Murder in Bel-Air

the LOS angeles of James Ellroy's latest historical thriller, THIS storm (Knopf, $29.95), is the kind of place where rats as big as cats fearlessly scoot across the front porch, where lovers rendezvous in welcoming Tijuana, anonymous among the "child-beggar swarms" and "cat-meat taco vendors," and where sentiments of pure, undiluted venom ("Hate, hate, hate. Kill, kill, kill") express the prevailing state of race relations. We're talking about the Los Angeles of January 1942, when a New Year's Eve broadcast by Father Charles Coughlin laments that his warbattered listeners must stand shoulder to shoulder with the "rape-happy Russian Reds" in resistance to "the more sincerely simpático Nazis." In such a soul-crushing environment, a simple murder comes as a relief. Or so thinks Dudley Smith, a sergeant in the Los Angeles Police Department, currently working for Army intelligence and devising all kinds of war-profiteering hustles on the side. Torrential rainstorms have unearthed a corpse, washed up in its very own pine box on a par-3 golf course - a "long-term decomp," in cop parlance, meaning the remains are sans flesh and all bones. By official guesstimate, man and box were burned in a fire, circa 1933. But the repercussions of the case will play out over the next several months. ("There was no better time to howl and throw parties.") For readers who keep track of these things, "This Storm" is the second volume, after "Perfidia," of Ellroy's Second L.A. Quartet. (For my money, the most notable novels in his great saga are "The Black Dahlia" and "L.A. Confidential," the first and third books of The L.A. Quartet. But honestly, you can pick up the story anywhere.) Here the characters in those previous novels are younger and dangerously reckless. And this time we take a long look at Hideo Ashida, "crack forensic chemist and sly sleuth," who barely escapes internment by covering up a bookie racket: "Great shame undermines his great luck." Until it runs out, his luck is also ours: Of all the flawed characters caught up in the swirl of this epic novel, he's the guy with the most heart. if YOU'RE going to be bludgeoned to death with a bottle of wine, it might as well be a vintage with a certain cachet. In Anthony Horowitz's new mystery, the sentence IS DEATH (Harper, $27.99), a celebrity divorce lawyer named Richard Pryce is murdered with a 1982 bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, which is not too shabby. Classier still is the metafictional plot construction, which allows Horowitz-the-author to play Horowitz-the-character in his own novel. "I like to be in control of my books," he says, explaining why he has positioned himself as the lead detective's sidekick. The victim wasn't short of enemies. In one unseemly public display, a pretentious feminist author poured a glass of wine over his head and thus positioned herself as a suspect. But as the detective, Daniel Hawthorne, bluntly notes after the author has shared his own theories, "It was all too bloody obvious, mate." NOT HAVING aged in the past 20 years, Aimée Leduc, the heroine of MURDER IN BEL-AIR (Soho Crime, $27.95) and other Parisian mysteries by Cara Black, is quite capable of being the mother of a darling, almost-l-year-old child named Chloé. To be sure, time goes slowly in this captivating series and it's still only 1999. Aimée is still wearing high-fashion vintage clothing and scooting around on her pink Vespa while solving computer security breaches for Leduc Detective - and the odd murder case for her own satisfaction. Here Aimée's in Paris's 12th Arrondissement, not for the opera or for a stroll in the Bois de Vincennes, but to solve the murder of a homeless old woman. Aimée is also in search of her unpredictable American mother, Sydney, who has disappeared after failing to pick up Chloé from her playgroup in Bel-Air. Aimée doesn't need to pack heat on these adventures; the stiletto heels of her Louboutin ankle boots are weapon enough. But something more lethal is called for when Sydney's secretive work as a former C.I.A. operative comes to light, threatening not only Sydney and her professional contacts but also her family, including (gasp!) baby Chloé. DID martin walker really kill off that nice American art history student in the body in the castle WELL (Knopf, $25-95)? Yes, he did, which is very daring, considering that this is one of his charming mysteries set in the beautiful Périgord region of France and featuring his amiable sleuth, Bruno Courréges. Nice young women like Claudia Muller are rarely bumped off in nice country mysteries with nice local detectives, especially not detectives who take their horses and their truffle hounds into the woods for the sheer joy of it. But Walker knows exactly what he's doing in this series, which artfully seasons its plots with regional lore about the sport of falconry and with lessons in French history, particularly the World War II resistance - all while gently teasing the locals for indulging in "the French love of ceremony and dressing up." Marilyn STASIO has covered crime fiction for the Book Review since 1988. Her column appears twice a month.

Aimée Leduc's nineteenth adventure is one of her best, both because the plot is notably rich, incorporating the complex relationship between France and its former colony, Côte d'Ivoire, and because the ongoing domestic drama in the extended Leduc household has become a thoroughly involving serial novel of its own. In a manner similar to how Donna Leon builds Guido Brunetti's family life into the fabric of her series, Black tells a parallel story in every book about single-mother Aimée's relationships in the present and her lingering parental issues, whose roots are in the past and involve both her dead father (killed under suspicion of being a corrupt cop) and American mother, Sydney (vanished for years but now back in Paris, swearing to no longer be a CIA agent). Precariously back in the family's good graces, helping out with child care while Aimée recovers from a concussion, Sydney reverts to form here, abandoning young Chloe at her playgroup and disappearing yet again. As Aimée follows the breadcrumb trail Sydney leaves behind, she finds herself in the middle of the political turmoil roiling in the twelfth arrondissement, home to many West African immigrants with stakes in a rumored coup d'état in Côte d'Ivoire (the book is set in 1999, when a real-life coup did take place there). Whether read as a crime story with roots in international politics or as the latest chapter in a fascinating family drama, this is a deeply satisfying and entertaining novel.--Bill Ott Copyright 2019 Booklist

Set in 1999, bestseller's Black's gripping 19th Aimée Leduc investigation (after 2018's Murder on the Left Bank) opens with Parisian PI Aimée abruptly leaving a tech conference right before her keynote presentation on hearing that her American mother, Sydney, has failed to pick up Aimée's nearly one-year-old daughter, Chloé, from the child's playgroup. When Aimée arrives, she sees the body of a homeless woman being taken away from a nearby convent that operated a soup kitchen. Sydney was the last person seen talking to the woman. Aimee's subsequent investigation turns up connections to the Ivory Coast and international spies. As usual, Black takes the reader on a whirlwind tour of Paris, both the well- and less-well-known sections, and Aimée never leaves home without oozing style. Though the momentum falters now and then in the book's second half, a taut, well-choreographed final confrontation more than compensates. Longtime fans and newcomers alike will have fun. Agent: Katherine Fausset, Curtis Brown. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Paris * Late October 1999 * Monday, Midafternoon   The young woman stumbled on the cobblestones in her worn shoes, fist in her pocket, clutching the steak knife she'd nicked from the café. She'd felt eyes watching--fear had charged up her back, impossible to ignore. Her gut had screamed at her to get out of there.       Now.       Why hadn't her contact showed?       A car engine revved up, gears scraping. She glanced back and saw a black Renault slide onto Boulevard de Picpus. Her heart pounded.       Walk faster. Keep going. Past the boule players and around the bandstand. The sky was oyster grey. She could make it to the Métro station at Picpus.       At École Saint Michel, parents and small children waiting for school dismissal clogged her path until they took in her homeless appearance, which made them scatter. The swollen clouds opened in a downpour.       She heard the car's clutch grind.       She broke into a run, lungs heaving, shoelaces flying. Turned the corner onto Avenue de Saint-Mandé. She could hear the car gaining on her. Any moment it could jump the median, ram her against the stone wall. Dripping wet, she sprinted toward the Métro steps ahead of her. She could make it. Get the documents to the only person she trusted and prevent a disaster.       A car door slammed. Footsteps slapped the wet pavement behind her. What if she got stuck on a platform--caught in the Métro? She reconsidered.       The double-grilled gate to a nearby building's courtyard was standing open as a car pulled out. In the pelting rain, she ducked inside, ran through the courtyard, scrambling past the parked cars and through an open portion in the fence to the empty adjoining lot, which was being paved. Its old gate opened onto a convent's grounds.       She skidded on the wet grass, perspiring in her oversized jacket, and ran along the stone wall. Past the cemetery, through the brown wood door to the tree-lined convent grounds. No one would find her there, at the Petites Soeurs des Pauvres homeless shelter. Through the grey haze of rain and the branches of the fig trees, she could make out the white habit of the intake nun.       And then she was caught from behind. She gripped the steak knife in her pocket and whirled around--she recognized the man. "Don't touch me--"       "Running your mouth, salope ?"       She struggled as he pushed her against the wall. Kicked at him desperately.       "Where's the--?"       She tried to scream, but he covered her mouth with his hand. His sour breath in her face. She fought to aim the knife at him.       But he caught her fist in a grip like an iron vise and twisted, turning her own force against her. Trained reflexes , she thought--her last thought, as the steak knife plunged into her neck so deeply it hit the wall behind her. Blood pumped out of her carotid artery, staining the raindrops on the rhododendron blossoms. Her eyes glazed and the grey went black.     Paris * Late October 1999 * Monday, Midafternoon   Aimée Leduc smoothed down her little black Chanel dress in the dining room of le Train Bleu, the belle-epoque resto above the Gare de Lyon. In need of courage, she reached for a champagne flute of Kir Royal. All of a sudden, the faces around her blurred, and the room spun. She gripped the tablecloth, bunched it in her fists, and closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Then another. The dizziness passed, quickly as it had come.       She could do this.       Determined, Aimée found her balance in her reheeled Louboutin ankle boots. Managed a wide smile and mounted the stage, heading toward the speaker's podium, where the host was waiting to introduce her. This tech conference, whose attendees were select and mostly men, had invited her to give the keynote address. An honor and a challenge on her first week back at work after a concussion that had kept her on bed rest for a month. But she'd recovered, hadn't she?       She eyed the players--the CEOs hungry for an edge in the world of la start-up . She had a mission: to network and pull in new clients for Leduc Detective's computer security services. Already, she felt the sweet tingle of new contracts. She'd thought up a great hook for her speech and was braced for industrial flirting over apéros . All week she'd rehearsed her speech, the talking points, memorized each pause for emphasis.       Now she nodded as she was introduced. She caught the glare of her rival in the audience. Marc Fabre, the tech entrepreneur with a shaved head that glinted in the chandelier's light--he'd tried to lock down this keynote for himself, she knew.       As she waited for the host to summon her to the podium, Aimée grew aware of a disturbance. She watched as a man rushed out to whisper in the host's ear and shot Aimée a look before crossing the platform to her.       "Your phone's off," the man said.       Mais bien sûr , she'd muted it for the presentation.       "There's an emergency--it's your daughter's playgroup. They've been trying to reach you, so they called the restaurant."       Her heart dropped. "Has something happened to Chloé?"       "I don't know. You need to pick up your daughter. Immediately."       She felt a jolt of panic. "Was there an accident?"       "I don't know. Apparently, your mother was nowhere to be found."       Of all times. The playgroup was so far away, in Square Courteline--Sydney had insisted on it; Aimée had no idea why. But where was her mother? And who could she call to pick Chloé up? Her nanny, a university student, was in class; all her other go-tos were at work.       Whatever was going on, it had to be an emergency for them to have tracked her down at this conference.       She felt like a helpless child. She needed to maintain her composure. She tried not to let her feelings show--her fear and anger and the sinking in her stomach.       Marc Fabre stood and approached the podium, his face radiating concern. "Don't worry, Aimée. I'll pinch-hit for you." Of course he would. He tried to mask the delight in his eyes. "I hope everything's okay."       With her mother? Never. What stunt was she pulling now?       With hurried excuses, Aimée grabbed her bag and the disk with the now-useless PowerPoint presentation she'd prepared. She scurried out of the restaurant, past the gilt arches and murals framed by pastry-like moldings. All those hours of work and rehearsal down the drain.       She tried her mother's phone. No answer. Voice-mail box was full.       Sydney Leduc, Aimée's American mother, a woman on Interpol's most-wanted list, always had an excuse for disrupting Aimée's life. But involving Chloé was another matter. Aimée was so angry she wanted to scream.       Her mother had enthused about this fancy playgroup, a mom and tot "art enrichment" experience. She'd insisted on signing Chloé up for it. And now she'd left her granddaughter alone with a bunch of strangers at a playgroup out in Bel-Air?       Worry creased Aimée's brow as she ran down the stairs and across the lobby by the train platforms. Passengers clustered, the departure and arrival board clicked above her, and the odd pigeon cooed from the art nouveau metal pillars supporting the glass ceiling.       Thank God only one person stood ahead of her in the taxi line in front of the station. A first. She kept punching in her mother's number. Again it went to a recorded message: "This mailbox is full."       Sydney hadn't even left Aimée a message. She flipped hurriedly through her Moleskine, looking for the number of the center that ran the playgroup. Hadn't she written it down?       Rain pattered on the taxi's windshield as it sped alongside the viaduc , the old train line. Its planted walkway, the Promenade Plantée, crowned the rose brick arches, inside each of which nestled an artisanal gallery of one of the quartier's master craftsmen--a woodworker, a gilder, an upholsterer. If only the playgroup weren't so far. Who came all the way out to Bel-Air in the twelfth arrondissement except to visit the zoo and Bois de Vincennes? Well, René, her business partner, did sometimes visit the computer shops around Montgallet.       Aimée searched her trench coat pocket for her Nicorette gum. Popped a piece in her mouth. She didn't miss smoking. Not at all, hadn't craved a cigarette once in the thirty-one days and ten hours since she'd quit. Again.       The playgroup's main number went to voice mail, and she left a message. Her mind was racing.       Why had she trusted her mother? The woman had reappeared in her life out of the blue, as usual, with a determination to know her granddaughter. Sydney had taken advantage of Aimée's condition--bedridden for a month while she waited for the blood clot from her concussion to dissolve--to shoehorn herself into Aimée and Chloé's life. As if Sydney could forge some sort of relationship with Aimée after all these years. It had been a bumpy ride so far.       Could she say she even knew this woman? Her mother was a foreign presence with an American accent and all her secrets. All through her childhood, Aimée'd yearned for her mother, and now, as the proverb went, she realized she should've been careful what she wished for.       The taxi passed the commissariat , a modern behemoth whose architecture gave an incongruous nod to the past with its sculptured caryatids. Beyond were Haussmann buildings overlooking nonphotogenic rail lines. After the roundabout at Place Félix Eboué with the lion fountain Chloé loved, it was just another block to Boulevard de Picpus, which took the taxi through the quartier Bel-Air toward Square Courteline. Near the old bandstand and sandy boules pit, she spotted the playgroup's shop front. The usual marmalade-striped cat sat in the blue-curtained window. The rain halted. Clouds broke and sunlight slanted down over the puddles, peacock hued from car oil. Drops glistened from the red café awning next door. Aimée overtipped the young taxi driver, comme toujours , for late-night taxi karma, and stepped onto the slick pavement.       Chloé, her almost toddler, pounded clay with her chubby fists. She beamed when she saw her mother, and Aimée's heart warmed. That precious rosy-cheeked bundle was almost one year old.       "Bonjour, ma puce." Aimée swooped Chloé up, clayey hands and all. Kissed her warm pink cheeks and inhaled her baby scent.       The teacher, in a clay-smeared smock, took in Aimée's little black dress. Vuitton bag. Gave a strained smile. "We're a parent participation program, mademoiselle . Children can't be left here without an adult."       " Excusez-moi. I just got the message, but it wasn't clear . . . Did my mother have an accident?"       "Not here, certainement . Pouf, she was gone, just like that," the teacher said. "We have rules. This is not a day care. C'est fini, mademoiselle ."       Great. Aimée's mother had just gotten Chloé kicked out of playgroup. Excerpted from Murder in Bel-Air by Cara Black All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.