Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis by Cara Black

to the window overlooking the Jardin des Plantes, the botanical garden, while she thought. A few protesters with banners reading STOP OIL DUMPING stood on the pavement below, fanning themselves in the heat. She wondered why there were protesters in front of Regnault.
    “I’m not up to speed on your client accounts yet but . . .”
    He noticed her gaze, shrugged. “The environmentalists don’t understand. Our premier oil company account is Alstrom. They have recently acquired some small companies that have ignored regulations. But Alstrom has already taken steps to cure these infractions.”
    Typical spin from a PR man. She thought back to the article about the MondeFocus riots in Le Parisien.
    “From what I understand about the MondeFocus allegations—”
    “All blown out of proportion.” His eyes snapped. “They jump on any bandwagon, smear ‘the big, bad corporations.’ Uncalled for. They’ve targeted us, not knowing our client is already cleaning up toxic waste. They’re misinformed—that’s putting it in polite terms.” He shook his head. “Look, I’m progressive, so’s our firm and those we represent. Bottom line, my firm’s integrity means more to me than a huge contract. I’ve got a family and like every parent I want my child to grow up in a clean world. Believe me, pollution’s a great concern to all of us.”
    His intercom buzzed and he glanced at his watch. “Excuse me, I’ve got a meeting.”
    She smiled and tried once more. “Our joint package of security and system administration makes economic sense for you.”
    Vavin reached in his drawer. “Right now I need you to continue maintaining our systems.” He slid a new addendum extending their contract across the desk. “Our sysadmin’s been hospitalized with acute appendicitis and we’ve lost two of the contract staff to a crisis in Milan. Count on me to recommend your comprehensive package to my manager when he returns.”
    One didn’t say no to a client. Especially one with this much potential. Better more work than no work, René would say. She scanned the contract, signed it, and shut down her laptop.
    “Last week, when we met,” Vavin said, his voice lowered, “I didn’t realize the ongoing nature of our system issues.” He flipped open a file, studied it. “A few areas . . . well, they concern me.”
    Of course, he wanted to look good to his boss, to appear to be on top of his projects. Or was there something else she couldn’t put her finger on?
    “Do you foresee more problems, Monsieur Vavin?”
    Nadia, his assistant, peered around the door and smiled at Aimée. “Your car’s here, Monsieur Vavin.”
    “ Merci , Nadia,” he said. Then he turned to Aimée.
    “In our line of work, we call them issues, Mademoiselle.”
    Aimée nodded. She noticed a stack of environmental reports, pamphlets bearing the MondeFocus logo by his key ring and briefcase.
    Before she could ask him if he had studied them, he’d put on his coat, dropping his key ring into a pocket, and shouldered his case. Pausing at the door, he said, “Mademoiselle Leduc, I appreciate your help but there is one more thing. Any problems, you deal only with me.”
    She detected something behind his words. “Of course, Monsieur Vavin.”
    As a system administrator, their firm would monitor Regnault’s network, deal with glitches in the staff’s computers, but rarely, if ever, would this involve the managerial staff. His request was strange. Unless Vavin was watching his back.
    “Only me, comprends? ” he repeated.

    OUTSIDE, AIMÉE STARED at the khaki-colored Seine lapping against the mossy stone. Two years ago, a clochard— now termed sans domicile fixe (SDF) — the politically correct phrase for “homeless”—who’d slept under a bridge had fallen in, his foot catching in the branches of a tree carried on the swollen water. The current had swept his bloated body past her window. She shivered. More often corpses sank, drifting along with the