“Not that kind of work.” He’d make it hard. He didn’t trust her. She felt the others looking at her. Better to leave a card and then … what? Hope word would trickle down and the Serb’s brother would call her?
Her cell phone rang.
“Aimée, you’ve got to see this.” Serge’s excited voice on the other end.
See what? She turned away from the counter. “Can’t you just tell me, Serge?”
“I asked the lab to expedite a broader screening using liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry.”
She looked back and noticed the men throwing dice. One had his eye on her.
She lowered her voice. “So you found the cause of death?”
“It took a lot of doing,” Serge said. “Let me tell you. This screen shows what peaks pop up, then we did a quantitative assay, looking at the peaks the compound fell in. Fascinating.”
She turned away again, wishing he’d cut to the chase. “Say it so I understand it, Serge.”
“Xylazine. An injectable horse tranquilizer. Not a high dosage, but the victim suffered an allergic reaction to it.”
“Like anaphylactic shock?”
“Similar. His body shut down within minutes. But not before he’d gotten a few steps.”
“So he staggered from Yuri’s atelier.…” That fit. “And you think …?”
“The lab tech’s seen it before,” he said. “For a home invasion the thief takes precautions. In this case, a syringe of horse tranquilizer to neutralize the occupants if they wake up or return home unexpected. Not a lethal dose, but enough to knock them out and give him time to clean out the house.” Serge paused. “In this Serb, a portion of his bruising happened before death. I conclude he got interrupted, fought with someone, and stabbed himself by mistake.”
“By mistake?”
“A small needle puncture in his derrière. Aligning with the back pocket of his jeans.”
He’d killed himself.
“Brilliant.” Her mind spun. “But where’s the syringe?”
“Check the crime scene report,” Serge said.
She thought back. It might be in the bushes, in the gutter where he got caught between the cars, or it might even have fallen in the atelier that night and washed away in the detritus of Yuri’s overflowing sink.
On some report she’d find it. But what she needed most was the lab report to prove this to the Serb’s brother. Suddenly, one more thing made sense. She reached in her jacket pocket for the straw she’d found at Saj’s, thought of the matching straw twined in Yuri’s trampled rosemary, and the barnyard smell Nora mentioned. “Where would he obtain this … what’s it called?”
“Xylazine? Around horses.”
“Meet me in ten minutes,” she said.
She turned to the man behind the counter. Smiled. “I’m looking for the mec who works with horses,” she said. “There’s money in it.”
He pointed to the door. “Drink’s on me. Go back the way you came in, Mademoiselle.”
She ground her teeth. Wondered what the going rate for a hit ran to today. Took a guess.
“Five thousand francs’ worth.”
He pounded his fist. “For the long-haired freak who ran over his brother?” Shook his head. “You think money buys his brother back, stupid French bitch?”
Her spine stiffened. She’d hit a nerve. The men in back advanced further up the bar, crowding her. Their heads down. Like a pack of hounds waiting for the hunt master’s command. Her damp shirt stuck in between her shoulder blades.
“Never,” she said, hoping her voice wouldn’t break. “But it would get him payback and help me at the same time.”
A snort. “What the hell …?”
“Let’s call it two in one. I’d like him to take care of that mec who took care of his brother, compris?”
One of the men looked up.
“No love lost on my end,” she said. “I’m willing to pay.”
Another one cleared his throat. She saw a bare nod of his head. The mec caught his look. For whatever reason, they had decided to trust her.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said. “Bois de Vincennes stables, the Hippodrome.”
“His name?”
“Goran.”
“I’ll tell him you’re coming,” he said. “Better have his cash ready.”
AIMéE MET SERGE in the back lot of the morgue, the elevated Métro clanking above their heads. The Seine flowed darkly to their right.
“You copied the report, right?”
Serge made a long face. “And no one will ever know. Promise me, Aimée.” Serge looked around in the lot as if the authorities would swoop down any minute. Only a man wearing white boots hosing down a loading bay. Aimée didn’t like to think what went down the drain.
“You’ve got my word,” she said,
“And you’ve got the twins for next weekend,” Serge said.
She cringed inside. Hyperkinetic three-year-olds? She’d have to take them to Sebastien’s wedding. They could be … what, flower boys? Ring bearers? She’d beg her cousin. Better yet, she’d let Saj teach them computer games. Serge’s wife never let them near a computer.
“Bien s?r.” She smiled.
A STABLE HAND in blue jeans poured water in a horse trough in the clear afternoon light. Flies buzzed; fragrant piles of manure steamed in the cold air. Aimée stepped around a bale of hay and jumped as she sent a nest of mice scurrying.
“Lost, Mademoiselle?” said a man in overalls topped by a three-quarter-length blue work coat. He had a pronounced Eastern European accent. “Public’s not allowed in the stalls.”
“But I’m looking for you, Goran,” she said. “Your friends called, non?”
Goran straightened up. She saw piercing black eyes in a weathered face, a mustache, and thick brown hair graying at the temples. A face aged before his time, she thought.
“You’re the one, eh?” He gestured to a back stall. “Make it good. I’m working.”
She shook her head. No way in hell she’d let him box her in a rodent-infested stall.
Goran eyed the groom. “I’ll deal with this and join you in the exercise ring,” he said, gesturing the other man out. The stable door clanged behind him. Uneasy, Aimée breathed in the horse smells, took in the old wooden enclosure and the high, dark ceiling.