AL01 - Murder in the Marais

Aimee stood in front of the board, reknotting her silk scarf, knowing she'd got it right the first time. She hated lying to flics, especially Morbier.

Maybe she should convince Morbier she was thinking of converting to Judaism instead of telling him the truth about an old Nazi hunter who had made her fifty thousand francs richer, hiring her to deliver half a photo to a dead woman. Then hiring her to find her killer.

Madame Noiret pushed sliding glasses up her nose and pointed inside.

'Go ahead, Aimee, Inspecteur Morbier will see you.'

She walked into the seventeen-foot-high-ceilinged room of the homicide division. Few desks were occupied. Morbier's was littered with a stack of well-thumbed files. A demitasse of espresso sat next to his flashing computer screen. His pudgy fifty-nine-year-old body leaned back in a dangerously tilted chair. He cradled the phone against his shoulder while one hand scratched his salt-and-pepper head and the other held a cigarette conspiratorially between his thumb and forefinger. As he hung up, she watched his nicotine-stained fingers with their short splayed nails, rifling in the cellophane-crumpled pack of Gauloises for another cigarette. High above the desks, a TV tuned to France 2 displayed continuous car wrecks, tanker accidents on the high seas, and train fatalities.

He lit the cigarette, cupping it as if there were a gale wind blowing through Homicide. He'd known her father since they'd been on the force together—but after the accident he'd kept his distance.

He gazed at her meaningfully as he gestured towards a chipped metal chair. 'You know I had to put on a show, especially for the Brigade.'

She figured that was probably the closest to an apology she'd get for his behavior at Lili Stein's apartment.

'I'm happy to furnish a statement, Morbier.' She tried to keep the frost out of her voice. 'The Temple E'manuel has retained my services.'

'So the Temple hired you before she was killed?' Morbier nodded. 'Just in case she got butchered?'

She shook her head, then sat on the edge of the metal chair.

'Humor me and explain.'

Morbier could pass for an academic until he opened his mouth. Pure gutter French was what her father used to call it, but then most flics didn't have graduate degrees from the Sorbonne.

'It's not delicate to incriminate the dead, Morbier.' She crossed her legs, hoping her tight jeans wouldn't cut off her circulation.

Now he looked interested. 'You found her, Leduc. You are my premiere suspecte. Talk to me.'

She hesitated.

'Trust me. I never prosecute dead people.' He winked. 'Nothing goes further than this desk.'

And cows can fly. Mentally, she asked Lili Stein's forgiveness. 'Please don't tell her son.'

'I'll keep that under consideration.'

'Do better than that, Morbier,' she said. 'The Temple doesn't want the family hurt. There were rumors about shoplifting.'

Morbier snorted. 'What's this?'

'You know how old people conveniently forget items in their pockets,' she said. 'The rabbi asked me to talk with her, convince her to bring the items back. On the quiet.'

'What kinds of things?'

'Scarves from Monoprix, flashlights from Samaritaine. Nothing valuable.' She tried not to squirm in the hard- backed chair.

Morbier consulted a file on his desk. 'We found brass candlesticks, religious type.'

Aimee shook her head. 'She hid things. Like a child, then she forgot where.' She stood up, stuck her hand in her pocket.

On her way to the Commissariat she'd come up with a logical reason for being in the area. The radio had reported large right-wing demonstrations all over the Marais protesting the European Summit.

'I'd followed her from Les Halles but I lost her at that demonstration. Neo-Nazis were all over. I figured she returned to her apartment so this evening I went there and then. . .'

At least the part she told him about how she found the body was true.

'Let me be sure I understand.' Morbier inhaled deeply from a newly lit cigarette then blew smoke rings over Aimee's head. 'You followed her in case she shoplifted, lost her in Les Halles at a fascist demonstration, then went to her apartment and found her carved Nazi-style?' His eyes narrowed. 'Why were your fingerprints on the radio dials?'

She did her best to ignore his look.

'Mais bien sur! Because I had to lower the volume. The killer turned the radio up to hide Lili's screams, then dropped used tissues on the floor after wiping off his or her fingerprints.' Eagerly she pointed to the crime-scene photos covering his desk. 'But that's an interesting point, Morbier!'

'What's that?'

'The perpetrator might be used to someone cleaning up after him-or herself.'

'Or might be a slob.'

She studied the swastika carved into Lili Stein's forehead in the photograph. It was then she noticed how this particular swastika slanted differently from the graffiti in the Metro. She grabbed a paper clip from his desk, rubbed it on her silk shirt, and then stuck it in her mouth. Chewing and moving it with her tongue helped her think.

In the photograph reddish discoloration under Lili Stein's ears continued along her neck. The thin line of congealed blood showed the ligature that had strangled her. Nothing explained her half–clenched fists except fear. Or anger.

'I'll corroborate your alibi after I check with your dwarf.' Morbier plopped himself back into his chair, rubbing his jowl with one hand. 'We make a deal, you and me. . .'

'Leave Rene out of it.'

'Why should I?'

'You want to use me. No one in the Marais will talk to your flics.'

She knew that ever since uniformed French police had rounded up Jews for the Nazis during the Occupation, no Jew trusted them. Morbier must have figured that if the Temple employed her they trusted her, even though she wasn't Jewish.

'Leduc, trust me.'

She paused. Maybe she could trust him, maybe not. But didn't they say if you knew your enemy you were at least one step ahead?

'I'll agree to share information. Deal?'

He nodded. 'D'accord.'

'Give me the forensics?'

He snorted. 'You did notice the ligature mark under her ears?'

'Of course. I am my father's daughter.' She wanted to add, 'And more.'

Morbier winced at the mention of her father.

'That wasn't all I noticed, Morbier,' she said grimly. 'What about the lack of blood?'

'You wouldn't be suggesting that the homicide took place elsewhere and the victim was dragged?' he said.

'Since the swastika was carved after strangulation, not to mention her stockings were rolled down, her fingernails broken and her palm full of splinters, it would follow.'

'That thought had occurred to me.' He flicked his cigarette into the espresso cup. It sizzled and went thupt. Typical Gallic response, she thought. She noticed his mismatched socks: one blue, the other gray.

'The technicians have been combing the courtyard,' he said. 'If there's something there, they will find it.'

'Time of death?' She riffled her hair, creating more spiky tufts.

He ignored her scarred hand as he usually did. 'Say between three and seven last night. The autopsy may pinpoint the time closer.'

She stood.

'Beyond sharing information, I'd appreciate your help in my investigation.'