Murder in Clichy by Cara Black

By Cara Black

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If I promise to be good . ” she said. “Ah oui? If you promise to be bad, that’s another matter,” he said, kissing her neck. “Guy . . ” “Lectures? That’s all I’ve had for two weeks,” he said. ” “You know I missed you. ” “You told me. ” “At least not for another two hours,” he said. ” At least that’s what she thought he said before his lips found hers. And then his fingers were massaging her spine, his breath in her ear. His scent in her hair. ” The paper crinkled under her. She ran her hands through his hair.

And the way he watched her, his eyes intent on her mouth, bothered her. ” Typical RG talk. Straight out of the Renseignements Généraux manual. One of the men shifted, the gravel crunching under his feet by the wall. “You’ll have to show me some ID. ” The two men moved closer and she backed up, pulling out her pepper spray. ” She wished she had her Beretta. But those days were over. No more climbing over rooftops or hanging from rusted pipes. She’d promised. “Du calme,” he said, and flashed his card.

But Aimée had pulled on a wool cap over her spiky rain-drizzled hair and gone out the front door. She wrapped her wool scarf around her arm. An ambulance and police cars came to a screeching halt by the boulangerie. She headed over to the next narrow street, her heart thumping. Keeping her head down she walked close to the buildings. On rue Boursault she huddled in a doorway until the Number 66 bus disgorged riders, then entered it by the rear doors. Trembling, she pulled her coat close around her and sank into the seat, thrusting the envelope into her coat pocket.

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