze traveled to his wide, terrified eyes, then\u003cbr\u003eto his mouth, frozen open in a snowflake-dusted scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stumbled and caught herself on the ice-glazed wall.\u003cbr\u003eWho was he? He hadn’t been here long, judging by the light\u003cbr\u003ecoating of snow. Where was Meizi?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eMon Dieu\u003c\/i\u003e,” René said, stepping back. He took a few steps\u003cbr\u003eand pounded on Meizi’s back door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée gathered up her long leopard-print coat and stepped\u003cbr\u003ewith care around the dirtied snow, avoiding the overturned\u003cbr\u003egarbage bin’s contents.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer insides churned. She shouldn’t have looked at the eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pair of black-framed glasses lay in the snow beside his\u003cbr\u003egnawed calf. Crinkled papers, a half-open wallet. Using a dirty\u003cbr\u003eplastic bag to cover her hands, she picked the wallet up. No\u003cbr\u003ecash or credit cards. Cleaned out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Come on, Aimée,” René said. “The \u003ci\u003eflics\u003c\/i\u003e will handle this.\u003cbr\u003eWe have to find Meizi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWedged deep in the wallet’s fold she found a creased Conservatoire\u003cbr\u003edes Arts et Métiers library card with an address and\u003cbr\u003ethe name Pascal Samour. The photo showed a younger version\u003cbr\u003eof the pale face in plastic before her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe turned the card over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Put that down, Aimée,” René said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStuck to the other side of the library card by gummy adhesive\u003cbr\u003ewas a smudged photo of a Chinese girl with a glossy ponytail.\u003cbr\u003eMeizi. “But look, René.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe gasped, and his face fell. He stepped back, shaking his\u003cbr\u003ehead. “I don’t understand.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe caught her breath. “He knew Meizi, René. What if\u003cbr\u003eshe . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You think she’s involved?” he sputtered. “Impossible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe punched numbers on his cell phone. “She’s still not\u003cbr\u003eanswering. She’s in trouble.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt that moment, wide flashlight beams blinded Aimée. She\u003cbr\u003estumbled, dropped the wallet. Static and voices barked from a\u003cbr\u003ewalkie-talkie: “First responders, truck thirteen. Alert medical\u003cbr\u003ebackup we’re in the walkway.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Someone reported this incident,” the \u003ci\u003epompier \u003c\/i\u003emedic\u003cbr\u003eshouted, his blue anorak crunching with snow. “Was that you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée shook her head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis colleague brushed past her with his resuscitator equipment.\u003cbr\u003eHe pulled on latex gloves, took out clippers and snipped\u003cbr\u003ethe plastic away, revealing that the man’s wrists were bound\u003cbr\u003ebehind him. The medic felt the man’s carotid artery. A formality.\u003cbr\u003eHe shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shout erupted. A bedraggled figure came down a side staircase\u003cbr\u003eshaking his fist. He wore a matted fur coat, a sleep mask on\u003cbr\u003ehis forehead, and orange slippers. “I’m trying to sleep.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimée hadn’t noticed the crumbling stairs, the brickedup\u003cbr\u003ewindows. Or the \u003ci\u003ePermis de Demolir \u003c\/i\u003esign on the building.\u003cbr\u003eCondemned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How many times have we told you to stay in the shelter,\u003cbr\u003eClodo?” said the second medic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They took my wine,” the homeless man said in a rasping\u003cbr\u003evoice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wondered why the rats hadn’t chewed him, too.“Did\u003cbr\u003eyou hear anything? Or see this man attacked, Clodo?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Every night I hear the angels sing. Then the devils come.\u003cbr\u003eLike you.” A loud burp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eClochards\u003c\/i\u003e.” The medic shrugged. “Guess this is one for the\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eflics\u003c\/i\u003e.” His partner packed away the resuscitator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re going to leave him like that?” René shivered beside\u003cbr\u003eher in the footprinted snow. Aimée scanned the ground, but\u003cbr\u003ethe wallet with Meizi’s picture had disappeared.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301916954853,"sku":"NP9781616952143","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616952143.jpg?v=1767733118","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/murder-at-the-lanterne-rouge-isbn-9781616952143","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}