AL01 - Murder in the Marais

'Aimee. . .!' Then Morbier quickly corrected himself in the presence of the Brigade members. 'Mademoiselle Leduc.'

He'd changed little. His blue suspenders strained over his wide belly. He flicked a kitchen match, lit up a Gauloise, and inhaled deeply. She could almost taste the tobacco in the stuffy hallway.

'Smoking at a murder scene, Morbier?'

'I'm supposed to ask the questions.' He flicked ash into his cupped palm.

Crime-scene technicians, their lab coats drooping under short yellow rain jackets, glided efficiently amid muffled conversations up and down the stairs.

'Don't tell me you're involved in this dog and pony show,' he said.

'I'm not involved.' She wasn't really lying. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. When she was little he'd always caught her out faster than her father.

The threadbare Turkish carpet in the hall was already tracked with mud. Stein rocked back and forth on a chair, dazedly shaking his head.

Aimee and Morbier sidestepped the crime photographer loaded with camera equipment, heading for the kitchen down the hall.

Stein sputtered to life. 'I'm Abraham Stein. This woman was here when I found Maman.'

Morbier's eyes narrowed. 'Explain how you happened to find the body.'

She shook her head, indicating she wouldn't speak in front of Stein and tugged Morbier's sleeve, nodding her head towards the kitchen. He rolled his eyes, then lumbered after her.

'Temple E'manuel hired me to trail her.' She kept her voice low, remembering that the best defense is a good offense. 'Explain to me why Brigade Criminelle arrived and secured the scene before'—loud banging erupted in the hallway as the stretcher hit the door frame and she stared at him—'you did.'

'Inspecteur Morbier!' A hoarse-voiced detective beckoned to him. 'Forensics needs you. Now.'

Morbier growled and left.

She turned away to hide her relief.

He stopped a few steps away and jerked his thumb at the nearby pockmark-faced sergeant. 'Investigating officer, check the contents of her bag.'

Her shoulders sagged. 'Why?'

He blustered, 'A possible suspect at a homicide should cooperate.'

She attempted to check her anger, keep her tone even. 'I have nothing to hide.'

She dumped her cell phone, expired Metro pass, extra modem cable, two tubes of ultrablack mascara, business cards, pack of Nicorette stop-smoking gum, mini-tool set, and a well-thumbed manual on software encryption smudged with red nail polish.

At Lili Stein's bedroom door Morbier turned to her, his expression masked. 'I want you at the Commissariat. First thing in the morning.' He nodded to the sergeant. 'Escort her home.'

Wednesday Evening

AS THE PILOT ANNOUNCED descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport, Hartmuth Griffe, the German trade advisor, felt an acid taste, drier than the cabin atmosphere, fill his mouth.

Fifty years and now he was back. His heart raced. Despite the surgery, he feared recognition even after all these years. And the past. What if somehow she'd survived?

Suddenly, below the mist, tiny pinpricks of light twinkled in the dusk. The landing gear ground heavily below his feet and his stomach lurched. He fought nausea as the wheels hit the runway squealing and the plane taxied along the blue-green lighted lines. He'd promised himself he'd never come back. The plane braked with a jolt.

'Wie geht's?, mein Herr?' Ilse Hackl, his bureau administrator, greeted him at the gate, with a wide dimpled smile.

Hartmuth caught himself and compressed his lips in a quick grin. What was she doing here?

Plump, rosy cheeked, her snow white hair in a bun, Ilse was often mistaken by newcomers to his office for someone's grandmother. However, she supervised one arm of the trade ministry and newcomers either caught on quickly or left.

'Ilse, aren't you supposed to be on holiday in. . .' He paused, racking his brains. Where had she been going?

'The Tyrol.' She shrugged and smoothed down her shapeless dress. 'Ja. My orders, I mean my job, Herr Griffe, is to assist you in any way possible.' She stood at attention as much as an older woman in flesh-colored orthopedic hose could.

'Danke schoen, Ilse. I appreciate it,' he said, disturbed but determined to take it in stride.

At the curb, she whisked Hartmuth into a black Mercedes. As they glided into Paris on Autoroute 1, flat streams of light hinted at the monotonous strips of housing projects along the highway. On the right after the interchange, the cathedral of Sacre Coeur emerged like an elliptical pearl bathed in lunar light.

The skyline of Paris shone, but not as he remembered it. It was bigger, brighter, a jagged vista ready to swallow him. Already he was desperate to escape.

'These came this afternoon,' Ilse said, as she sat beside him in the back seat. She cleared her throat and thrust a pile of stapled faxes at him. 'And this just now, a memo from Bonn.'

Surprised at this direct approach from the ministry, he leaned forward. Why all of a sudden, he wondered.

'You've read this, Ilse?' Hartmuth's eyes narrowed as he scanned the Bonn printout.

'Mein Herr. . .,' she began.

'Ja, ja,' Hartmuth said, looking straight at her. 'But you are here to make sure I lobby for this trade treaty.' He punched the paper. 'Is that correct?'

Ilse shifted slightly but kept her head high. She pinned a stray white hair back into her thick bun. 'Unter den Linden, mein Herr,' she murmured.

Hartmuth shuddered. Mein Gott, she was one of them.

Now he understood why, without warning, he'd been sent to Paris. The Werewolves, descendants of the old SS, still operated in blitzkrieg style.

The Mercedes pulled into the cobblestoned courtyard of the seventeenth century Hotel Pavillion de la Reine, tucked unobtrusively in a corner of the Marais. This part of the quartier, residence of nobility until the court moved to Versailles, once filled with rundown mansions, decrepit hotel particuliers, had become a Jewish ghetto until Malraux saved most of the area from the wrecking ball. Gentrification had made it the trendiest address in Paris.

Hartmuth could imagine a liveried footman in powdered wig running out to greet him. But the door sprang open courtesy of a bland-faced man wearing a headset with a microphone cupped under his chin.

'Willkommen et bienvenu, Monsieur,' he said.

Upstairs, Ilse disappeared into the room next door to Hartmuth's. In his suite, he stared at his luggage without unpacking and his fingers trembled as they raked through his still thick white hair. He barely felt the old scars but knew they still webbed his scalp.

Sixty-eight years old, lean, tan, with a craggy face etched in a permanent squint, Griffe was too vain to wear glasses. Alone among the antique armoires and gilt-framed paintings, he felt empty. He opened the glass balcony doors, stepping out into the frosty chill air. The vacant playground and fountains of the fenced Place des Vosges spread below him.

Why hadn't he ignored the minister? But he knew the reason why. As the silent architect of previous trade agreements and treaties, only his lobbying glued the EU delegates together. But did the trade summit have to be here?

Under the pigeon-spattered statue of Louis XIII straddling his horse, he'd said goodbye so many, many years ago to the only woman he'd loved. A Frenchwoman. A Jew.