AL01 - Murder in the Marais

the tattoos circling his hand. 'The SS motto—'My honor's name is loyalty.' Those ideals have never died.'

'Where do you get this old propaganda?' Hartmuth asked, amazed.

Thierry's eyes welled with tears. 'My life is a sacrifice for the Aryan way of life.'

Hartmuth shook his head. 'She's in danger.' His voice had become urgent.

'It's good to know some things never change,' Thierry said. For the first time he smiled.

'What do you mean? She's your mother,' Hartmuth said.

Aimee moved closer to Hartmuth. 'What does she look like?'

'Her eyes are incredibly blue,' he said. 'She wears a black wig. You have to find her.'

'She's a Jewish sow, a defiled receptacle for Aryan seed, that's all.' Thierry's eyes flashed with hate.

Aimee was alarmed. 'Let's go, Thierry.'

Hartmuth looked incredulous. 'How can you say that? That's old talk, it never mattered.'

Thierry bowed abjectly. 'Can you accept me as your son, defiled as I am?'

Hartmuth slapped him. 'Your brain is defiled!'

Thierry nodded. 'True.' He knelt down. 'I will purify myself, cleanse her presence from me,' he begged. 'I will find the Jewish sow. Purge our line for the master race.'

Aimee pulled him up, grabbing his arm. She had to get him out of the dank, chill courtyard before he did anything else. She shoved him past the Minotaur, almost tripping over the bench.

'You warped, sick. . .!' Hartmuth yelled.

'I will prove myself,' Thierry said as Aimee dragged him towards the back door of the museum.

'Wait. . .' Hartmuth cried but they were gone.

THIERRY JERKED Aimee against the wall outside the Picasso Museum.

'Find her!' he said and was gone.

Cold and tired, she trudged over the Seine to her apartment. Miles Davis sprung on her as she entered her unheated flat. She jiggled the light switch until the chandelier shone dimly, then kicked the hall radiator, which sputtered to life and died.

Chilled to the bone, she went to the bathroom and turned on the chrome faucets full blast in her black porcelain tub. Her father's old Turkish robe, frayed and blue, hung over the heated towel rack. When her apartment's heat failed, she'd warm up in her claw-footed tub; there, her thoughts were released and she could order the compartments of her mind. Put ideas together, make sense of what she knew. She sank into the welcome warmth as her mirror fogged with steam and the sweet aroma of lavender Provencal soap filled the room.

She'd proved Thierry was Hartmuth's and Sarah's son. After Hartmuth accepted that, he'd revealed Sarah had survived and was in danger. Not only did Hartmuth want to find her, a crazed Thierry did, too. Thierry's anger frightened her and she still wasn't any closer to knowing who killed Lili. On top of that, Rene hadn't gotten back to her and she was worried about him.

She heard the click of her answering machine.

'Leduc, answer, I know you're there,' came Morbier's voice on her machine.

She got out of the now lukewarm tub, intending not to answer. As she dried her hair, she heard the insistence in his voice. Finally she picked up the phone in her bedroom.

'You don't have to yell, I just got out of the bath,' she said.

'Meet me in the Place des Vosges, at Ma Bourgoyne, the cafe with the good apple tarte tatin,' he growled.

'Give me one good reason, Morbier,' Aimee said in a tired voice.

'Intuition, gut feeling, whatever you want to call it, just that feeling I get that's kept me in this business this long. Get dressed, I'll be waiting.' He hung up.

She whistled to Miles Davis who scampered off her bed. 'Time for you to stay with Uncle Maurice. I want you safe.'

Thursday Afternoon

AIMEE WALKED THROUGH THE long shadows cast across the courtyard of Hotel Sully. Dark green hedgerows manicured thinly into fleur-de-lys shapes broke up the wide gravel expanse. This tall mansion, another restored hotel particulier, gave access to Place des Vosges via a narrow passageway.

She'd left Rene a message telling him where she was meeting Morbier. Rene's cautionary tone pulsed in her brain and she felt open to attack. Threatening faxes, graffitied threats, and hostile cars forcing her off her moped hadn't disturbed her as much as the virus attack on their computer system. Computers were their meal ticket. Her Glock, loaded and ready in her jeans pocket, was molded to her hip.

A buttery caramel aroma drifted across the courtyard. Her mind darted to the warm, upside-down apple tart for which Ma Bourgoyne was famous. The restaurant lay past this narrow passage, under the shadowy arcade of Place des Vosges. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene's number again. No answer.

As she turned to open her backpack, a hot burning stung her ear. Powdery plaster spit from the stone arch as a neat row of bullets peppered the wall.

She dove over the damp cobblestones and hugged a thick pillar, quickly grabbing the Glock from her pocket. If she hadn't turned, her brains would be splashed on the cobblestones right now.

She touched her ear, grazed by a bullet. Her shaking fingers came back sticky red and metallic-smelling. It hadn't even hurt. She was scared and didn't know where to go. Bullets that seemed to be coming from above her systematically blasted the pillar's edges. She was an easy target. Already the column had been shaved to a quarter of its size.

She gripped her pistol with two hands to steady her aim, took a deep breath, and fired a round at the roof. Counting her shots before she finished them, she sprang and somersaulted, still firing. Her left arm banged into the arched passage entrance and sharp pain shot through her back. She prayed her shoulder wouldn't go out on her now.

It had to be Morbier! He'd called to meet her at the cafe around the corner. Consistently he'd warned her off Lili Stein's investigation. He'd set her up. Rene was the only person, if he'd gotten her message, who'd know she'd be here.

Ahead, the dark passage lay deserted. Keeping under cover behind the crumbling colonnade, she reloaded the Glock. Was he shooting at her himself or had he gotten a B.R.I. marksman? Crouched in the shadow, she took aim at the courtyard in front of her. Her hand shook. She didn't know why he would betray her.

He'd strung her along and she hadn't even suspected him. What a traitre! She'd trusted him, felt sorry for him. A colleague of her father's!

A puff of air whizzed by her cheek and plaster fell into her eyes. The sand and pebbly grit blinded her. She squirmed over the gravel towards the exit, trying not to go in a straight line. At least towards where she thought it was. Her tearing eyes finally blinked the sandy granules out. She realized she'd crawled to the opposite side of the wormholed doors that led to the Place des Vosges. Further from escape. A short figure pushing a baby stroller appeared near the door, about to enter the passage. Someone innocent was about to be killed; she had to warn them.

'Get out!' Aimee screamed at the figure with the stroller as she scooted backwards, propelling herself against the limestone wall. 'Go! Run!'

She twisted back on her stomach and aimed below a dark-paned window. More puffs of ivory dust splattered in a row as her shots hit the colonnade. No thud, grunt, or low-lying shuffle. Nothing. Where were the shots coming from?

And almost too late, she looked up. To her left on another roof, a glinting barrel of a ground-sensor rifle poked over a gargoyle's ugly snout. Pointing at her.

Suddenly, the baby stroller reappeared, sliding into the courtyard. The stroller's wheels popped and hissed,