Murder in the Sentier

He’d repair a thrown rod and make it smooth as lambskin, get a grinding gearbox purring in no time. If Anton suspected shadows in his workman’s past, he ignored them. Ignored them in favor of the forty percent markup he made on Stefan’s installation of Bulgarian-made parts stamped MADE IN GERMANY.

“Fits like a woman’s stocking,” Anton said loudly. He shouted at Stefan as if he were half-witted, not just partly deaf.

Stefan slid in the fuel injector, the socket wrench ratcheting with a grating noise side to side. Suddenly, his co-worker’s air gun shot lug nuts onto the tires on the huge Mercedes truck opposite.

Like bullets.

Stefan jumped. He always did. He couldn’t help it.

“This little lady could use some oil, then voila,” Anton said. “You know how to write the invoice, eh, Pascal?” His eyes narrowed.

Stefan nodded. He hated the name Pascal.

But he had to make do. Twenty years of making do, with his glasses, dyed hair, and the hearing aid. He’d lost a lot of his hearing in the explosion. His hair grayed naturally now and he didn’t need to retouch his sideburns and mustache every month.

Outside the garage, the boulangerie’s metal awning rolled down, slat by slat. In the square, Stefan saw the orange-red of the traffic light flicker in the twilight. Everyone was going home. Home to someone.

Stefan’s mind rewound as he put his tools away.

After the robbery and kidnapping, the gang had regrouped at their safe house in the woods.

But safe it wasn’t. Some maggot had informed on them.

Stefan had been in the back barn, repainting the car, when smoke, screams, and loud thuds reached him. The flics were firebombing the old farmhouse. He ran from the burning barn through the woods, as rippling gunfire tore the alder tree trunks behind him. He ran for miles without stopping, his body scratched and torn when he emerged.

He was panting and exhausted when he came out of the underbrush and crossed over the highway, running from the sirens.

A rusted-out Opel 127’s wheels were askew, its right front tire stuck in the ditch. Stefan helped the plaid- jacketed old hunter, who was grinding his wheels, to get out of the mud. He helped him push the car onto dry ground, then asked for a lift. Glad for the help, the hunter happily obliged and even shared his black bread and wurst.

Then the bulletin concerning the shoot-out had come over the radio. Stefan had never forgotten the hunter’s face when he realized Stefan’s identity. The man tried to hide his reaction but his shaking hands on the steering wheel gave him away. He pulled over onto an Autobahn emergency turnout and got out, saying he felt sick.

But in the rearview mirror, Stefan saw the old man stumble and run toward the Autobahn, waving his arms frantically for help. Terror-stricken and confused, he plunged headlong into oncoming traffic, speeding vans, and whizzing cars. His body was batted like a marble in a foosball game as vehicles tried to brake, screeching and swerving. Stefan grabbed the Opel’s wheel, pumped the accelerator, and took off. The last image he had was of the man’s body lying in the road like a rag doll as cars piled up.

Near Frankfurt, Stefan careened the car off the highway into rocky brush. But not before he took the old man’s wallet, scraped the serial numbers off the chassis, and buried the license plates under a pine tree. Then he hiked to the train station.

The police would think he’d escaped. Now he’d be on the run for the rest of his life even though his joining the Haader-Rofmein gang was only a fluke.

No. Face it. He’d joined to impress the long-haired girl who’d ignored him, chanting, “Death to imperialist tendencies” when he bought her a beer. He would have done anything for her. He’d ended up driving the getaway car on the fateful day.

Stefan shook the memories aside as he walked home.

Several years ago, he’d begun therapy in Poissy, not far from his village. Why not? Everyone had secrets. His weighed heavy. Especially the old hunter, who hadn’t had a proper funeral, and Beate and Ulrike. He still wished he’d helped them instead of running.

In 1989, he’d verged on confession—there were rumors of an amnesty. But the Wall came down. The Stasi files appeared. Nasty East German files, sure to convict him. He kept silent.

Now there was no hope of presidential pardon or amnesty. He came to the conclusion that Jutta was looking for the rest of the Laborde stash they’d stolen: the bonds, the paintings, and more.

She’d known where some of it was hidden. He’d have to get to it before her killer did.

Saturday Afternoon

“TATOUAGE,” FLASHED THE ORANGE-PINK neon sign around the corner from the tower on rue Tiquetonne. The area was full of apartments and shops, combed by narrow alleys, and courtyards. Sirens wailed in the distance. From a doorway, Aimee saw the flic round the corner, then stop and question a woman with shopping bags. Quickly, Aimee slipped inside the tattoo parlor.

The dust-laden velvet curtains had known better days. Muggy air, tinged by sweat and old wine, clung in the corners. An insistent, low whir competed with a Gypsy Kings tape.

In the large room, a woman in a violet smock, her back to Aimee, filled jars with varying shades of makeup. Aimee stepped into a long curtained cubicle.

Seated before the mirror, a tanned, topless woman fanned herself with a Paris Match magazine. From the edge of her left shoulder to the top of her spine, an intricate lizard design was etched in green-blue. Fine droplets of blood beaded the edges. Hunched behind her, a man with a whirring instrument stared intently at her back.

Aimee winced. The price of adornment was minimal to some.

Not to her.

A muscular man in a tight white T-shirt ducked inside. Tattoos covered his arms: His bald head shone under the reddish heat lamps. He smiled at Aimee, revealing a row of gold-capped teeth.

“Have you chosen?” He pointed to a seat like a dentist’s chair, hard and metallic.

“Chosen?” she said, edging back toward the curtain.

“Your design,” he said, pointing to the walls lined with photos of tattoos.

The coppery smell of blood made her uneasy.

Outside the curtain, she heard the flic questioning the makeup artist in the next room. No way could she go out there now.

The tattooist tapped his fingers on a Formica table lined with instruments.

“So, what would you like?”

Nothing, she wanted to say.

“Try the old Pigalle gangster designs,” he said. “A rooster symbolizing hope, the butterfly with a knife dripping blood for joie de vivre….”

“Like hers,” she whispered, pointing to the tanned, topless woman.

She pulled up her shirt and put her finger midback to the left of her spine. “Here. I don’t want to look.”

“Aah, a Marquesan lizard,” he said. “The symbol of change. With the sacred tortoise inside?”

“Oui, delicate and tres petit.”

The man’s smiled faded. His lips pursed. “That motif doesn’t work in less than a six-millimeter format.”

Footsteps approached.

“Go ahead.” She nodded, then put her head down. She covered her face with a towel and pulled a sheet over her leather skirt, praying it would be over quick. And that the flic would leave.

“I trained with Rataru in Tahiti,” he said, as if Aimee would know. “Of course, he’s the master of the Marquesas.”

Not only would it hurt, Rene would never let her forget this.