"How does this involve Lili Stein?" Rene asked as they roared around the curb into another medieval one-way street.
"I'm working on that," she said. "I'll find it."
"You and Morbier are stars on the evening news. Not worried about undercover anymore, Leduc?" he said.
"The press weren't there at my invitation, Rene, I tried to stay away from the cameras."
"Cut the defensiveness, Aimee. I saw your feet in those fluorescent little booties on France 2," he said. "That Luminol might illuminate things you hadn't bargained on. Stay at my place."
She rubbed her hands at the memory of Herve Vitold's scissor-like grip.
"When was the last time you cleaned it up? I'm not a snob, Rene, but certain standards of hygiene need to be maintained."
"Haven't you considered someone doesn't want this Pandora's box opened?"
Vitold had made that loud and clear.
"That's why it has to be opened," she said.
Several horns blared as his Citroën swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic. Grudgingly, she took the spare key to his flat.
Rene let her off on the corner of rue de Rivoli. "Miles Davis is upstairs." She bounded up the stairs of her office building, anxious to log into FRAPOL 1, the police system, and search for a match with the Luminol fingerprint.
The muffled bark of Miles Davis didn't sound right as she ran up the last flight of stairs. And the frosted-glass door of her office stood slightly ajar, so she couldn't put her uneasy feeling down to intuition. Rene would never leave the door like that. Someone had been inside and today wasn't the cleaner's day. Instead of entering, she kept on climbing to the next flight. Éditions Photogravure Lapousse had its door open and she could hear the click of computer keys.
"Bonjour, ca va? Permit me," she said to the older woman with headphones typing data entry who nodded distractedly and then ignored her.
Aimee walked past her and opened the double windowed doors to the street. She climbed over the black wrought-iron balcony guard, gripping the thick rail, and was greeted by a dusky sunset over the Louvre and the Seine beyond. It was almost enough to sweep away the anticipation of finding out who was in her office.
The moon dangled over the distant Arc de Triomphe and the traffic hummed below her. Carefully, she wedged her toe into a crack in the limestone facade and rested her boot heel on the metal sign support. Four stories above the rue du Louvre, she slowly climbed down the first E of the LEDUC DETECTIVE sign to peer into her office window for an intruder.
From the slightly open window, a smell of fresh paint hit her. Very fresh. She knew Rene wouldn't schedule the office to be painted and forget to tell her. She slipped her Glock 9-mm from the strap around her leg.
As she molded her body to the semicircular curve of the window, she hesitated. She had the firearms permit but not the license to carry her Glock. Drawing an unlicensed gun on anybody spelled trouble. French firearm laws, still enforced by the Napoleonic code, didn't allow her the right to bear arms. Even in self-defense or equal-force situations. If the flics were inside, she'd really be in trouble. Her PI license would be revoked immediately, if Herve Vitold of the Brigade d'Intervention hadn't already done that.
She didn't feel like bursting into her office when the door had been left ajar, without any kind of backup. She pulled her cell phone out and punched in her office number. The phone rang right below her toehold, inside the window.
As the answering machine came on, she waited, then shouted, "You're in my crosshairs, salope. I'm at the window directly opposite."
Heavy footsteps beat below her, then the office door slammed shut. This is going to be easy, Aimee thought, I'll just wait and see who comes out of the building.
Five long minutes later, no one had emerged from the entrance. Of course, she'd realized she'd told them they were being watched from across the street. Only an idiot would exit from the front. Now she'd have to go in, not knowing if they'd really left or not. She steadied her gun. The flics wouldn't act like that. At least, she didn't think they would.
As she slid down and perched on the rusted tin drain she heard an ominous creak below her and grabbed the big D. Just in time, too. The drain came loose and went crashing down four stories to the street. Luckily, no one was on the pavement below. By the time she'd jimmied the window lock and fallen into her office, it was empty.
Papers and files were strewn everywhere. Her desk drawers had been dumped upside down, every nook and cranny searched. A professional job by the look of it, she thought. She kept her gun drawn as she slowly opened the closet. Miles Davis tumbled out, ecstatic to see her. Cautiously, she searched her office to make sure no one was there.
She inched into the hallway. A chill breeze blew from the open window facing a shadowy passage between prewar boxlike apartments. She heard the creaking of the rusty fire escape swinging below her. Her intruder had probably made it to the Metro station by now. Dusting herself off, she took a swig of mineral water and called Martine.
"Someone's ransacked my office!" she said. "Can you fax those sheets again?"
"Aimee, be careful, I'm serious," Martine said, all in one breath. "Give me the exclusive on this one, please? With this story I'd get into editorials and off my back with Gilles."
"You sleep with Gilles to keep your job?" Aimee couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice. "Of course, this story is yours." She paused. "But no print yet, nothing. I've got to document everything airtight. Do we have an understanding?"
"D'accord," Martine spoke slowly. "It's not that bad with Gilles, we have an arrangement. I know I'm good at what I do but I've never been like you, Aimee. You don't need a man."
"I wouldn't call screwing the neo-Nazi hunk I met at an LBN meeting a smart relationship choice. That's a whole other story."
"Probably spices up his performance," Martine giggled. "I'm still checking one name."
A ring and click signaled a fax coming in. "Is this from you, Martine?"
"Yes. Don't forget-this is my story," Martine said.
The smell of paint was stronger now and came from near the fax machine. Aimee walked around her office partition to confront a terrifying image. A black swastika was painted on the wall, angled and off center like the one incised in Lili's forehead. Next to it were three words in dripping red paint:
YOUR TURN NEXT!
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday Morning
AIMÉE PERCHED ON THE thick black velvet sofa in her red suit, the one she could afford to pick up from the dry cleaner's. She had begrudgingly slipped a few hundred franc notes to the hotel clerk. Plush hotels rated high bribes; it was the cost of doing business.
"Mademoiselle Leduc?" came a deep voice in heavily accented French. "You wish to have a word with me?"
Hartmuth Griffe gave a modified bow, and looked expectantly into her face. He fit perfectly in the Pavillion de la Reine lounge among the discreet clink of crystal and silver. Suave, tan, and very handsome. Curt Jurgens and Klaus Kinski, move over, she thought.
"Herr Griffe, please sit down. I know you have a long day ahead of you. Would you care for coffee?" Aimee spread her arms, indicating the plush sofa.
"Actually, I'm running late," he said, glancing at her cafe au lait on the table and his watch at the same time.
"Just a quick one. I know you're extremely busy." Aimee caught the waiter's eye and pointed at her cup. She gestured towards a deep burgundy leather armchair. "Please."
"Only for a few moments then," he said. "Of what do you wish to speak?"
She wanted to stall him until he got his coffee.