Murder at la Villette

Cara Black, 1951-

Book - 2024

"Parisian private investigator Aimée Leduc has been framed for the murder of her daughter's father-now she's on the lam, and must find the real killer to clear her name in this thrilling 21st installment of Cara Black's New York Times bestselling mystery series. Aimée Leduc's ex Melac, her daughter's father, has been hounding her for weeks, pressuring her to move little Chloe to Brittany, threatening to take her to court for custody-all but stalking her. Harassed and fed up, Aimée has stopped taking his calls. That's why she doesn't know as she's leaving a client's office late one night that Melac is waiting for her by the Bassin de la Villette-where an assailant attacks him just in time ...for Aimee to find his still-bleeding body in the canal. Interrupted, the killer knocks Aimée unconscious and plants the bloody knife in her hands for the police to find. Now Aimée is in police custody, debilitated by her concussion, with overwhelming evidence working against her. She has to figure out who set Melac up-but he was a man with many pasts, a former homicide investigator and the target of criminal grudges. Cut off from her typical network and forced to operate under multiple layers of cover, Aimée must go deep into the underbelly of Paris's 19th arrondissement, where she rubs shoulders with biker gangs, paranoid journalists, grieving parents, and frustratingly tight-lipped ex-cops on her hunt for truth and justice"--

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Subjects
Genres
Detective and mystery fiction
Novels
Published
New York : Soho Crime [2024]
Language
English
Main Author
Cara Black, 1951- (author)
Physical Description
278 pages : map ; 24 cm
ISBN
9781641294478
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Black is determined to leave no part of Paris unexplored. In this twenty-first book of the Aimée Leduc series, the engaging and exhausting Détective privé (PI) finds herself in the la Villete neighborhood of the nineteenth arrondissement. Villette means "little town" in French. Cozy as it may sound, it is a crime-ridden district, infamous for an unsolved serial killer spree some 15 years earlier. Ironically, it was once famous for its slaughterhouses. Someone has murdered Jérome Melac, the father of Aimée's daughter, and framed Aimée for it. While swapping out disguises, she manages to elude the police and, with the help of friends and family, including her mother, Sydney, who is on Interpol's watch list, she chases madly around the winding and dangerous streets with astonishing speed. The pace is relentless, and the plot thickens with each chapter. An odd assortment of crooked cops, biker gangs, drug dealers, grieving parents, and even a WWII Nazi keep the challenges and the clues coming. Best read with a café au lait in hand.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Black shrewdly ups the stakes in the pulse-pounding 21st mystery featuring French PI Aimée Leduc (after 2022's Murder at the Porte de Versailles). In 2002 Paris, Aimée has been hired by a government ministry to identify a saboteur at tech startup Glocron. Given the assignment's covert nature, she's stunned to discover that an envelope addressed to her was slipped into her purse after a visit to Glocron's offices. Inside is a letter from her ex-boyfriend, Melac--the father of her daughter, Chloé--who's been harassing Aimée to pressure her and Chloé into moving nearer to him in Brittany. Melac has been keeping tabs on Aimée at Glocron, and after he has a harrowing encounter with a homeless man he recognizes near the company's offices one evening, he leaves Aimée a frightened voicemail. The man then stabs Melac before slitting his throat; when Aimée happens on the scene, the attacker knocks her out, plants the bloody knife on her, and flees. Swiftly accused of murdering Melac, Aimée enters a seedy underworld of Parisian biker gangs and ex-cops to track down the real killer. Though Aimée's innocence is never in doubt, Black maintains expert suspense and keeps things fresh by separating the investigator from her typical allies. This will thrill series fans and newcomers alike. Agent: Katherine Fausset, Curtis Brown, Ltd. (Mar.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

A detective's struggle to raise her daughter in Paris meets an unexpectedly grim obstacle. Despite the dangers and demands of life as a private investigator, Aimée Leduc has always been attentive to the needs of her 3-year-old daughter, Chloé. Reliable child care and the help of her friends have allowed Aimée to resist the attempts of Chloé's father, police detective Jérome Melac, to remove the child to his farm in rural Brittany. But now Aimée's desire to have Melac out of her life for good has succeeded in the worst possible way. His body is found beneath an arched bridge that spans a canal in La Villette, and Aimée is found on the scene with his blood all over her hands. With the help of her godfather, Commissaire Morbier, she's released from custody, but she knows that her chances of keeping her daughter, as well as her freedom, rest with her ability to find Melac's killer. It had been a voicemail from Melac that brought Aimée to the scene of his death--"Aimée...I've just seen a ghost"--and now she begins searching for whomever, or whatever, he'd been talking about. Like many of her investigations, Aimée's search leads back to an older crime, this time the serial murders committed by le Balafré, a shadowy figure who terrorized La Villette in the 1980s and '90s. Her investigation features the requisite host of colorful characters who spill out of the biker bars and tattoo parlors of the 19th arrondissement, a bevy of chic disguises, and a few slick car chases. But as usual, the star of the show is the city Aimée loves. Vintage Black for fans of women's empowerment and life in Paris. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

April 2002 * 11:00 p.m. Monday, Avenue Secrétan, Paris April in Paris rarely feels like the song, thought Aimée Leduc, shivering as she buttoned her leather jacket. Glocron's cold, cavernous office, in a threadbare 1930s movie theater that had been chopped into workspaces, was embellished with faux rococo swirls and chipped plaster ceilings. It felt as aesthetically pleasing as an aircraft hangar. Last time Aimée would take a job like this. Too much working overtime. It didn't help that this whole consulting gig was fake--she was really here at this tech start-up on an undercover contract for the Ministry, trying to nail down evidence of a saboteur in the IT department in between her humdrum security work. Plus the added strain of constantly battling with her ex, Melac, the biological father of her daughter, over custody was taking its toll. She hit save on her computer terminal and logged out of her security program. To Aimée, this odd open office plan had only one redeeming feature--a view of the Marché Secrétan, a covered market where she used to go shopping with her grandfather, her hand in his, to buy rabbit from his favorite butcher. Now the dilapidated art nouveau covered market looked in need of some love. Just like her. She packed up, rubbed her chilly hands. Thank God her workspace had an outlet for a portable heater. The other employees wore their coats indoors and huddled by the espresso machine for any kind of camaraderie. Shouts and the scrape of chairs came from a terminal nearby. "Who cares about your disabled brother!" Pépe, the wiry Basque programmer, was yelling at Isabelle, the cleaner. He twitched in anger. "Clumsy salope , you spilled my coffee over my printouts!" Isabelle, her long dark braid clipped up, paused mopping the floor. Her silver nose ring glinted under the harsh fluorescent light. Before Aimée could stand up, Pépe'd taken a swing at Isabelle. Isabelle ducked. Not soon enough. His blow knocked the mop she'd held in her tattooed arm clattering to the floor. Was the fool jacked up on caffeine or wired on something else--like speed? Aimée rushed over, catching Isabelle before she hit back, and shoved the programmer back into his chair. "Are you all right, Isabelle?" Aimée asked, concerned. "Let me see your arm." "He barely grazed me," said Isabelle, her eyes like daggers. L'idiote --the programmer didn't know who he'd bullied. Isabelle, a biker fille from up the canal, had gone to school with Aimée's cousin, Sébastien. Both had been junkies who'd cleaned up, gotten straight. Staying clean was hard, but Aimée's cousin had done it. Aimée sometimes wondered if Isabelle had gone back to her old ways. Once a junkie . . . No--think positive. Isabelle looked healthier than Aimée had ever seen her. Aimée turned to Pépe and summoned authority in her voice. "Since when do you hit women?" She pulled her digital camera out of her purse and started snapping photos of the mark on Isabelle's arm. He sputtered, "Hey, you can't do that." "Too late. I have." "They'll fire you when I report this, salope ," Pépe said to Isabelle. He had spotty skin, potato ears, and a temper. "Report what? You're a lying weasel. I didn't spill your coffee." " Et alors , aren't you aware of the firm's policies against violence?" said Aimée. "This isn't over," Pépe said, grabbing his backpack and storming out. "You'll never get that recommendation!" Isabelle picked up her mop. Her hands were shaking. " Merde! " "Isabelle, take a second. Calm down," Aimée said. "Tell me about your brother. Is this about him? Is he okay?" Isabelle took a deep breath. "Muscular dystrophy. It's getting worse. He's going downhill." Aimée vaguely remembered hearing Sébastien mention it. "I need a recommendation from my employer to qualify for adapted housing. Pépe knows it, too." "I'm sorry," said Aimée. "Pépe pretends he cares, then attacks me. Just because I won't go out with him." Mean to the bone. Aimée couldn't believe the toxic work culture fermenting here. After Sébastien had gotten clean, Aimée had guaranteed Sébastien's business. He'd branched out as a building contractor and now owned several framing shops. Sébastien had been the one to steer Isabelle toward the program that matched her with this job--the tech start-up got tax incentives for hiring locals. The locals benefited from jobs and access to fast-track housing. It was a win-win. Too bad the boss, Robért, a preening narcissist, had no management skills to speak of. Just last week he'd reduced the intern program and frozen the promotions of five programmers, who'd then quit. Isabelle would not be able to count on him to be sympathetic. "I'll report Pépe and back you up," said Aimée. "You shouldn't," Isabelle said. "The boss is a salaud , I don't want you in trouble." Defending Isabelle would be thorny--Aimée couldn't afford to rankle Robért if she wanted to keep her undercover Ministry job. But she had to help Isabelle with this second chance. " Excusez-moi. " Robért was striding toward them. The hanging fluorescent lights reflected off his rimless glasses. He wore a tight bargain Monoprix suit and clearly thought it looked good on him. "Pépe's filing a report against you," he said to Isabelle. He probably didn't even know her name. "Look, we can't tolerate harassment from contract workers." Isabelle's eyes welled. Aimée wondered if she'd break out in tears or slug him. Before either could happen, Aimée wedged herself between Isabelle and Robért. "Harassment by whom?" She held up her camera for him to see. "I've recorded Pépe's demeaning insults here and documented his physically assaulting Isabelle. She will be filing a complaint and charges against him. This will go all the way up to the board of Glocron." No company board relished dealing with a problem like this. Robért knew that could impact their funding. He looked deflated. Isabelle's eyes widened. She was scared but defiant. She needed this job. "But," Aimée added, thinking on the fly, "Isabelle might consent to continue working here if Pépe took anger management classes and she was transferred to a different floor and office." Too harsh? Would this get her fired? Working undercover, Aimée needed to stay under the radar. Her handler in the Ministry was on her case every day. But right now she couldn't care less. Robért steepled his fingers. "If we do that, she wouldn't press charges or file a complaint?" Isabelle's jaw clenched but she nodded. "I'll get that in writing and have you sign it." With that, Robért hurried to his office. " Merci , Aimée," said Isabelle. "I owe you." " Pas du tout ," Aimée said. "The creep can't get away with what he did. And he won't. What's your number?" She wanted to follow up and make sure Isabelle didn't suffer a fallout. "Can you remember nobodylu?" she said, then spelled it out: "N-o-b-o-d-y-l-u?" Aimée nodded. "Why?" "Easiest way to remember my phone number. 06 26 39 58." She mimed typing it on a phone keyboard, which would spell the phrase. "Contact me any time." Aimée went back to her desk, logged back on, downloaded the photos from her digital camera--just in case--trashed her junk mail and powered off her computer. As she was reaching for her bag, she found an envelope with Aimée Leduc Détective Privé typed on the outside--and URGENT written underneath in familiar hard-to-read scrawl. Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, she opened the envelope. We have to talk. There's something you need to know. It's important. Last time, Aimée, and I won't take no for an answer. Melac, hounding her again. Chloé's biological father wanted to move Chloé to Brittany. Melac also wanted to get back together, but that train had left the station long ago. Aimée'd let nothing jeopardize her new relationship--which was already tricky--with Bellan, a divorcé who cared part-time for his three children. They'd already talked about this ad nauseam, including yesterday--a long conversation that had gone nowhere. She'd had enough. Why had he left her a note at the office? Why not at home? The only thing she could think of was he was working nearby. Great. Her phone rang. Melac. Again. She hit the red button and sent him straight to voice mail where he belonged. Monday Late Evening * Quai de la Loire Melac clicked off his phone. Why wouldn't Aimée answer? The tarnished spring moon filtered through a wispy web of clouds. Pale pewter lights reflected on the choppy canal's surface farther down the lamplit quai. He ground out his cigarette on the stone bank with his toe. The place felt dark as a witch's derrière , as they said in Brittany. He needed to stay alert. Brrr. He rubbed his hands and paced in front of a weather-warped shed bearing a plaque with the Paris city motto, Fluctuat nec mergitur , Latin for It rocks but does not sink. He didn't like doing surveillance here--he was exposed. An open target. He climbed over a fence to get better reception and finally found it by the old bridge crossing the canal. The pulleys that controlled the lift deck, opening and closing the bridge twenty-five times a day, cast rippled shadows on the quai. He called his liaison on the surveillance job but only got voice mail. Irritating. He hated working with amateurs. As soon as he'd put his phone back down, it rang. Fuming, he looked at the tiny screen. It wasn't Aimée. It was the liaison whose line crackled and kept breaking up. This latest security contract was a pain, too. He hated surveillance and wished he were back working with his colleagues in counterterrorism. But surveillance work was the only way he'd get the steady paycheck he needed to guarantee shared custody of Chloé. "Allô?" "Abort . . ." He couldn't hear the rest and stepped out of the wind to shelter by the ancient hydraulic lift bridge's toll house. "Abort why?" he said. The job was still an hour off. Tense, he looked around, alert to what had gone wrong. The bridge railings were cast iron and finished in light blue. On either side the two old warehouses stood like hulking sentinels, narrowing the Bassin de la Villette. The call broke up. Static. Excerpted from Murder at la Villette 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.