AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

steal them but things can be returned in a quiet way with no one the wiser. I mean if your friend had taken them, of course.”

“He’s a good friend.”

“Good friends need help.” Rene winked, thinking it best to plant the seed and change the subject. “But I still don’t understand how you could have seen those flashes from here,” Rene said. “You didn’t have binoculars, did you?”

“Of course I could see. They were right there.”

“You must have good eyes. How many?”

“Two flashes.”

Rene shook his head. “Impossible.”

“There were two men arguing,” Paul said, his voice serious.

“Then another man came, they were nice, and then . . .”

“What?”

Paul looked away. “My maman told me not to talk about it. She said it could get us in trouble. And we have all the trouble we need. She hates the flics.”

So that was it.

“She’s not alone in that, Paul. But I know someone who’s a private detective. She can do things and not get people in trouble.”

“Like what?”

Rene leaned forward. “I’d have to tell her what you saw. Exactly. But she can make anonymous calls and investigate without anyone knowing. That’s what she does best; she’s a computer detective. No one will know.”

Paul’s mouth dropped.

“A computer detective?”

Rene nodded, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets. Lights twinkled beyond the dark outlines of the roofs stretching before them.

“No one will know?”

“I promise.”

Tuesday Late Afternoon

AIMEE’S CONNECTION at the police judiciare, Leo Frot, had moved to the Finance Ministry. And he wouldn’t return her calls. So she had to take a chance and try to access STIC, Systeme de Traitment de l’Information Fichier Central, the intranet police computer system; she would have to move fast and find Laure’s file.

From her vantage point, a table in the back of a bistro filled with early diners, she observed the crowd. This was a haunt of men and a few women wearing the badge of the DTI, Direction des Transmissions Informatiques, the computer division that was located across the street at 7, rue Nelaton where the DST, Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire was housed. They wore street clothes, no uniforms. A plastic holder was clipped to each jacket bearing an ID card with the blue Ministry crest and the employee’s name. Such a card would be simple to duplicate and would get her past the entry guards. Once inside she’d have to do some “social engineering,” as Rene called it. Faking it expressed it better. The graveyard shift, when there was minimal staff, would be the best time to try.

She finished the dregs of her espresso, paid, and fetched her coat from the rack. It hung under all the others, as she’d planned, since she’d arrived early. By the time she found it, she had memorized the badge of one Simone Teil, #3867 Dept AL4A, clipped to a black raincoat whose owner sat at a nearby table. She drew a sketch of the badge crest and design on the white paper tablecloth. Now she put that piece of paper in her pocket and left.

Late Tuesday Night

JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, AIMEE flashed her plastic laminated ID at the pair of guards behind the tan-and- turquoise reception counter at the DTI. There was a faded, scuffed feeling to this seventies-era building. Even the curling emergency-exit plan taped to the wall had seen better days.

Several men passed through the turnstile and signed out. The guard barely glanced at her badge. “Back again, Mademoiselle Teil?” His partner sat with his eyes glued to the video monitors.

Aimee nodded, keeping her head down, the black-brimmed hat and turned-up coat collar on her neck, hiding most of her face as she scanned the log. Simone Teil’s angular signature was distinctive and easy to copy. She signed in. “My report’s due in the morning.” She sighed. “You know how that goes!”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” the guard said, his eyes darting over her.

Little did he know.

“Merci.” She shouldered her bag, edged toward the turnstile, and inserted her card. The machine beeped and the metal bars locked, barring her entry. Her hands trembled.

She took the card and made a show of rubbing it. “The magnetic tape’s worn. Can you let me in?”

“Worn? But those are the new cards, issued last week!” the guard said.

Great. And her luck to get a talkative guard.

“Go figure,” she said. “Must have gotten scratched in my purse.”

“Odd. They designed them to avoid that.”

“Why don’t you pass me in?”

“Your card should work.”

“Of course, it should! I’ll get it taken care of tomorrow. But just this once?”

He hesitated, looked at his watch. “I’m off in a few minutes.”

She rubbed her head. ”The chief himself called me and insisted I come back.”

“Time to tally the end-of-shift report, Fabius,” said the guard by the video monitors.

He shrugged and took a card from his pocket. She edged into the turnstile.

“You’re sure it doesn’t work?” Fabius asked. “I just checked the card assignments.”

“Eh?”

“Swipe it once more.”

Think fast.

My nail file,” she said, pretending to swipe her card. “That’s “what scratched it up!”

The turnstiles clicked. Thank God he was going off duty. Somehow she’d figure a way to get out. But poor Simone Teil would get a questionnaire next time.

Now the hardest part. Logging on with someone else’s password.

On the fifth floor, as she passed a large photo of President Mitterrand adorning the drab corridor, bile rose in her stomach. She felt a sickening lurch, ran into the restroom, and threw up. Mostly espresso, leaving an acrid bitter aftertaste.

Nerves. Infiltrating the heart of the police nerve center was the most audacious thing she’d ever done. She’d never attempted anything like this on her own. To break into STIC, the interior police file system, what nerve!

Flirt, bluff, maneuver . . . she could do this. Had to do this. Too bad Rene wasn’t here. No system was impenetrable, he always said. The perfect crime was the undetected crime.

She took off her hat, splashed water on her face, cleaned her mouth, and popped some cassis-flavored gum. Think. Prepare.

She opened her oversized leather bag, took out her femme arsenal, thickened her mascara, rouged her cheeks to give color to her paler-than-usual complexion, and outlined her thin lips in red. Carmine red. Her short hair she gelled into wispy spikes. Looking into the soap-splashed, dull mirror she reconsidered. Non, too recognizable. She pulled a blonde shag-style wig out of her bag, combed it with her fingers, and put on blue-tinted John Lennon-style spectacles. Then she said a little prayer as she strode into the large fluorescent lighted room containing fifteen or so metal desks with computer terminals.

“Bon. Better be the right terminal,” she muttered, setting her bag down at the first