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Authors: Cara Black

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BOOK: Murder in the Marais
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"Odd," she said. "Lili Stein didn't look the Chanel type."

"Aha!" He let out a big sigh. "The killer wore Chanel and lost a button in the struggle pulling her upstairs." Morbier poked the chunky button. "A designer murder!" He smiled.

She ignored him. "Assuming that's Lili Stein's wool, where are her knitting needles? Or the bag she carried her knitting in?"

And what about Soli Hecht's name in Lili's knitting, the photo, or the threatening fax? She didn't mention any of this to Morbier, especially since Morbier had mentioned the federal BRI, the government's strong-arm enforcement. She'd figured Hecht didn't want
flics
involved due to his innate suspicion of them. But maybe it was something else. . .maybe he suspected corruption.

"Checked the dustbins, public and private?" she asked.

"Dustbins, that's quaint," he said. Morbier made a long face and consulted his notes. "Garbage pickup was that morning and the hotel bin had just been emptied."

She cocked her head sideways. "Which hotel?"

"Hôtel Pavilion de la Reine nearby." She'd heard of this exclusive hotel, multi-starred in the Michelin guide.

"What about this?" She pointed to the scrap of paper in the Baggie. "How near to Lili's body was it?"

"The crime-scene unit noted this was found in the courtyard entrance," he said.

"See the numbers. That looks like a receipt. Let me make a copy," she said. "And I'd like to borrow the photographs."

He nodded.

She took a sterile strip of Saran Wrap, laid it on the copier plate, picked up the paper scrap with tweezers, and set it down. Then she laid another sterile Saran strip over it, put down the lid, and pressed "Copy."

The ripped edge had a number, like the bottom of a receipt. She decided to check the shops near the alley.

"Thanks, Morbier." She eyed a Columbo-style trench coat with a patched lining on a hook. "Yours?"

Morbier shook his head. "I'm on call. Inform me if you find out anything."

"Think someone would mind if I borrowed the trench coat for a while?" she said.

He grinned. "Be my guest, your tattoos are guaranteed to offend every group."

"I do try," she said, donning the coat.

O
UTSIDE OF
La Double Morte, Aimee walked smack into a large knot of people clogging one side of the rue de Francois Miron. Orthodox Hasidic Jews in black stood grouped among bystanders in suits and jeans.

"
Nom de Dieu,
Soli Hecht!" she heard an old woman wail.

Aimee flinched at hearing Soli's name.

Red lights flashed from an ambulance straddling the sidewalk ahead. She pulled the trench coat tighter and started running. She made it to the corner before the ambulance pulled away. White-coated attendants slid a stretcher into the back door. She caught a glimpse of a blanketed mound before the doors clanged shut. The siren echoed off the cobblestones as it sped down rue Geoffrey l'Asnier towards the Seine.

Worried, she shook her head as she stood in front of the bronze six-pointed star on the gate of the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine.

Two men conversed beside her in Yiddish. Both wore the black upturned hats; one was bearded, the other's skimpy suit pants didn't quite reach his white ankle socks.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"Soli Hecht got clipped by the Bastille bus," said the bearded one, switching into French. A Hebrew magazine stuck out of his pocket.

"An accident? Is he all right?" she said.

The bearded man turned to look at her and shrugged. "Hard to say, but they didn't pull the sheet over his head. No
panier a salade
," he said, referring to the blue van that picked up corpses. "An accident? If you believe it was an accident. . ." He didn't finish.

Startled, she backed into the stone wall. "But he's an old man. . .," she trailed off as the men walked away.

The bearded man looked back over his shoulder at her. "Do recriminations ever stop?"

Now, with the crowd mostly dispersed, she saw the blood-stained cobblestones by her feet. A shiver ran down her spine. Lili Stein had been murdered less than three blocks away.

The institutional-looking Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine stood close to the Seine. A bronze memorial to the Martyr Juif Inconnu filled the entrance. Aimee strode briskly past it to the gravel quai.

She remembered the envelopes in Lili Stein's desk drawer addressed to the center, the list in her knitting with "Soli H" on it. Most of all, she thought about Hecht's words. She had put the photo in Lili Stein's hand. But it had been too late. What did Hecht know that put him in danger?

Uneasiness gnawed at her. First Lili, now Soli.

Pigeons swarmed near her feet hoping for bread crumbs as she pulled out her cell phone. Her footsteps popped gravel and the pewter-colored Seine flowed lazily beside her. She shooed the pigeons away as Morbier answered.

"I just saw Soli Hecht put into an ambulance," she said. "Rumor is he got pushed in front of the bus."

Aimee wanted to hear the official spin from Morbier. See if the police were treating it as an accident or attempted homicide.

"Alors!"
came Morbier's reply. "Someone trips in front of a bus and you call me at le Commissariat! Anybody see him pushed? Eh? A perpetrator and a motive would help, too.
Voila,
then you have something."

"Just sharing information." She clicked off.

She didn't like this at all. She hadn't from the beginning. Things didn't smell right, as her father would say. She entered the Center's paved square to inquire if Soli had been there or if someone noticed something. On the memorial, death camp names were chiseled. She gazed, saddened by the long list: Auschwitz, Belzec, Birkenau, Chelmno, Ravensbruck, Sobibor—so many places she'd never heard of. "Never forget" was handwritten in bold letters on a placard propped below.

"Never forget," Lili Stein had told her young son, Abraham. What had Lili meant? Aimee wondered—had it killed her?

The interior of the five-story building blended fifties architecture with anonymous high-tech features. State-of-the-art alarm sensors and high-density vision cameras perched in marble niches above her. On the wall in the sparse reception area hung a directory of the Center's services in several languages.

A small young woman with a thick black braid down the back of her denim smock bustled out to greet her. Her name tag read "Solange Goutal, Administration Assistant."

"Yes, may I help you?" Behind rimless glasses her bright eyes were puffy.

Aimee displayed her ID. "Did you know Soli Hecht was involved in an accident in front of this building?"

"Why, yes," Solange said. Anguish was printed on her face. "I spoke with him as he left."

Aimee hoped her surprise didn't show. "When was this?"

"Are you from the police? Show me your ID again," said Solange.

Aimee kept her smile businesslike. This woman could have been the last person to speak with Hecht before his accident. "I'm a private detective, investigating the murder of the Jewish woman near here."

"Of course I want to be helpful, but how is it related?" Solange said. She pulled a lace
mouchoir
from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.

"My job," Aimee said, frustrated that Solange Goutal was the curious type, "consists of eliminating coincidences to find solid clues and build a case."

Solange's eyes crinkled. "I see." But Aimee could tell she didn't. "Vandals set fire to our Star of David last week. Les Blancs Nationaux didn't claim responsibility, but it wouldn't surprise me if they had."

"Hard to say." Aimee gritted her teeth but kept smiling. She wanted this woman to answer her questions, not pose other questions. "Why don't you tell me about Hecht."

"Well, he needed assistance down the stairs because of his arthritis." She indicated the curved marble stairway. "I helped him with his coat. I always helped Soli if I could. His work is so important." She smiled sadly.

"Did you see the accident?"

She sniffled, holding back tears. "My back was turned, deactivating the security system," she said. "I heard brakes squeal, then a thud. I ran outside but. . ." She closed her eyes.

"You deactivated the security system after Soli Hecht left?" Aimee said. That didn't make sense. "Why?"

"If Soli is involved with a project, he works here any time. We close at noon Fridays for Shabbat. However, today, for the deportation memorial services I came in to finish up some work. Sometime after three Soli buzzed the office so I deactivated the alarm, then let him in. I reactivated the alarm but he only stayed a short time. To let him out I had to deactivate again. In doing so, I forgot to disarm his office alarm code."

"But I just walked in," Aimee interrupted.

"My mistake." Solange shook her head. "I was supposed to activate the process again. But it's so hard to remember."

"He has special access?" Aimee asked.

"Of course!" Solange sounded surprised. "Soli got the grant from the 4th arrondissement for this building space. His foundation maintains an office upstairs. Since the Jews lived and died in the Marais, he always said, their history should be shown here. But this week was the first time I'd seen him in several months."

Startled, Aimee realized that this information fit if his recent contact with Lili involved his work at the center. Keeping her excitement in check, she asked, "What was he working on?"

"That's confidential information," Solange said. She glanced at her watch. "I need to close the center."

"Is there anyone in his office whom I can talk to?" Aimee asked.

"Only Soli could tell you that. There's no one else in today."

Why wouldn't Solange talk? Supposedly there'd been an attempt on Soli's life, so why worry about confidentiality?

"Solange, I need to know about this work he's involved in."

"I told you it's confidential," she snapped.

Hecht had slipped her fifty thousand francs to find Lili Stein's killer and now he'd been hurt. There must be a connection to Hecht's foundation, but she wouldn't find out if this braided lackey kept blocking her way.

"Your director better be more helpful." She leaned close to Solange.

"She's involved in the memorial at the deportation monument today, but she'll be in Sunday." Solange backed up against the highly polished wood reception desk.

"What if Soli doesn't make it until tomorrow and you've obstructed my investigation—would you like that on your conscience?"

Solange's chin quivered. "I don't make the rules, I'm sorry."

"Answer me this." Aimee crossed her arms. "Did Soli act differently today than before?"

Solange paused, knotting her fingers. "His rheumatoid arthritis had become worse. He was in constant pain," she said, then sighed, "That's why it seemed unusual."

"Unusual?" Aimee said, alerted by the change in Solange's tone.

"That he was at a bus stop," Solange said matter-of-factly. "He told me he was going to take a taxi home."

Aimee willed her face muscles to stay put, hiding her excitement. Her suspicious feeling about Solange evaporated. "Did you report the accident to the police?"

"They didn't even respond when I called. Told me to dial SAMU, the emergency. Soli's a special man. This doesn't seem fair."

Outside, Aimee stared at the now dull brownish spot on the cobblestoned street. It didn't make sense for Hecht, in constant pain, to wait at a bus stop when a taxi stand was a few meters away. Especially since he'd said he would take a taxi. Somehow she'd unearth this mess, cobblestone by cobblestone if need be.

Late Friday Afternoon

"Y
OU SAY
S
OLI
H
ECHT
is in a coma?" Aimee asked Morbier as she stood across from his desk. "Is he going to wake up?"

"Severe trauma, internal injuries." Morbier shrugged. "Then again, I'm not a doctor."

"If he wakes, can you arrange it so I talk with him?" she said.

France 2 droned above them on the TV in Homicide. On the screen, angry demonstrators at the Élysee palace gates paraded near a newscaster who vainly attempted to interview them.

"A big if. He's in his eighties, amazing that his heart is pumping at all. Round-the-clock surveillance, too," Morbier added.

Her heart raced. Something was very off here.

"Wait a minute, weren't you calling this an accident? Not even investigating when I called you. . ."

Morbier cut her off. "Not me. Word came down the pipe."

"Meaning what?" she asked.

"From above. Not my dominion anymore. My men and I have been ordered clear of this investigation for safety and precaution. You, too." He stared at Aimee.

"Hold on." She hated being told thirdhand. "Does this include Lili Stein's case?"

"BRI has been assigned to the 3rd and 4th arrondissement," he said.

If Solange Goutal's emergency call had been ignored but Soli Hecht was abruptly put under hospital surveillance, a lot more was happening than met the eye. Her eye, anyway. "You're no longer handling this case?"

He shook a nicotine-stained finger at her. "Stick to your computer, Leduc; that's all you need to know."

"What about getting me the phone numbers dialed from Les Blancs Nationaux's office?"

He shook his head. "I can't help you."

Typical Gallic evasion, she thought; the French had perfected the art of sitting on the fence. He cupped his palm and took a deep drag of the Gauloise stub held between his thumb and middle finger. His bushy eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.

"Talk to me, Morbier," she said. It came out more intimately than she meant it to.

"First time in twenty-six years I've had a case taken away." He regarded his desk with a sour expression and ignored the tone in her voice. "For what it's worth, I don't like it either."

She felt her temper erupting, but she thanked him and walked out.

Late-afternoon traffic had choked to a standstill on rue du Louvre as she walked to her office. Morbier's comment spun in her head and she longed for a cigarette.

Instead, she bought a baguette at the
boulangerie
next to her building. In the small
supermarche
wedged on the other side, she picked up chèvre cheese, local tapenade relish, and a bottle of Orangina. She waved to Zazie, who was doing her homework by the window in Cafe Magritte.

As she mounted the worn stairs to her office she decided she had to keep investigating, no matter what Morbier said. They might be able to push him around but no one could tell her what to do.

Inside the office Miles Davis greeted her, excitedly sniffing her bag of food. He'd spent the night with Rene. She fed him some scraps from the butcher's. The only trace of Rene was a message taped to his computer screen with one word: "later."

Miles Davis fell asleep perched near the heater and Rene's chair. Aimee poured the Orangina into a crystal Baccarat wineglass left over from her grandfather. She folded the cheese and tapenade into the crusty baguette and ate.

After she finished her meal, she carefully taped the photo image and torn snapshot piece from Lili Stein's room together. She scanned the complete image into her computer and digitally enhanced the photo and printed a copy.

Aimee placed this image among the spread-out photos from the police folder and her own archive files. Then in chronological order, she tacked them up along her wall and looked for connections to the swastika.

She peered at them though a magnifying glass. The black-and-white photos cast everything in a timeless past. Each snapshot held a different scene, but they were all views of the Marais. She recognized the cafe, Ma Bourgoyne, she often went to. A group of booted Nazis sat drinking at the corner table. Next to it, women with rolled pompadour hair wearing ankle socks and t-strap shoes stood in line holding ration books.

Another photo showed the local
Kommandantur
on the rue des Francs Bourgeois, with armed Nazis guarding the heavy wood entrance doors. She almost dropped her goblet of Orangina.

On flags flying above the
Kommandantur
, the swastikas were tilted, with rounded edges, exactly like the one carved in Lili Stein's forehead.

Miles Davis growled, then someone knocked loudly on the office door. Had Rene forgotten his keys? She slipped her unlicensed Glock 9-mm from the desk drawer into her back jeans pocket.

"Who's there?" she said.

A muffled voice came from behind the door. "Herve Vitold with BRI."

"Show me your identification."

A laminated photo identity card with Brigade de Recherches et d'Intervention flashed in front of the peephole.

"Un moment."
She shuffled the photos together and slid them back into a large envelope in her drawer.

"Excuse the caution." She opened the door slowly. "I've had some threats."

Aimee had never seen a Saville Row suit before but figured the Nordic-looking man standing at her door wore one. Probably a Turnbull and Asser handmade shirt, too.

"Of course," he said. His white blond hair glinted in the hall light but his features remained hidden. "Mademoiselle Leduc?"

Aimee nodded, keeping her hand cocked on the gun's safety.

"I have no appointment, but I'd like half an hour of your time. With commensurate compensation, of course," he said.

Aimee opened the door wider and let him in. She tried to appear as professional as possible in her too tight jeans and a torn Asterix vs. Romans T-shirt. A whiff of something expensive laced with lime hit her.

"Please come in and have a seat, I'll be with you right away," she said.

"Herve Vitold." He held out his hand as she showed him into her office. "Security administrator." He had gold-green eyes and an expensive tan for November.

"Please sit down," she said, surprised he didn't wear a uniform.

He leaned forward, took out a leather checkbook, and flashed a kilowatt smile at her. "Your rates, please. I want to take care of the business first."

Aimee briefly wondered why a
Gentlemen's Quarterly
type from the federals at BRI would walk into her office and want to pay money to talk to her.

"Five hundred francs for a half hour," she said promptly.

Let him put his money where his mouth was. See if this handsome man in an expensive suit was real or joking.

Immediately he pulled out a Montblanc pen, filled in the amount, and slid it across the desk, briefly touching her fingertips. She could have sworn his fleshy, manicured fingers lingered a second too long. Shell-shocked at receiving such a check though she was, she didn't react. Her mind was mostly on his very curly blond eyelashes and the green in his eyes. Consciously, she ignored a danger signal in her brain flashing "Too good to be true."

"How may I help you?" she smiled.

"First, may I say I appreciate your taking the time. A business like yours. . ." Here he vaguely gestured around the office, not exactly a beehive of activity. "And with a busy schedule, I'm sure." He flashed his brilliant smile. "But I'll get right down to it, shall I?"

"It's your franc."

"My branch works with precautionary services, sort of a field unit, out of La Defense," he said.

Get with it, girl, and ask a question, she told herself. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm not familiar with government security. Don't you wear uniforms?"

Again that smile. "No uniforms. We exist and we don't exist, if you get my meaning."

Talking in tongues was what it sounded like to her. "Not really. Maybe you should get to the point."

A glimmer of amusement crossed his face.

The shadows lengthened across her office walls and she stood up to switch on the office lights.

"Mais bien sûr,"
he said. "Special branch out of Bourget, responsible for terrorist management, has taken over the Stein case. All inquiries, surveillance, and follow-up are to be handled by us."

That fit Morbier's dictum. "Why?"

"Given the present political climate and sensitivity of the issue, Special Branch feels it must be handled with care." Vitold sat back, crossing his trousered legs precisely at a ninety-degree angle. "This is a historic moment. Finally, for the first time since the last war, the European Union delegates will sit together and sign a treaty that binds Europe. Nothing must endanger this or the covert operation we've mounted to nab terrorists intent on destroying this process."

Too good to be true, all right. "Are you telling me to, let us say, butt out?" she said.

"Mademoiselle Leduc, I'm asking you." His eyes flickered again with amusement, then hardened. "I know how important the tax extension is to your firm right now and I wouldn't want anything to interfere with the process."

"Is this some kind of veiled threat?"

He stood up with a perfect crease down his pant leg and a still wrinkle-free shirt. "Now, now," he clucked patronizingly.

She stood up, too. "You walk in here, write a check, and expect me to back off a paid case by threatening to interfere with my taxes? Who do you think you are?"

"Vitold, as I've said, but I neglected to mention that your investigator's license is about to expire, since you've not renewed it."

"My investigator's license is code orange. Permanent and nonrenewable," she said.

"Not anymore."

"Threaten somebody else." She glared at him, ripping his check into franc-sized bites.

He grabbed her wrists, imprisoning them in a viselike grip. Little white pieces of his check fluttered onto the parquet floor. She realized his large manicured fingers could snap her bones in half like matchsticks.

"Must be careful of your little hands." He stroked the scar on her palm.

She jerked her head towards the video camera mounted into the deco molding. "Go ahead, the security camera is capturing our moment as we speak."

An odd smile washed over his face and he let go.

Then he was outside her office, striding toward the glass-paned hallway door.

"Consider carefully. I would if I were you," he said.

She whipped out the Glock. But he was gone. Only a whiff of lime lingered in the air.

She was shaking so much she couldn't keep her hands steady. She forced herself to take deep breaths and slip the safety back on. How deep had she waded in—and what kind of trouble was this anyway?

The indentations where Herve Vitold's fingers had pinched her wrists were still visibly white. She rewound the videotape and printed a photo of him. She remembered that Texas saying "Not fit for dog meat," and wrote that in red across Vitold's image.

After she grew calm enough to work, she sat back at her computer. She knew access codes changed daily in the security branch at La Defense. Within ten minutes, she had bypassed the "secure" government system, accessed their database, and found Bourget Special Branch.

The Bourget chain of command, responsible for antiterrorism functions, only crossed municipal police lines in the event of attack bombings, hostage situations, and the like. Not cold bodies of old women with swastikas carved into their foreheads.

Then she checked BRI's files, but no Herve Vitold came up. She spent two hours logging into all government branches with corresponding security.

If Vitold was who he purported to be, then Aimee was Madame Charles de Gaulle, God rest her soul. She found no one named Herve Vitold existing in any data bank.

BOOK: Murder in the Marais
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