randomly, sculpted stone rosettes lay on the ground, and marble figures leaned against the walls. But he wasn't eighteen and he wasn't going to meet his lover, Sarah, hiding in the catacombs. He sat down and cried.
FRIDAY
AIMEE HUNG HER PANTSUIT in the armoire of her frosty bedroom, still smarting from Sinta's remark. She kicked her uncooperative radiator until it sputtered to life, not waiting for the dribble of heat.
Her grandfather had scavenged old bricks during the Occupation, tossing them in the fire to retain heat. He'd lined his bed with the warmed bricks, wrapped blankets over them, and slept toasty all night. Too bad the fireplace had been blocked shut since the sixties. She paged Rene, who phoned her back a moment later.
'How do I find out if a group like Les Blancs Nationaux—'
Rene interrupted her. 'Their Web site is infamous, but it's not for the faint of heart.'
'Care to elaborate?' She heard a low moan and muted, rhythmic thuds in the background. 'Am I interrupting something, Rene?'
'I wish you were,' he chuckled. 'I'm at the laundromat in Vincennes next to a spin cycle. Proof that I can't afford the dry cleaners like you.'
Too bad she couldn't even afford to pick up her one decent suit. 'Tell me about Les Blancs Nationaux.'
'Why the sudden interest?'
'The victim's daughter-in-law blames them for the murder,' she said. 'Morbier said they were demonstrating nearby.'
'You mean that old lady carved with the fifty-thousand-franc swastika?'
'You're a regular Sherlock Holmes.'
'Rumor is they videotape their meetings,' he said.
'You mean show them on the Internet?'
'Just for true initiates,' he said. 'Part of a gruesome ritual for full Aryan brotherhood at their meetings.'
Were Les Blancs Nationaux hard-core enough to tape murder? There was only one way to find out.
She accessed the Paris directory via Minitel on her home phone. Les Blancs Nationaux came up listed with a Porte Bagnolet address. She pulled the tall paneled doors of her armoire open wider and gazed inside. She still had all her costumes from when she'd worked with her father. Somewhere inside was the right outfit in which to pay them a visit.
Her cousin Sebastian's biker jacket, which she'd conveniently neglected to return, hung beside a purple-veiled harem costume. Next to the green Paris street-cleaner jumpsuit, behind a starched crisp white sous-chef apron, she found her ripped pair of black jeans from Thank God I'm a VIP boutique on rue Greneta.
She opened her stage makeup kit, a battered box that still occupied a full drawer in her bathroom though she hadn't used it for years. She went to work on her face. That done, she pulled out her wig box, dusty from neglect under her bed, then chose a black one from her collection. She snipped and teased it to the style she wanted.
A beep and hum came over the fax machine from her office. She leaned in anticipation, hoping for an update regarding an overdue account that would enable them to cover last month's office expenses. She grabbed the sheet, then stopped in mid-arc. The top header was the address of a self-serve fax/copy depot near Bastille. The paper held one sentence.
She dropped the fax and grabbed the table edge for support, as the image of the Nazi carving in Lili Stein's forehead flashed before her. Someone considered her worth threatening and she hadn't even begun to investigate.
'SELF-SERVE MEANS exactly that,' the harassed manager of the Bastille fax/copy place told her.
'Wait a minute,' Aimee said threateningly, 'here's the time and date. Who sent this fax?'
'Stick the francs in the machine and it faxes.' He shrugged.
'Somebody's trying to kill me, Fifi.' She edged closer. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. 'Who was in here today?'
'Little or no contact is made with clerks.' He retreated to safety behind the counter.
Her ripped leather biker jacket was fastened with chains; the torn black jeans were welded to her legs. Clunky black biker boots and a tank top with holes that showed tattoos completed her ensemble. SS lightning bolts and iron crosses peeked from her chest amid safety pins, skulls, and swastikas. Her large eyes were outlined blackly with kohl, matching her purple-black lipstick. And her black wig was spiked into a scruffy mohawk.
She questioned the other clerk anyway. He winked, saying it had been too busy. But if she met him later, she could call him Fifi as much as she wanted.
From Bastille she took the Metro to Porte Bagnolet. En route she mentally narrowed possible fax senders from the general public to a few old Jews plus Morbier who knew she was investigating Lili's murder.
Would someone who sat shiva at the Steins' have threatened her? Had Sinta, sparked by anger, faxed her a warning to leave the past alone? No, no matter what Sinta's feelings were about her detecting skills, she wouldn't do that. It didn't make sense, and whatever else Sinta was, Aimee instinctively sensed her practicality.
She found Avenue Jean Jaures, a broad tree-lined boulevard. Every village, town, and city in France had an Avenue Jean Jaures named after the famed Socialist leader and Paris was no exception.
Next to the front door of a flat brown building indistinguishable from the others, a piece of paper with 'L B N' typed on it was fitted into the address slot. Simple and anonymous.
A metallic buzzer above it said
The smell of fresh paint and disinfectant hit her as she knocked loudly. The door was opened by a thin woman in a black jumpsuit who scowled at her. One of the woman's gray eyes wandered. The other looked Aimee up and down.
'You're late!' she said.
Disconcerted, Aimee sucked in her breath and half smiled. The phrase about joining Les Blancs Nationaux evaporated on her lips.
'Don't just stand there,' the woman snapped.
She followed the woman into the office, minimally furnished with steel desks and chairs.
'Traffic. You were expecting. . .,' Aimee said.
'Your arrival twenty minutes ago,' the woman barked. She sat down and appeared calmer. Her wandering eye wobbled less as her fingers thumped expectantly on the metal reception desk. 'Where are they?'
Aimee slid her purple-black fingernails into her tight jeans pockets. She shrugged, then scratched her head.
'Don't even start,' the woman said. She looked angry enough to spit.
Aimee jumped. 'Look, I. . .'
'Last time was enough!' the woman interrupted.
