Murder in the Latin Quarter by Cara Black

full, the fountain gurgling. Bright paint, rattan chairs, looked picturesque. Yet the clochards philosophes from her childhood were missing. They were the soul of Place de la Contrescarpe, about whom Jacques Brel had sung. Ten years ago, the clochards had still congregated to spout philosophy or recite a poem for a drink. Not any more; the flics had run them off.
    It’s too sanitized now, she thought, remembering the grime that had lent the area character. The old Paris. Yet along with the tourists, the commerçants, the students, the old women who’d rented the same apartment for fifty years, the professors and intellos with the leather patches on their corduroy jackets frayed to look à la mode, still lived here.
    No time for memories now. The fear in Mireille’s face, the urgency in her voice kept coming back to her.
    But apart from luring her to a murder scene, Mireille had made no further contact. Aimée needed more than old photographs before she accepted Mireille as her sister. And she needed to get inside the lab to question the staff, to find out more about Mireille and her relationship to Benoît.
    Ten minutes later, Aimée buzzed the bell at the tall door of the Osteologique Anatomie Comparée. Behind her lay the gatehouse, sealed off with yellow crime-scene tape. The door creaked open to reveal a man wearing a stained white lab coat. His bulbous red-veined nose caught the light. A drinker.
    “ Oui?”
    And by his frown, none too happy at the interruption.
    “ Bonjour. May I speak with the director?”
    He eyed her black dress and denim jacket before asking, “Concerning?”
    Beyond him stood a dark wood-paneled vestibule housing glass cabinets. Skeletons of small animals stood on dusty shelves, their ivory-colored bones illuminated by shafts of light from the overhead skylight. Jules Verne would have felt right at home, she thought.
    Before she could answer, there was the sound of a crash.
    “Make an appointment, Mam’zelle,” the man said. His words were clipped, the sign of un vrai gamin parisien.
    She saw her chance to question the staff slipping away. The door was about to close in her face.
    “How unprofessional of me, Monsieur,” she said, rooting through her bag. She found a torn envelope, the first thing at hand, and forced a smile. “My fault for not explaining sooner. Professeur Rady at Ecole Normale Supérieure sent me.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re refer-ring to. . . .”
    “But you do know Professeur Rady, of course?” She kept talking, improvising as she went along.
    His eyes flickered in recognition. Of course he did. His self-importance irritated her.
    “Check with him,” Aimée suggested. It was a good thing Professeur Rady was out of the office. “Perhaps the director could spare me a few minutes? I’m sure, given the circumstances, he’d understand. . . .”
    “We’re a research facility. The director’s not here,” he said. “Arrange a visit through the University.”
    “Professeur Rady suggested I come to scout the location,” she said, widening her smile. “Informally, of course.”
    She kept talking. He hadn’t thrown her out yet.
    “We’re filming a documentary for Arte,” she said, hoping to impress him with the arts-and-intellectuals téle film channel. “So I need to check your facilities.
    “As I said, you need an appointment.” His mouth hardened. Was he hiding something?
    “Before we know if we can shoot here,” she said, determined, “I need to assess the utilities. Minor technical details. I had a short break en route to my next shoot . . . so I’d appreciate your assistance. I’m sure your director will understand.”
    “Understand?”
    “Monsieur, I’m squeezing this in. We’re filming a three-million-franc documentary highlighting ENS, the programs, and the world renowned . . . surely. . . .”
    “The receptionist returns in an hour. Come back then.”
    Didn’t everyone want to be filmed?
    “ Tant