Murder in the Marais (12 page)

Musty smells emanated from the threadbare carpet, which barely covered the worn tiled floor. Dates, Aimee thought, that's it! She scanned the shelves for the last two meetings, found them, and quickly stuck them inside her black leather jacket. Holding her breath, she zipped her jacket up, which sounded like a buzzing chainsaw in her ear. She held her breath but no one came in. Out in the hallway, more shuffling and dull thuds rose from the staircase.

She looked out and scanned the hall. Seeing no one, she tried the back door. Locked. Impossible to jimmy open without more noise than she felt prepared to make. All the windows faced the street, where the vans were parked. She edged down the stairs.

The party-like atmosphere still reigned as members congregated and moved towards the vans, formerly blue dairy trucks. The group numbered about twenty now. As she slowly backed out of the crowd towards the corner, Thierry caught her eye. He motioned to her.

"Carry this." He handed her a heavy gym bag. "Ride up front." He started herding the group into the vans.

In front, taking up most of the passenger seat, was a stocky skinhead with a shiny scalp dressed paramilitary style. He squeezed her knee. "Stick with me," he said.

"A privilege to be here." She removed his paw from her knee then executed a mock bow in the cramped front seat. "Don't they like me?"

"They're always suspicious of newcomers." He jerked his thumb towards the back of the van. "Everybody gets jittery when it comes to business." He grinned, showing decayed jagged stubs of brown teeth. "Ready for some fun? You're gonna like it, I know."

A whiff from his mouth caused her to look away. Uneasily, she speculated about her newcomer initiation. When Thierry told him to move over so Aimee could sit between them, she shook her head.

"Motion sickness, I need air on my face." She rolled the window down as far as it would go, which was barely more than a crack.

At least she was by the door. Thierry turned the heater on high and it hit her full blast. Conversation en route consisted of Thierry berating the paramilitary type for erasing some message from the answering machine. Sullen and surly, he ignored Thierry, his eyes focused on Aimee. She was starting to sweat inside her leather jacket. The two videos stuck to her like glue, spearing her lower ribs.

Thierry left the broad boulevards of Bastille, turning into dark narrow streets, deserted and quiet. She felt beads of sweat on her brow.

"I'm getting sick. Turn the heat down," Aimee said.

Cries of "It's freezing back here, turn the heat up" came from the back of the van.

"We're almost there," Thierry said.

Businesses were shuttered and the streets deserted. Silence except for the murmuring in the back. That's when she started sizzling. Her perspiration had short-circuited the tape recorder and she was about to fry.

She reached forward and switched off the heat, growling, "It's too hot."

Discontented rumblings came loudly from the back. She grabbed a rag from the sticky van floor and wiped off as much sweat as she could reach. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the skinhead's bandana, reeking of patchouli.

"Keep it." He grinned at her. "So you don't forget me."

The patchouli oil rose from her pores, making her nauseous. Something to do with the sixties.

"Shut up," Aimee grunted.

He giggled. "You're one of my kind."

She noticed another tattoo on Thierry's wrist as he gripped the steering wheel.

"What's that say?" she asked.

"'My honor's name is loyalty,'" he said proudly. His eyes narrowed as if to challenge her.

"Of course! Couldn't read it from here." She nodded. "The SS Waffen motto."

What were they going to do and where would they do it? Could Morbier get
flics
to the Marais in time? And how long would this stinking patchouli ooze out of her?

Sweat trickled off her while the tattered tank top and videos glued stickily to her chest. She used the greasy bandana again to dab at her perspiration, keeping the videos in place.

"An eye for an eye. . .isn't that what this is about?" She pounded her fist on the cracked dashboard. "
Sieg heil
and all that stuff is fine, but getting nasty with some of the kike population. . ." She chuckled, giving Thierry time to fill in the blanks.

"Violent assertion is part and parcel of the solution, but only as a means to an end," Thierry said.

The paramilitary skinhead frowned. "Cut the high and mighty talk! We kick Jew butt."

Thierry steered the van through a slim notch in the medieval cloister's wall into the small square of Marche-Sainte-Catherine.

Aimee pressed further, "No, you know, like help with the final solution. Take care of them, one on one?"

She never heard the answer. Motorcycle engines gunned loudly as an amplified voice instructed them to pull over. From out of nowhere the small square filled with blue flashing lights and motorcycle police.

"Alcohol check. Out of the van.
Allez-y!
" said a helmeted patrolman.

"Merde!"
Thierry said under his breath. "Of all nights."

"Funny coincidence," someone said from the rear. "Since she graced us with her presence."

"Save your bad breath for the
flics
," Aimee said and hoped Morbier's tactic worked.

"Out!" the
flics
shouted. They tore her door open and slid the van door back. She struggled and elbowed the surprised
flic
in the ribs, shouting, "Get your hands off me." She started to kick him in the ankles.

She wanted to be arrested. Desperately. Get out while undercover and with the videos under her jacket. She'd take advantage of the police check, whether a ploy of Morbier's or not.

Suddenly a boot slammed against her hip, knocking her across the
flics
and their raised billy clubs. There were hoarse shouts of "Fascist pigs" and then all hell broke loose. Cries of pain echoed in the small square. She started crawling on the wet cobblestones. She made it to the other side of the van and almost got away.

"Hurry up," Thierry yelled, pushing her in, and flicked on the ignition.

She didn't have time to appreciate the irony of the situation or plan how she could escape. As they pulled away, Leif jumped in the open sliding door and clanged it shut.

Thierry's foot jammed down the accelerator. That caused the van to careen wildly and Aimee to shield her face with her arms. The van lunged towards a gurgling, mossy waterspout over St. Catherine's statue. Scraping the side of the van and chipping the statue, Thierry righted the steering wheel and gunned out of the square.

"Who are you?" Leif said from behind her, sticking something sharp in her rib. He slapped her hard with the back of his hand.

Thierry shouted, "Cut it out, Leif. . ."

"In my past life?" she said. Her cheeks stung as she peered down. "Get that knife out of my chest."

"After you convince me you had nothing to do with what just happened," Leif growled.

"What are you talking about? I'm with you," she said.

"Lay off," Thierry said. "You're too paranoid."

"Alors!"
Leif said. "Look what happened last time." He plunged the knife into the already cracked dashboard, causing the windshield seam to split.

In one movement, she pulled the handle, kicked the door open, and flung herself out. As she landed, she tried to roll away from the wheels of a car following right behind. Her shoulder crunched as it hit the pavement. White-yellow pain seared up her arm. Dislocated shoulder if I'm lucky, she thought. Scrabbling to her feet, she stumbled, then ran. Behind her she heard the squeal of tires, a crash and the tinkle of breaking glass as a car hit Thierry's van. That gave her an extra minute before she heard loud pounding footsteps behind her. The van coughed, sputtered, and started up loudly.

The narrow one-way street echoed with her running steps. Behind her she heard more footsteps and the gunning of the van's motor. Around her were silent, dark stone buildings. Only a few scattered windows showed a faint glow from behind a curtain. Don't other streets connect here, she wondered frantically, vainly searching for another street to turn into. But she was surrounded by the last medieval vestiges left in the Marais. The long circular lanes designed the keep invaders out were keeping her in. She heard labored breaths right behind her. Puffing and sweating, she willed her rising panic down. A lichen-covered wall looking ten feet thick and reaching two stories high blocked her way.

Dead end. A dead-end dungeon.

To her left she saw a narrow stone passageway between the walls. Swerving into it, she ricocheted off some metal garbage cans that banged noisily, and kept on running. She heard the clanging of metal as someone behind her ran into them, too, stumbled, and yelled "
Merde
." This was too narrow for a vehicle. The damp air hit her lungs and her breath chugged painfully. From the dark corners she could hear the squeal of rats. Ahead, down the shadowy passageway, shone the fuzzy yellow globe of a street lamp.

When she reached it, she veered away from the sound of an engine to her left. Behind her she caught a glimpse of a taxi with a blue light signaling that it was free.

She switched back, keeping up her pace, and yelled, "Over here."

The taxi started to speed away.

"Rape! Help, rape!" she screamed.

The taxi slowed down. Aimee realized the chasing figure had probably appeared in the taxi's rearview mirror. Just as she was reaching for the door handle she heard heavy breathing and shouting right behind her. This person could easily pull her out of the taxi. She feinted to the right. Whoever was behind her lunged and just missed grabbing her jacket as she turned. She heard an "Ouff" and a heavy thud as she sprinted away. The taxi gunned its engine and sped off.

Down the slippery, glistening pavement she ran. Keep going, she told herself. Her lungs burned and dull slivers of pain shot up her arm, still hugging the videos to her chest.

Finally she saw the welcome traffic and lights of rue St. Antoine with plenty of taxis. Thank God, she thought, and took as deep a breath as her painful shoulder allowed. As she stepped out, the other blue van from the ClicClac screeched to a stop in front of her.

"Get in," Yves shouted and gestured to her.

Behind her she heard the running footsteps again, echoing off the walls. Coming closer.

"Hurry up!" Yves pulled the handle from the driver's side and the dented blue door swung open.

Before she could pull the door shut, he'd shot down busy rue St. Antoine.

"Where were you?" Aimee asked suspiciously. Why hadn't he been with the rest of the group?

"Behind everyone." He jerked his arm towards the back of the van. "Since I do most of the video I carry the equipment. Thierry trusts me."

Aimee groaned.

"What happened to you?" His dark eyes held concern. He threw his jacket at her. "Take mine. It's warmer."

"No thanks." She couldn't take her smelly, ripped leather jacket off since the recorder was still taped to her back and the videos bulged out of her tank top.

"I need some anesthetic," she said. "Let's get a drink."

Yves jerked the van to a stop in a narrow alley off Bastille, still in the Marais. A waiter shuttered the windows from inside a murky bistro on the corner. She heard strains of a jazz guitar as the door opened and a laughing couple spilled out. If she concentrated, she could probably make her feet walk to the corner and cause a ruckus so the bistro would let them in.

"Listen, this shoulder hurts," she said, feeling giddy.

"I've got just the right thing for that." His black eyes bored into her with a laserlike intensity.

"I seriously need a drink." She started to giggle and didn't know why.

"I've got that too," he smiled.

And a beautiful smile, she noted. Here she was with a neo-Nazi carrying stolen videos—possibly containing an old woman's murder recorded by him. And incredibly attracted to him. He'd seemingly helped her for the second time that night.

"My flat is over here," he said, pointing to a darkened brick turn-of-the-century warehouse. "Can you make it?"

"You leave the equipment in your van on the street?" she said and wondered at her own coherent thinking.

"No one messes with our blue vans," he said. "That's for sure. But"—he pulled out a digicode remote and punched some numbers—"I don't park on the street."

As the metal awning rolled up slowly, Yves eased the van into the warehouse courtyard.

Aimee didn't like the sound of the awning rolling back down and looked for a way out. A narrow side entrance showed a pinhole of light.

"Thinking of leaving?" Yves said, unlocking a door under the vaulted arches of the brick building.

"Not yet," Aimee grinned. "I'm thirsty."

"Let me help you, this is tricky," Yves said, scooping her up. He flicked on a set of lights and carried her down a spiral metal staircase to a brick basement flat.

Warm air hit her, laced with a strong familiar tang. They descended onto a bleached wood floor lined by deep white sofas, a long metal table, and open kitchen. The vaulted arches in the walls had been bricked in and covered by bright batik fabric.

"Site of the old tanning vats," Yves explained, setting her down on a sofa. "This was an old saddle factory. Police and cavalry saddles," he grinned.

Aimee felt sticky and hot but didn't dare take off her leather jacket. Her arm had started throbbing. Funny how things hurt when you had time to think about them, she thought. Sure that the grease and patchouli oil had been absorbed into her pores, she wanted a wash.

"Remy, OK?" Yves said as he handed her a bowl-like brandy snifter.

Aimee hadn't had Remy Martin VSOP in years. She almost purred as it slid down her throat. This neo-Nazi definitely had more class than his comrades.

"I need to clean up," she said.

He gestured. "Be my guest."

She gripped the Remy and hobbled towards the kitchen. Inside his white-tiled bathroom, she put her clothes in a pile on the floor, making sure the videos were secure in the inside pocket of her jacket.