Murder in the Marais (8 page)

Friday Noon

"G
ET A TAXI
!" R
ENÉ
yelled. "Our tax extension appointment got moved up."

"Wait a minute." Aimee clutched the cell phone in front of the locker in the Metro station. "Our appointment is—"

"I'm at La Double Morte," he interrupted. "Tomorrow, the tax board goes on a monthlong recess. If we don't meet now, our case goes in default and we'll be liable for an eighty-thousand-franc fine. We're scheduled for arbitration in five minutes!"

That ate up Soli Hecht's retainer and more. They wouldn't have enough left in the business account for the rent check. She grabbed a taxi.

As she ran up the marble staircase of La Double Morte, the clink of the metal chains from her leather jacket brought a low wolf whistle from the janitor. He eyed her suggestively and wiggled his tongue as he wet-mopped the steps. She just missed tripping on the slippery marble and clomped heavily up the staircase. The leering janitor approached as if to talk with her.

Aimee growled, "Watch out, I bite!"

"Good!" he said. "I like that."

She hissed, "Get a rabies shot."

Trapped in her skinhead attire, she wrapped Lili Stein's coat tightly around her. A murdered woman's couture coat, from the fifties and smelling of mothballs, was not the outfit for a meeting with number crunchers.

Her dressed-to-kill look should have been more along the lines of a gray pinstripe suit. She smoothed down her hair, rubbed off the black lipstick, and trudged carefully up the rest of the stairs. When in doubt, brazen it out!

Quite a few heads arose from their desks as she darted to the room marked
ARBITRATION
.

Rene Friant's perspiring face held a mixture of relief and horror as she entered. His short legs dangled from the seat. Every centimeter of him recoiled as she sat down beside him.

Eight pairs of eyes, all male, stared at her from across the long wooden table. A glass of water sat at each place. Computer toner cartridges were piled on the table near her, next to an ancient copy machine. Most of the men wore gray suits. One wore a yarmulke.

"Excuse me," she said demurely and cast her eyes down. "I just received word that this meeting was moved up."

Silence.

The one in the yarmulke glared at her, adjusting the short cuffs of his tight-fitting jacket. "I see no records of past income in the file received from Leduc Detective," he said, without taking his eyes off her. "No statement of deductions either."

He rolled his sleeve up and she saw faded tattooed numbers on his forearm. He'd been in a concentration camp like Soli Hecht. She slipped her hands, covered with SS lightning-bolt tattoos, into her lap.

The man to her left joined in. "I concur, Superintendent Foborski. I also found no record of these."

Here was the superintendent—a concentration-camp survivor–and she was dressed as a neo-Nazi skinhead.

Rene stole a glance at her and rolled his eyes. Under the table she could see his pudgy hands clasped in prayer.

"Sir, these records—," Aimee began.

But the man next to her reached for his glass, promptly spilling water and knocking toner all over her coat. Accidentally or on purpose, it didn't matter. The powdery toner turned into a clumpy charcoal mess all over her.

Even sopping wet and cold, she wouldn't take the coat off. The fake tattoos were probably bleeding all over her chest.

"Pardon, I'm very sorry," he said. "Please, let me help."

Lili Stein's coat was ruined. She tried to wipe the mess up.

"I insist," he said, pulling at her sleeves. "This could be toxic."

"Leave me alone, Monsieur!" she warned.

"Are you hiding a weapon, Mademoiselle Leduc?" Superintendent Foborski's eyes glittered. "If you don't remove that garment, I'll call security to assist you."

Her shoulders sagged. Gently, she pulled her arms out of the soggy coat, dripping and smelling of wet wool. Swastikas and lightning bolts lay exposed through the holes of her tank top.

Eight pairs of eyes fastened on her tattoos.

"This has nothing to do with that—"

"This board will look at no request without the proper forms," interrupted Foborski, "it's impossible to conduct any further business. Consider your tax in default. Penalties will be levied retroactively in addition to a five-thousand-franc fine." He waved his hands dismissively.

"No!" Aimee stood up and looked him straight in the eye. "What I was attempting to say," she began levelly, "is that all those forms have been sent to you."

She rifled through Rene's file and immediately pulled out a blue sheet. "You are," she stopped and spoke slowly, "Superintendent Foborski, I take it?"

He nodded imperceptibly, glaring.

She continued, "Your office accepted and time-dated this receipt." Aimee strutted over to Foborski and laid the sheet in front of him. "Keep it, I've got several."

"Why don't I have a copy in my file?" He looked at it suspiciously. "I'll need to have this authenticated."

She'd dealt with bourgeois bureaucracy before, so she was prepared. "Here's a copy of the sign-in log stating the time I submitted them, with the tax revenuer's stamp, if that's any help to you."

He stared at the paper and shook his head. "Take this for verification," he said to his colleague.

Aimee went back, sat down, and gave them what she hoped was a professional smile. "As you know from the form, I'm a private investigator. I don't usually look like this, but in my current case"—she turned to Foborski and looked again in his eyes—"the part demands it."

Aimee passed her investigator's license, with the orange code symbol on it, around the table. She focused on the next most hostile pair of eyes and said matter-of-factly, "Can you bring me up to speed on what points my partner and you have negotiated so far?"

A
FTER AN
hour of negotiations, she and Rene walked down the marble staircase, partially triumphant.

"Only a seven-day extension." She looked at Rene ruefully. "We need three months."

"Even with Hecht's retainer, we're short. Of course, if our overdue accounts paid their balance we'd make it." He half smiled. "But we'd have better odds buying lottery tickets."

Near the exit to Place Baudoyer, they sat down on the wooden bench. Rene pulled out his ever-present laptop. Aimee hesitated—should she confide in Rene?

Years after the bombing, she still woke up screaming from the same nightmare. She'd be crawling on cobblestones slippery with blood amid broken glass in the Place Vendôme. Her father would angrily demand that she hurry and piece his charred limbs together so he wouldn't be late for his award dinner. "
Vite,
Aimee, quickly!" he'd say out of his melted, burned mouth. "I have no intention of missing this!" She'd wake up terrified and run through her dark, cold apartment.

Only once, after too much Pernod, had she told Rene about her nightmares and the bombing. Right now, she had to talk with someone she trusted.

"I need a sounding board," she said. "Got an ear?"

He nodded and left his laptop unopened. "I thought you'd never ask."

She told Rene most of what had happened since Soli Hecht had hobbled into their office. She'd already told him about finding Lili Stein.

"I wonder if Foborski attends Temple E'manuel Synagogue, the ones who supposedly hired me," Aimee continued. "Or if Abraham Stein does."

"So?" Rene said. "I can't see Stein asking a fellow synagogue member to deny you a tax extension."

"No, of course not." Aimee shook her head. "It's just strange that Foborski didn't have those forms."

"Let me help you."

She shook her head. "I'm reserving you for computer work." His hacking skills were the best she'd ever seen besides her own. Even better than her own. She saw the rejection in Rene's downcast eyes.

"Because I'm small?"

"Stop that. I dealt with your size long ago. You're my best friend."

"And tact is not your strong suit, Aimee," Rene said. "Even though you're my best friend, too. Do you think if I were tall I'd be able to help you?"

"
Alors!
This has nothing to do with your size, Rene. Lili Stein's homicide isn't our usual corporate crime."

"Don't count me out, Aimee."

"I swore on my father's grave." She put her head down. "Now I've blabbed to you."

"You swore to deliver something to Lili Stein. You did. Remember, I'm a black belt." He nudged her proudly. "And a good backup."

She sighed. "You keep reminding me."

"What about Soli Hecht?"

"He said no contact."

"Come to the dojo with me. You need all the self-defense kicks you can master."

"Merci."
She squeezed his hand. "I'm going to see Morbier. He should have the forensics report by now."

"What is that stuff on your fingernails?"

"Like it? It's called Urban Decay," she said. "I'm going to Les Blancs Nationaux meeting tomorrow."

"Why?"

"If they murdered Lili Stein. . ."

He interrupted. "You need backup with those types, Aimee."

She hesitated. That might not be a bad idea. But if it was a setup. . .She decided against exposing him to danger.

"If I need you I'll call you." She kissed him on both cheeks. "Pressure Eurocom's accountant, make him sweat. See you later at the office."

L
E
C
OMMISSARIAT
de Police seemed quiet for an early Friday afternoon. Few desks were occupied and the television blared an old American rerun of
Hunter
. As Aimee approached, Morbier's head appeared from under his desk.

"Lost the grip that holds up my suspenders," he said with a sheepish grin.

"Try this." Aimee plucked a safety pin from her jeans and passed it to him. "I've got plenty."

Morbier hitched up his trousers and pinned them.

"Just for that, I won't comment on your appearance." He smiled and sat down heavily at his desk.

Her father would have said something like that.

"Look, Morbier," she began. "I need a favor."

"You're a big girl now, I know," he said stiffly. "Our investigation will remain professional." He winked.

She controlled her impulse to stuff the cigarette dangling from his mouth down his throat. One minute he played hard-line and by the book. The next, he became a paternalistic old coot who couldn't express his feelings. She wished he'd decide on the role, then play it.

"I'd appreciate Les Blancs Nationaux's phone records, calls made and calls received," she said. "I want to know who Rambuteau talked with when I was in the office."

"Back up here. Who's Rambuteau?"

"A born-again Nazi who could be setting me up."

"Why?"

She hesitated. "I'll know when I infiltrate Les Blancs Nationaux's meeting."

His eyebrows lifted. "How did you manage an invitation? They don't let just anyone in—the scum level is high."

She told him.

"Maybe you shouldn't go."

"It's a bit late now."

He whistled. "Could be a trap."

"Exactly. Can you get me the phone numbers?"

Morbier's mouth hardened. "Before I do anything, hit me with the real reason you're mixed up in this Stein pot-au-feu."

"Maybe if you believed in community policing and made friends with the rabbi at Temple E'manuel"—her shoulders tightened—"he wouldn't have called me about Lili's shoplifting." She paused, realizing she had to be more careful. . .what if Morbier contacted the rabbi? She shifted the conversation's focus. "I'd like to see the forensics report."

"Me, too." Morbier scowled. "Somehow it's lost in the shuffle between the Brigade de Recherches et d'Intervention, the Brigade Criminelle, and the Commissariat," he said. "You know, the usual rivalry in our three-pronged justice system. Either of the other two would sooner let someone escape than let us at the Commissariat grab them."

To avoid him venting his frustration on her, she tried being sympathetic. She sighed, "Why don't the branches work together?"

"Our squad car radios can't even communicate with each other. Napoleon's theory of divisiveness still prevents us from ever getting together to overthrow the government."

She grinned. "An interesting idea that makes for lousy police work."

"Supposedly, the feds at BRI have a covert operation." He rolled his eyes.

She could tell he was warming up, testing whether to toss a few morsels her way.

"Far as I'm concerned they're all clowns. But you never heard that from me."

"In other words, be careful not to step on anyone's territorial toes?" she said.

"That's one way to put it," he said. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the crime scene photographs and a clear plastic Baggie which he dangled in front of her eyes. Jumbled inside were dirt, scraps, and leaves.

"Voila."

She reached up but he slipped the Baggie behind his back.

"My commissaire has become extremely interested in this case." He shook his thick finger at her. "Share and share alike, Leduc?"

He'd make her pay for every particle of information. She bit back her nasty reply.
"D'accord."

He pulled out two pairs of tweezers, gauze masks, and sterile plastic bags. Aimee put on a mask. He wiped his arm across the top of his computer terminal, laid down newspaper, and dribbled the Baggie contents.

"Where did your men find these?"

"You tell me." His eyes narrowed.

She remembered the splinters in Lili Stein's palm and the bloodless swastika. "You mean she was murdered in the light well?"

He nodded. "There's evidence of a struggle—forearm bruising, linear marks on fingertips from the ligature, concrete bits under her fingernails, metal scratches from the screws in her crutches. Points to the perp dragging her upstairs."

One hell of a struggle, Aimee thought. She leaned over and smelled the damp earth from a cluster of dirt-encrusted leaves. She gripped the tweezers and picked up a mud-spattered paper strip covered with numbers. Carefully, she lifted a length of variegated-colored wool, then a centime-sized cloudy, plastic cylinder. She peered intensely at each. She left the knobby pink button in the Baggie. Aimee turned the Baggie over, pointing out the double interlocked C's on the button.