AL01 - Murder in the Marais

SOLANGE GOUTAL LOOKED UP from her work, her eyes swollen with crying. 'Soli's dead. . .the rumor is that he was killed.'

'It's more than a rumor, it's the truth,' Aimee said, setting her leather bag on the granite counter below the chiseled words Never forget.

Solange averted her eyes. 'Go in, the director will see you now.'

Annick Sausotte, director of the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine bustled over to greet her. Extending her hand, she pumped Aimee's, then pulled her into an office.

'Ms. Leduc, it's unfortunate we meet after Soli Hecht's tragic death.' Her quick darting eyes flicked over Aimee's suit and took in her leather bag. 'Please sit here. I'm all yours for five minutes. Then I must run to a memorial luncheon.'

'Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Sausotte. I'll get right to the point.' Aimee perched on the edge of an uncomfortable tubular metal chair. 'The Temple E'manuel has retained my services in the murder of Lili Stein. I believe Soli Hecht, at Lili's request, was investigating someone whom she recognized as a collaborator from the war. There's a connection and I want to know what Soli worked on the day he supposedly got run over by the bus.'

'Supposedly run over by a bus you say, Ms. Leduc?' Annick Sausotte said.

Aimee looked at her sharp dark eyes. 'Someone pushed him in front of the bus,' she said. 'But I can't substantiate that, Ms. Sausotte. Don't you wonder why he would take a bus when his rheumatoid arthritis had been so severe he needed help down the stairs and with his coat? And after he told Solange he'd take a taxi?'

'What do you want from me, Mademoiselle Leduc?' Annick said.

'Access into computer files that Soli worked on that day,' Aimee said. 'I came across his name in Lili's belongings. I believe she'd recognized a former collaborator and asked Soli for help to obtain proof.' Aimee paused. 'That's what got her killed.'

Annick Sausotte leaned forward, her chin cradled in her palms, elbows mirrored on her polished desk. 'Soli was the only one who could have authorized access to his files, but now. . .' She stopped, a look of sorrow crossing her face. 'Of course, that's impossible. Only the foundation can grant such permission.'

'I know he was murdered in the hospital. But I can't prove that either.' Aimee stood up and leaned close into Annick's face. 'There's another woman in danger, a survivor whose family perished in the Holocaust.'

'Are you Jewish, Mademoiselle Leduc?'

'Is that a job requirement? Because I get the feeling that might be more important to you than someone's life.' Aimee paced over to Annick, who rose. 'Someone's after me, too, but they don't seem to care about my religion!'

'You're taking this personally, Ms. Leduc. Please understand. . .'

Aimee interrupted. 'I tend to take things personally when my life is in danger. Will you help me or not?'

Annick Sausotte escorted her to the door. 'I don't even handle that end of the center's operations. Let me check with those responsible and Soli's foundation. Call me in a few days.'

Aime shook her head. 'You don't seem to understand.'

'That's the best I can do,' Annick said as she put her arms into a too large overcoat that engulfed her small frame. 'Please call me tomorrow or the day after.'

As Annick Sausotte rushed out, loud, buzzing erupted behind the reception desk. Aimee paused at the desk, studying the visitors' log intently.

'Solange, there's a delivery in the receiving bay,' Annick said. 'I'll hit the door opener here if you can go down and take it.'

Solange grabbed her key ring, as Annick's footsteps echoed in the marble foyer.

'I'll use the restroom then let myself out with the director,' Aimee said.

Solange hesitated. A shrill voice came over the intercom. 'Frexpresse delivery, I need a signature!'

Solange nodded at her, then disappeared behind the rear door. Aimee heard the click of the front doors closing and quickly scanned the security system. Security monitors showed Annick Sausotte striding to the narrow street and Solange signing a clipboard, handing it back to a uniformed driver, and then turning towards the camera. Then Aimee couldn't see her anymore.

She pulled open drawers until she found the one with plastic identification cards. Underneath were several passkeys and Aimee grabbed all of them, sticking them into her pocket. Aimee stepped inside the partially open door of Annick Sausotte's office. She figured she could stay in the office until closing time, which would be in about ten minutes. Aimee had just kicked off her achingly high heels and crumpled into the tubular chair when she heard Solange's voice.

'Annick, did you forget something?' she said.

Aimee looked over and saw a bulging briefcase on Annick's desk. She realized there was no closet and the desk offered no hiding place. The only other piece of furniture, an antique black-lacquered armoire, stood delicate and three-legged. She opened it to find it full of fragile porcelain.

Nowhere to hide.

She heard Annick's voice as a phone rang. 'It's on my desk. I'll get this call.'

Aimee grabbed her heels and flattened herself behind the door. As Solange walked to the desk, Aimee pulled slowly on the door, almost covering herself behind it.

Solange had picked up the case and turned to leave when Annick said, 'Solange, look for that press packet on the deportation monument, will you? Second or third drawer of my desk.'

She couldn't see Solange but prayed that she'd find it. Quickly. Her nose itched. Unfortunately, her hands gripped her heels and she couldn't pinch her nose shut without banging the door.

She heard Solange rooting through the desk, rustling papers. 'I can't find it. Which drawer?'

She tried pushing her nose against the wooden door to stop her sneeze but that only pushed it open more. She was just about to explode when Annick called out, 'I found it.'

Solange strode out of the room, banging the door shut behind her. Aimee dropped her heels on the carpet at the same time, muffling her sneeze with two hands as best she could. From behind the closed door came low conversation then silence.

While she slipped her heels back on, she dialed Leah's number at the button factory

'Leah, how is Sarah?'

Leah's voice answered in a low, conspiratorial tone. 'At last check, all's well.'

'How long ago did you check, Leah?' Aimee asked. 'Our guest rates among the nervous variety. Probably could use company.'

'Looked in a few hours ago,' Leah said. 'I'm closing up so I'll check. There's a Gruyere souffle with a caper tapenade relish in the oven. . ..'

Aimee realized she hadn't eaten yet today. 'Sounds wonderful. I'll be tied up a while, so please reassure her. I'll call you back.'

Soli Hecht's foundation on the fifth floor resided in what had been poetically called a garret in the last century. The plaque outside his office stated in bronze that Chopin had died in here, consumptive, penniless, and behind in the rent. Now it consisted of whitewashed rooms with slanted eaves and rectangular windows. White particle board ringed the office with continuous counter and shelving space. Several computers sat near a state-of- the-art copy machine and white metal file cabinets took up the remaining space.

The general antiseptic impression was marred by the photo covering a whole wall. A small child's foot hung out of a crematorium oven next to piles of ashes with smiling uniformed Gestapo members poking it with their riding crops. Bold letters below said NEVER FORGET. . .

Aimee's stomach lurched, but she forced herself to stay. She sat down at the nearest flashing computer terminal. She leaned her head against the screen, but still the photo wouldn't go away. What about that little foot? The mother who'd washed it, the father who'd tickled it, the grandmother who'd knitted socks for it, the grandfather who'd hoisted it on his shoulders? Probably all gone. Generations gone. Only ghosts remained.

So Soli Hecht reminded himself of why he worked here, Aimee realized. As if he needed the motivation, being a survivor of Treblinka himself. She started punching keys, playing with possible passwords to access Soli's hard drive. She considered the possibility of the attic effect, that all data storage survives on the hard drive. A user, like Hecht, would think he'd erased information by deleting it. But nothing ever went away. All written code was routed