The Missing Sister Read online

  The sun dips in the corner of the window behind apartment buildings, casting somber shade on the crowds of people heading to dinner or out to the bar. My stomach knots thinking about my morning. The body. The sedan.

  I grab the Taser and my bag, then clamber out the door. Cedar incense burns somewhere in one of the apartments and snakes into the hall. I reach the stairwell and cast a glance above. Jean-Luc hasn’t come down after his angry goodbye this morning. Probably for the best, considering he can’t like what I exposed his budding career to. If he is home and hears me, he doesn’t stir.

  As my sandals slap the hard tile of the foyer, the door marked CONCIERGE moans inward. A mop of gray-streaked black hair emerges. Madame Chang.

  She beckons me with a hand. “Venez.” I look behind me and feel even dumber when I turn back to her and she’s rolling big brown eyes magnified by thick glasses. “Allez,” she adds. C’mon.

  She opens the door wider as alarms ring in my head not to trust strangers, even tiny ones that reach my shoulder and recall my Chinese grandmother. But she waves me in in a way that is charmingly familiar. The front room of her apartment is both living room and kitchen, and she mutters, “Aiyaa,” then something in Cantonese I don’t understand. Warmth spreads in my chest at this sound of home—my mother’s preferred exclamation. She motions to a plate of individually wrapped almond cookies and a pot of tea all prepped and ready on the modest coffee table. A coup of courtesy. After sitting in a sofa chair with a blanket buffering the plastic covering beneath, she points to the love seat. “Là.” Now I don’t know if she speaks Chinese or French again, but I sit, anyway.

  “I’m sorry your sister is missing. She always lights up a dismal day.” Perfect English. She tucks a strand of black hair back, artfully cut asymmetrically to complement a round face. I wonder how many languages she must speak, and whether being multilingual is just a thing here. Like inexpensive madeleines.

  “Thank you,” I reply, automatically at this point. “I’m Shayna, by the way.”

  She extends a small hand and shakes mine in a dying-fish wiggle. “Louise Chang. If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here—I assume to handle some paperwork—let me know.”

  The ring she wears on her left hand looks like one of my costume jewelry pieces, but I doubt hers cost only twenty dollars. “Thank you. Were you and Angela very friendly?”

  “Amicable, yes. We talked shop occasionally. I was very intrigued by her research on the catacombs.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re such a storied part of Paris’s history. Now they’ve been reduced to a tourist attraction—or a hub for traffickers in Europe, depending on who you ask.”

  My first day here, passing Chang’s doorstep, I’d read the headline emblazoned across the newspaper lying on her doormat. The word trafic stood out among the rest. I didn’t realize it meant traffickers—not congested car traffic. Once again, the reality of how little I understand about this city slaps me across the cheek.

  I smile at Chang. “Do you own this building, Madame?”

  She pours me a cup of tea. “Chang. Now I do. After my husband passed away—that’s him there.” She points to a wall of photos above an entertainment stand, where a television might normally be, and to a frame holding a photo of her wearing a beautiful red dress—a cheongsam. In it, her head reaches the shoulders of a dashing young man with a thick mustache. It could have been taken ten years ago for all she’s aged, but the faded yellowing of the image would suggest the eighties. “Maxime de la Chapelle was a good businessman—have a cookie, eat, eat—I miss him every day. That’s him in his Serge Gainsbourg phase—all broody eyes and cigarettes.”

  “Wasn’t there a biopic a few years ago?”

  Chang leans forward and clutches her knees. “Oh yes. Serge was an icon here—still is. Most of the world wasn’t ready for him—did you see that duet with his daughter?—but France was. His outrageous songs mainstreamed women’s sexual empowerment for a hot second.” She sighs, the action curving in her small shoulders. “Maxime loved him.”

  I nod, my mouth full of almonds and sugar. After half a sandwich for lunch, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. “That must be hard . . . losing a spouse.”

  “Yes. Unbearably hard, for a while. As hard as . . . well. It’s a difficult loss.” She adjusts her glasses, then tightens the lavender knit shawl around her with a sympathetic nod. “At times it’s challenging to manage all the real estate he left me. Worse—everyone thinks we weren’t married because I kept my last name. Makes for more red tape and headaches.”

  Part of me wonders why she’s telling me all this, remembers I need to get going, and another part just wants to sit here all day. A lunar calendar drenched in celebratory red hangs beside a series of French cookbooks lining the narrow counter of her kitchen nook. The army-style backpack she was digging in my first day sits beneath on the hardwood floor. A grappling hook hangs over the canvas flap, and a set of knitting needles beside it.

  “Why did you? Keep your last name—if you don’t mind my asking. If it made things easier for you, why not take your husband’s? Plenty of women don’t nowadays, but earlier I’m sure it was assumed you would.” I sip from the teacup she laid out for me, painted with gold accents and delicate flowers. Hot liquid courses down my throat. Chrysanthemum tea, my favorite growing up at family events, and at dim sum on Sundays. Warmth pools in my belly, in this other world away from the chaos sharpening its knives outside; I could purr.

  Chang smiles. “You’re right. If I had, it would be easier. I didn’t want my identity to change simply because I moved from Singapore to France and married a Frenchman. I was still myself. I’ve tried very hard not to let the world change that.”

  I swallow another bite of cookie. “Makes sense. Seems like you’ve lived quite a life.”

  Chang waves a hand to the wall of photos. “Oh, I’ve done a few things. But I haven’t had a real adventure in ages.” Her voice is wistful. Mahjong tiles line the granite kitchen counter.

  I thank her for the tea and cookies, then tell her I have to go. As we stand, I cast a sweeping glance at the framed photos lining the space around her wedding picture. Images range from lush green jungles to Chang and Maxime in ripped jeans holding up peace signs, the pair of them on a boat against an ocean backdrop. One photo in particular catches my eye: Chang, on a stage with a hundred people below her, cheering. Beneath, on the entertainment center itself, a crowbar is propped up against broken-in boxing gloves.

  Another dozen questions beg to be asked, but my internal clock pushes me toward the exit. She tucks two almond cookies in my hand, then shuts the door behind me with a small bow of her head.

  I stride toward the main entry of the building with new energy. The receipts add a certain heft to my bag, while the tea allowed me to recenter and regroup. Hearing how Chang rebelled against social expectations and pushed the envelope of accepted behaviors is reassuring; at least one person in Paris won’t judge me for my evening ahead.

  Chapter 19

  Locals hurry past on foot outside, baguettes in hand and pointed heels clicking the sidewalk. The homeless man sits slumped against the wall in his usual spot, but he wears a change of clothes, at least. Tired eyes blink as I walk past him to the phone retailer, where a line of customers winds outside along the wall. A fold-up sign on the sidewalk advertises the latest smartphone release. Shit.

  I get in line behind a tall man with a messy bun of hair and wait. Whatever the length of the queue, it would be better to have a phone on me than not.

  A man in the store’s blue polo uniform steps outside and begins speaking to the crowd. He waves his hands, then retrieves the fold-up sign. A collective groan sounds from the people waiting as everyone disperses. No, no, no. I approach the storefront. The man shakes his head from behind the glass doorway. He turns the lock, then points to a sign listing store hours showing they’re closed for the night.

  I hail a cab. My driver sets off for the p
olice station, down the hill and across the river, while I try not to let disappointment dampen my verve. The closer we get, the harder I gnaw on my thumbnail, remembering those pencil-thin lips and zip ties. That man who tried to abduct me might pop up again tonight, and I won’t have a phone or any means of calling for help when he does. I unwrap another cookie, searching for the sense of calm I felt back in Chang’s apartment. Despite the moment of reprieve, my nerves are on full alert again, out in the cacophonous city with its dark corners and concentrated crowds.

  It’s fine. Everything’s fine. As long as I speak to Valentin, I’m still making progress.

  He’s been investigating Angela’s case and others that may relate without knowing everything I’m doing. Without understanding the nuanced clues Angela is leaving or having all the puzzle pieces that have plagued me since I arrived. But he has access to more information than I do, and a network of people to help him pursue leads on both Manu and Angela. Hopefully, he’s willing to share some of that insight if I begin by confessing some of my morning.

  The taxi rolls to a stop beside the grim stone building. I scan the groups of homeless people loitering in twos and threes out front. Whiskey fogs and imaginary friends occupy the men and women present, and I breathe a sigh of relief that my anti-American attacker is somewhere else. I ask the driver to idle in a no-parking zone, then take the steps two at a time. The lobby is empty. A young man in uniform staffs the reception desk. He rests his chin on his palm until I tap the counter.

  “Inspector Valentin, please?” I ask in French.

  The young man shakes his head. “Sorry, miss. He’s in the field.”

  My heart sinks to my toes. There’s no way of finding Valentin without a cell phone. When I ask for Valentin’s location (and for the young man to breach protocol), he only smirks.

  “Alors?” The cab driver leans a tattooed arm against the plastic partition when I return. His skin is deeply cracked, tan like he spent decades at the helm of a fishing boat before moving inland. Light-brown eyes cast a glance at me through the rearview mirror while I slump into the back seat. Speaking to Valentin was my best plan for the next hour.

  A police siren cuts through the noise of evening rush hour, halting my garbled reply. “To follow! The police, now!” I say in French and point a finger toward the sound. My driver gives a dry chuckle before explaining he’s not that stupid. Then I throw a hundred-euro note through the square opening into the front seat.

  He steps on the gas. We take a hard right on a one-way street toward the Seine River. Parked cars flank each side of the narrow road, and I hold my breath, expecting a stroller or dog to appear out of nowhere. The siren grows louder, closer, as though we’re speeding alongside it but obscured by the string of buildings to our left, until the driver slams on his brakes, catching sight of a stop sign at the last second. He swears, loud and long, like the sailor I suspect him to be, as his head whips back and forth, searching for oncoming traffic. The car rolls forward, but he slams on his brakes again as not one but two police cars come soaring past, the rocking wail only catching up to their speed when they’re well out of sight.

  I don’t even have to butcher the verb for follow again. The driver takes off automatically. We join the throng of cars on the motorway and dip into the tunnel until we are flush with the river. The hum of vehicles and the rush of water beside us echo the length of the tunnel, the longest I’ve ever been in. Sounds from the mini television embedded in the passenger seat are overwhelmed, but the crawl at the bottom of the screen reports breaking news: a body has been found. Another one. Exhaust swells around us, invading the car cabin through the cracked window, making me light-headed the deeper we travel. A dozen vehicles separate us from the two police cars, but we weave in and out of lanes like a gnat, barely idling in one space before flying forward again. I buckle my seat belt. When I look up, we’re three cars behind, and I debate my next move.

  This is crazy.

  Who’s to say the sirens aren’t leading to a break-in, unrelated to the murders?

  What am I doing?

  Thoughts of logic and good sense pinball in my head, but I ignore all of them. We exit the motorway past an open park with ruins. A sign we pass says BASTILLE, and I rack my memory for the plot of Les Misérables. Only a tiny Peugeot separates us from the police cars. They make a sharp left, then abruptly stop beside a residential building with two-foot-wide wrought iron balconies along each apartment window. They cut the siren. My driver parks three blocks down. Taller buildings here cast long shadows as though imitating my sneaking mind-set.

  “Should I wait for you?” He turns to face me from the front seat, causing the Polynesian bird tattooed on his neck to flap its wings. No hint of flirtation, greed, or even excitement colors his face; concern presses in lines around his mouth. I thank him, tell him no, and tip more than I should. I shut the car door, then walk toward the flashing red and blue lights. Loneliness cuts into my giddy adrenaline, my newfound independence and renewed sense of purpose. Being more alone than ever in a foreign city is the consequence of finally embodying Angela’s instructions.

  The scene pulses with uniforms. Compact cars parked along each side of the street offer little in the way of protection, but I stoop and hide as best I can. Voices ring out as another pair of cars arrives, the buddy system all the rage among police. I scan the group for anything resembling the build of my fake cop and even close my eyes and inhale. The only offensive odor I can identify is dog feces on the spit of grass beside me. A lanky woman with skin so dark it could be blue strides from the driver’s side of the first car we followed, all legs and little torso. The pink-faced man from the passenger side of the vehicle jogs to join her on the sidewalk. His crown of curly brown hair and balding center catches the light as he passes into the building vestibule. Valentin.

  Conversation swells the closer I dare to slink. Passing between cars unseen is difficult in my white shorts and blue tank top, one of the dumber camouflage choices of my life. I succeed in wedging between a Renault and a Peugeot about fifteen feet from the entrance.

  “Well? Is he dead?” A woman’s husky voice in French jumps above the noise of the crowd. Her counterpart mumbles something in response, and she sighs loudly. “What? Speak up.”

  “He’s been dead for around a week, but he was moved from somewhere else. Shot to the head. Still all dressed up for a night at the opera.”

  “Same ligature marks as the others? Tattoo?”

  “You got it.”

  “Might be the serial, then.”

  “Captain thinks so. Hey, don’t!”

  “What?” the woman growls. “It’s only a fly. There. See? It’s gone.”

  “Well, it’s a living being. Better to shoo it away than kill it.”

  The woman snorts. “Okay, Buddha.”

  Their conversation fades into the controlled chaos. Dead for a week and moved from another location. Whoever is in there died two weeks after Angela went missing.

  “Can I help you?” The lanky woman towers over my crouched mass, wearing a stern expression. I’d even venture she does not want to help me. When I don’t respond, she yanks me by the arm and plants me on the sidewalk. Voices around the front door of the building pause, and I’m sure my panicked heartbeat is audible to everyone. I don’t know anything about French police except they don’t mess around. Images of Valentin’s own disgusted expression when I sassed him in Angela’s apartment return, and suddenly I can’t remember how to say anything in French. I can only stare at her while the police officer repeats her words more slowly.

  “Are you lost? Are you a tourist or are you French?”

  “No, I . . .” Sweet crap, how do I conjugate? Sweat breaks across my temples, and I cast a glance at the front door, searching for Valentin. Only tall men walk in and out.

  “Are you Mexican? Chinese? Your embassy is around the corner.” She points with a blunted nail down the street, then waves her hands, dismissing me in that direction.

&nb
sp; “American. I’m here to see Inspector Valentin.” My English rings out, and the bustle pauses. If she’s going to dump me off at an embassy, at least shove me toward the right one. A pair of plainclothes cops moves into the building just as someone exits.

  The officer places both hands on wide hips. “Why you are sitting . . . derrière . . . a car?”

  I search for a plausible excuse when heavy footsteps pound in our direction. Inspector Valentin glares at me, sidestepping a man in a black slicker with yellow letters on the back. His mouth forms an angry curl.

  “Thank you, Tremaine,” he says in French. She frowns, then cedes my guard to him.

  “What are you doing here? This is a crime scene, Miss Darby.” Rather than rage at me, at my insolence, my audacity, Valentin’s face gathers into a pinch. He raises a hand, as though to rub my shoulder, before it drops to his side.

  One of the many subjects Angela and I always disagreed on was people—their intentions, their motivations, their treatment of others. While I’ve never been trusting of people—call it a remnant of being picked last for kickball—Angela has always sensed them and given them exactly what they wanted. Why not? she used to say. People see what they want to see, so why not give them what they want if it works to your benefit? Always the socially aware sister. The emotive twin. Staring at Valentin’s exasperated mien, I know she’s not wrong. A swift punch of longing hits my chin, and tears pool behind my eyes, missing my sister—needing her expertise to balance my default behaviors beyond this week, and throughout this life.

  It’s been so long.

  Valentin regards me on the sidewalk, alone and apart from his colleagues. His expression softens.

  I clear my throat and push the sudden emotion aside. “Well, I had my phone stolen so I couldn’t call you, and I had to tell you something. I went to Emmanuelle Wood’s apartment.”

  Valentin sucks in a breath. “And?”

  Nothing comes to mind that will lessen the impact or better couch this news, so I just go for the truth: “There’s a dead body beneath the sink.”