AL01 - Murder in the Marais

Now Morbier sounded like her father. He had actually asked for her help. Nicely. She almost sat back down.

'In other words if I don't, I'd be hindering it?'

'I didn't say that.' He shook his head.

She started towards the door.

'Yet.' He smiled.

'Remember why I got out of this field?'

'That happened five years ago,' he said after a pause.

'I've quit this kind of work, I do corporate investigation,' she said. 'Why can't you ever look at my hand? If you don't answer me I won't consider working with you.' She gripped the edge of his desk, her knuckles white.

His voice sounded tired. 'Because if I look at that burn mark, everything comes back. I see your bloody. . .' He covered his eyes, shaking his head.

'You see Papa burning on the cobblestones, thrown by the blast against the pillar in Place Vendome. Our surveillance van, a smoking rubble from the bomb. And me screaming, running in circles, waving my hand, still gripping the molten door handle.'

She stopped. Several plainclothes types hurriedly put their heads back behind their computers. She recognized some of their faces.

'I'm sorry, Morbier.' She nudged the base of his chair with her foot. 'This doesn't usually happen. Nightmares generally take care of it.'

'There's one remedy for shell shock,' he said after a while. 'Climb into the trenches again.'

But he didn't know Soli Hecht had already thrown her back in.

AIMEE WALKED along the Seine, speculating about the photo fragments. The sunlight glittered feebly off the water and a fisherman's nearby bait bucket stank ripely of sardines.

She trudged over the grooves worn in the stone staircase to her dark, cold apartment, unable to get Lili Stein's corpse out of her mind.

She'd inherited the apartment on the Ile St. Louis from her grandfather. This seven-block island in the middle of the Seine rarely, if ever, had seen real estate change hands during the last century. Drafty, damp, and unheated, her seventeenth century hotel particulier had been the mansion of the Duc de Guise. He'd been assassinated by Henri III at the royal chateau in Blois, but she'd forgotten why.

The ancient pearwood trees in the courtyard and the view from her window overlooking the Seine kept her there. Every winter, the bone-chilling cold and archaic plumbing almost drove her out. The year before, she'd pitched an army surplus tent around her bed that held the heat in nicely. She couldn't afford repairs or the monstrous inheritance taxes due if she sold her apartment.

Miles Davis licked her in greeting. In her tall-windowed kitchen, she turned on the faucet jutting out of the old blue-tiled backsplash. She washed her hands, letting the warm water run over them a long time.

Mechanically she opened her small 1950s refrigerator. A moldy round of Brie, a six-pack of yogurt, and a magnum of decent champagne that she would pop the cork on some day took up one shelf. Beneath a bunch of wilted spinach was a white-papered package of raw horse meat that she spooned into Miles's chipped bowl. He gobbled it up, wagging his tail as he ate. She chiseled the mold off the Brie and found a baguette, hard as a crowbar, in her pantry. She left it there and found some crackers. But when she sat down, she couldn't eat.

She put on two pairs of gloves, leather over angora. Downstairs in her apartment foyer, she pulled her mobylette from under the stairs, checked the oil, and hit the kick start. She headed over the Seine towards Gare de Lyon and her favorite piscine for swimming. Reuilly wasn't crowded at this time, its humid aqua blue phosphorescence splashed jellylike against the shiny white tiles.

'Bad girl.' Dax, the lifeguard, waved his finger. 'Didn't see you yesterday.'

'I'll make up for it. Fifteen extra laps.' She dove into the deep lap lane, her mind and body ready to become one with the heavy warm water. She loved the tingly sensations in her arms and legs until her body temperature stabilized with the water. She established her rhythm: stroke kick breathe kick, stroke kick breath kick, completing lap after lap.

Too bad she couldn't persuade Rene to join her. Heat helped ease the hip displacement common to dwarves. But, of course, he was self-concious about his appearance.

The steamy shower stalls stood empty except for the mildewed tile and soapy aroma. She padded into the changing room, wrapping her old beach towel with ST. CROIX in faded letters around her chest. From her locker she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene's number. Then she stopped. He wouldn't be back yet from the martial-arts dojo where he practiced. She punched in the number again. This time she left a message. Her cell phone trilled and she answered eagerly.

'Leduc, I checked that demonstration you mentioned passing in Les Halles,' Morbier said. 'The group's called Les Blancs Nationaux, infamous for harassment in the Marais.'

She cringed.

'What if a member of Les Blancs Nationaux followed her home?' he said.

Guilt caused her to hesitate. . .what if there was some link?

'You still there?' he said.

'What do you want me to do about it?' she snapped.

'Jump-start your brain and help me. I need more than info sharing.'

There was no way to put him off. Besides, it would be a logical place for her to start.

Abstractedly, she dressed and applied makeup. After she shuffled everything into her gym bag, she looked in the mirror. Her feet were rooted to the damp floor in fear. She realized her black wool trousers were inside out and the label hung outside her silk shirt. Mascara had run on her pale cheeks and given her panda eyes. Her thin lips were smudged with red.

She looked like a scared clown. She didn't want to investigate neo-Nazi punks. Or this old woman's murder. She wanted to keep the hovering ghosts at bay.

Thursday Morning

HARTMUTH STARED AT THE fluorescent dial of his Tag Heuer watch—5:45 A.M. Place des Vosges, swathed in mist, lay below him. A lone starling twittered from his balcony ledge, lost when its flock headed south, Hartmuth imagined. He sipped his cafe au lait in the gray light. The aroma of buttery croissants filled his room.

He felt overwhelmed by regrets–his guilt in loving Sarah and most of all for not saving her all those years ago. A knock on the adjoining door of his suite startled him. He pulled his flannel robe around himself, redirecting his thoughts.

'Guten tag, Ilse.' Hartmuth smiled as she entered.

Ilse beamed, eyeing the work pile on the desk. With her snowy white hair and scrubbed cheeks, a gaggle of grandchildren should be trailing behind her begging for freshly baked mandelgeback. Instead, she stood alone, her stout figure encased in a boxlike brown suit with matching support hose, pressing her palms together.

Almost as if in prayer, he thought.

'A milestone for our cause!' she said, her voice low with emotion. 'I am proud, mein Herr, to be allowed to assist you.'

Hartmuth averted his eyes. She bustled over to close the balcony doors.

'Has the diplomatic courier pouch arrived yet, Ilse?'

'Ja, mein Herr, and you have an early meeting.' She held out a sheaf of faxes. 'These came earlier.'

'Thank you, Ilse, but'—he raised his arm to ward off the faxes—'coffee first.'