Aimee heard the whine of metal grinding metal and whish of air brakes as the train pulled in. She slid through the door of the train bound for Porte de Vanves, full of Parisians going home from work. She clutched the overhead rail as her head spun and she felt sick to her stomach. Who was telling the truth? Could Rene, her partner and friend since the Sorbonne, have turned on her? Had he really been protecting her when he told her to run? Of course he was. His protective behavior ran consistent with how he always treated her. Usually to her annoyance.
Then there was Morbier. He'd lied about investigating Lili and had certainly been acting out of character.
She got off at Chatelet. At the kiosk she bought a recharger for her dead cell phone. Commuters washed around her like a wave on the platform, parting before her at the last minute. In the black designer suit she blended in well with the professionals at rush hour. After she had inserted the charger her phone beeped immediately.
'Yes.' She looked at her wristwatch.
'About time,' Thierry said. 'You're a hard lady to reach. Found her?'
'We need to meet,' she said.
'Bring Sarah to my office in Clingancourt,' Thierry said.
No way in hell would she do that.
'Meet me at Dessange in Bastille, thirty minutes.'
'You mean that hair place? How can. . .?'
'In thirty minutes. After that I'm gone.' She clicked off and called Clotilde.
JUST BECAUSE she was on the run, with skinheads and the police all searching for her and unable to return to her apartment, it wasn't reason enough to have greasy hair. Clotilde lathered Aimee's hair with henna as Francoise, the proprietress, escorted Thierry to the shampoo area.
Nonplused, Thierry asked, 'What's this all about?'
'Sit down. You could use a trim,' said Aimee.
He snorted. 'Cut the smart remarks.'
'A full-service salon, nails, facials. Why not take advantage?' she said beneath the suds, smiling at Clotilde, who massaged her scalp. Thierry fiddled with his hands and looked uncomfortable. She indicated a space in the light and airy salon, bustling with colorists in lab coats, women with tin foil wrapped in strands like antennas from their heads, and huge blown-up photos of waiflike models on the walls. Hair dryers and vintage disco music kept the beat in the background along with the hot ammonia smell of permanent waves.
Thierry either had to stand and talk down to Aimee or lie back on a chair and get a shampoo. He chose to stand. 'Have you found her?'
'If I have, what does that mean to you?' Aimee said as Clotilde rinsed her warm soapy hair.
'That's your job. I asked you to help me,' he said. 'Now that we found my father. My real father.'
'Why do you want to meet her?' she said.
'It's only natural, isn't it?' he said.
As Aimee sat up and Clotilde dried her hair, she noticed his bloodshot eyes and jerky movements. He clutched and unclutched the leather belt of his storm-trooper coat. She would never engineer a reunion between Sarah and Thierry in his present condition.
'Look, I'm going back to the demonstration at the Elysee Palace,' he said. 'We're forcing the Greens to back down. Showing those idiots that people will take a stand. The agreement will be signed.'
He sounded petulant and whiny for a fifty-year-old man. And scary.
'Do you mean the European Union Trade Agreement?'
He nodded. 'Let me see her, talk with her.'
'I'll ask her. Why did that scum in lederhosen have a heat-seeking rifle?'
Thierry's eyes narrowed. 'What?'
'Tried to pepper me with bullets like a rabbit. In the courtyard of Hotel Sully.' Aimee slouched under the warm wet towel as Clotilde kept tousling her hair.
Thierry reluctantly followed them to a hydraulic chair that Clotilde pumped with her foot. As she looked in the mirror, Aimee found she resembled a drowned furry creature while he looked predatory and disheveled.
'Maybe you want to tell me about it,' she said.
'Sounds like you're getting paranoid,' he said, shaking his head. 'He's busy organizing the demonstrations.'
'Not anymore,' she said. 'And it's too late to ask him.'
Thierry twisted the chair around so fast that Clotilde's scissors and set of combs went flying. Canisters of mousse and styling gel clattered to the floor. All eyes turned to her, straitjacketed in a barber's smock, and a nearly frothing Thierry, who gripped the armrests, shoving his face into Aimee's. Several stylists automatically picked up hairbrushes and one clutched a heavy-duty hair dryer defensively.
'You took out Leif?' Thierry eyes opened wide in disbelief.
'Him or me. That's what it came down to,' she said uneasily. 'Leif looked too greasy to be Nordic.'
'Idiot!' he said. 'A recognized
'He shot at me from the roof,' she said. 'I won't apologize for making it out alive.'
All of a sudden, Thierry looked up and noticed the stylists watching him with raised beauty implements.
His voice dropped to a whisper. 'Bring the Jew sow,' he hissed. 'Meet me at the office tonight. If not, the dwarf won't make the morning.'
It was her turn to be surprised.
'Room 224 in St. Catherine Hospital—your partner, Rene Friant.'
And then he was gone, leaving a whiff of stale sweat.
Francoise rushed over. 'Should I call the
'No, please,' said Aimee. 'Thanks, but nothing really happened.'
Francoise nodded. 'Bad news, eh?'
'In more ways than one,' Aimee agreed.
With dripping hair, she grabbed her cell phone and immediately called St. Catherine's Hospital.
'Friant, Rene? He was discharged five minutes ago,' the floor nurse told her in a flat voice.
She called their office. No one answered but she left a message in a code they'd worked out. She warned Rene and told him to meet her at her cousin Sebastian's later. She left the same message at his apartment. Now she felt somewhat reassured. If she couldn't find Rene, she doubted Thierry could. At least not right away.
The hum and buzz of a busy salon had returned and Clotilde looked at her expectantly, comb and scissors poised.
'Let's talk about color, this brown's too mousy,' Aimee said.
Clotilde just winked and pulled out some swatches. Aimee pointed at several. With a new hair color, dark glasses, and the tailored suit, no one would recognize her in a crowd. In her radical departure from jeans, leather jacket, and scuffed boots she could sing the computers electric anywhere.
While Aimee sat there, she played out all the scenarios in her head. Even though she wanted to blame Thierry for the attack on her, he had seemed genuinely surprised.
Suppose Leif worked for Laurent, whoever he was. Could Laurent, with Leif's help, have disposed of Lili, shut Soli Hecht up, tried to kill her, supposedly shut down Morbier's investigation, trailed Sarah, strangled Javel, and made it look like suicide? To do all that, they'd have needed more help.
One part she didn't get—why not put the rope in her hand, make it look like she killed Javel? The only reason she could think of was that maybe a customer had come in and the killer didn't have the time.
Or the killer wanted attention deflected from Arlette's murder in the past. Make Javel out as morose; after missing Arlette all these years, he'd decided to join her in memorial. That would make sense, Aimee thought. Ever since the TV and morbid tabloid coverage of the Luminol extravaganza, things had heated up. The killer or killers had certainly been working overtime.
And that all brought her back to Laurent. She had to ferret out his identity and protect Sarah.
Her cropped hair now streaked with pale blond highlights, Aimee stepped out into the small cobbled street. A loud appreciative whistle came from the old man behind the nearby fruit cart. She winked at him and smiled to herself.
Opposite the salon, a well-dressed Yves came out of the wrought-iron entrance doors of Brasserie Bofinger.
