She just nodded, afraid to tell the truth. The awful truth.
'Come sit down,' Marie said as she guided her to a booth.
The normal movements of walking and sitting didn't calm her. She laid her head down on the sticky table littered with cups and saucers, took deep breaths, and closed her eyes. She'd been so sure he was dead. When she'd stopped shaking and her breathing was normal, she stood up and retrieved the paper.
It read like any other glossy name-dropping article. Below the photo the caption identified the man as Hartmuth Griffe. She used the pen again and drew epaulets and a swastika on the black jacket he was wearing and she knew. It was Helmut.
'GET A TAXI!' RENE yelled. 'Our tax extension appointment got moved up.'
'Wait a minute.' Aimee clutched the cell phone in front of the locker in the Metro station. 'Our appointment is—'
'I'm at La Double Morte,' he interrupted. 'Tomorrow, the tax board goes on a monthlong recess. If we don't meet now, our case goes in default and we'll be liable for an eighty-thousand-franc fine. We're scheduled for arbitration in five minutes!'
That ate up Soli Hecht's retainer and more. They wouldn't have enough left in the business account for the rent check. She grabbed a taxi.
As she ran up the marble staircase of La Double Morte, the clink of the metal chains from her leather jacket brought a low wolf whistle from the janitor. He eyed her suggestively and wiggled his tongue as he wet-mopped the steps. She just missed tripping on the slippery marble and clomped heavily up the staircase. The leering janitor approached as if to talk with her.
Aimee growled, 'Watch out, I bite!'
'Good!' he said. 'I like that.'
She hissed, 'Get a rabies shot.'
Trapped in her skinhead attire, she wrapped Lili Stein's coat tightly around her. A murdered woman's couture coat, from the fifties and smelling of mothballs, was not the outfit for a meeting with number crunchers.
Her dressed-to-kill look should have been more along the lines of a gray pinstripe suit. She smoothed down her hair, rubbed off the black lipstick, and trudged carefully up the rest of the stairs. When in doubt, brazen it out!
Quite a few heads arose from their desks as she darted to the room marked ARBITRATION.
Rene Friant's perspiring face held a mixture of relief and horror as she entered. His short legs dangled from the seat. Every centimeter of him recoiled as she sat down beside him.
Eight pairs of eyes, all male, stared at her from across the long wooden table. A glass of water sat at each place. Computer toner cartridges were piled on the table near her, next to an ancient copy machine. Most of the men wore gray suits. One wore a yarmulke.
'Excuse me,' she said demurely and cast her eyes down. 'I just received word that this meeting was moved up.'
Silence.
The one in the yarmulke glared at her, adjusting the short cuffs of his tight-fitting jacket. 'I see no records of past income in the file received from Leduc Detective,' he said, without taking his eyes off her. 'No statement of deductions either.'
He rolled his sleeve up and she saw faded tattooed numbers on his forearm. He'd been in a concentration camp like Soli Hecht. She slipped her hands, covered with SS lightning-bolt tattoos, into her lap.
The man to her left joined in. 'I concur, Superintendent Foborski. I also found no record of these.'
Here was the superintendent—a concentration-camp survivor–and she was dressed as a neo-Nazi skinhead.
Rene stole a glance at her and rolled his eyes. Under the table she could see his pudgy hands clasped in prayer.
'Sir, these records—,' Aimee began.
But the man next to her reached for his glass, promptly spilling water and knocking toner all over her coat. Accidentally or on purpose, it didn't matter. The powdery toner turned into a clumpy charcoal mess all over her.
Even sopping wet and cold, she wouldn't take the coat off. The fake tattoos were probably bleeding all over her chest.
'Pardon, I'm very sorry,' he said. 'Please, let me help.'
Lili Stein's coat was ruined. She tried to wipe the mess up.
'I insist,' he said, pulling at her sleeves. 'This could be toxic.'
'Leave me alone, Monsieur!' she warned.
'Are you hiding a weapon, Mademoiselle Leduc?' Superintendent Foborski's eyes glittered. 'If you don't remove that garment, I'll call security to assist you.'
Her shoulders sagged. Gently, she pulled her arms out of the soggy coat, dripping and smelling of wet wool. Swastikas and lightning bolts lay exposed through the holes of her tank top.
Eight pairs of eyes fastened on her tattoos.
'This has nothing to do with that—'
'This board will look at no request without the proper forms,' interrupted Foborski, 'it's impossible to conduct any further business. Consider your tax in default. Penalties will be levied retroactively in addition to a five- thousand-franc fine.' He waved his hands dismissively.
'No!' Aimee stood up and looked him straight in the eye. 'What I was attempting to say,' she began levelly, 'is that all those forms have been sent to you.'
She rifled through Rene's file and immediately pulled out a blue sheet. 'You are,' she stopped and spoke slowly, 'Superintendent Foborski, I take it?'
He nodded imperceptibly, glaring.
She continued, 'Your office accepted and time-dated this receipt.' Aimee strutted over to Foborski and laid the sheet in front of him. 'Keep it, I've got several.'
'Why don't I have a copy in my file?' He looked at it suspiciously. 'I'll need to have this authenticated.'
She'd dealt with bourgeois bureaucracy before, so she was prepared. 'Here's a copy of the sign-in log stating the time I submitted them, with the tax revenuer's stamp, if that's any help to you.'
He stared at the paper and shook his head. 'Take this for verification,' he said to his colleague.
Aimee went back, sat down, and gave them what she hoped was a professional smile. 'As you know from the form, I'm a private investigator. I don't usually look like this, but in my current case'—she turned to Foborski and looked again in his eyes—'the part demands it.'
Aimee passed her investigator's license, with the orange code symbol on it, around the table. She focused on the next most hostile pair of eyes and said matter-of-factly, 'Can you bring me up to speed on what points my partner and you have negotiated so far?'
AFTER AN hour of negotiations, she and Rene walked down the marble staircase, partially triumphant.
'Only a seven-day extension.' She looked at Rene ruefully. 'We need three months.'
'Even with Hecht's retainer, we're short. Of course, if our overdue accounts paid their balance we'd make it.' He half smiled. 'But we'd have better odds buying lottery tickets.'
Near the exit to Place Baudoyer, they sat down on the wooden bench. Rene pulled out his ever-present laptop. Aimee hesitated—should she confide in Rene?
Years after the bombing, she still woke up screaming from the same nightmare. She'd be crawling on
