by Cara Black
Her grandfather had scavenged old bricks during the Occupation, tossing them in the fire to retain heat. He'd lined his bed with the warmed bricks, wrapped blankets over them, and slept toasty all night. Too bad the fireplace had been blocked shut since the sixties. She paged Rene, who phoned her back a moment later.
"How do I find out if a group like Les Blancs Nationaux—"
Rene interrupted her. "Their Web site is infamous, but it's not for the faint of heart."
"Care to elaborate?" She heard a low moan and muted, rhythmic thuds in the background. "Am I interrupting something, Rene?"
"I wish you were," he chuckled. "I'm at the laundromat in Vincennes next to a spin cycle. Proof that I can't afford the dry cleaners like you."
Too bad she couldn't even afford to pick up her one decent suit. "Tell me about Les Blancs Nationaux."
"Why the sudden interest?"
"The victim's daughter-in-law blames them for the murder," she said. "Morbier said they were demonstrating nearby."
"You mean that old lady carved with the fifty-thousand-franc swastika?"
"You're a regular Sherlock Holmes."
"Rumor is they videotape their meetings," he said.
"You mean show them on the Internet?"
"Just for true initiates," he said. "Part of a gruesome ritual for full Aryan brotherhood at their meetings."
Were Les Blancs Nationaux hard-core enough to tape murder? There was only one way to find out.
She accessed the Paris directory via Minitel on her home phone. Les Blancs Nationaux came up listed with a Porte Bagnolet address. She pulled the tall paneled doors of her armoire open wider and gazed inside. She still had all her costumes from when she'd worked with her father. Somewhere inside was the right outfit in which to pay them a visit.
Her cousin Sebastian's biker jacket, which she'd conveniently neglected to return, hung beside a purple-veiled harem costume. Next to the green Paris street-cleaner jumpsuit, behind a starched crisp white sous-chef apron, she found her ripped pair of black jeans from Thank God I'm a VIP boutique on rue Greneta.
She opened her stage makeup kit, a battered box that still occupied a full drawer in her bathroom though she hadn't used it for years. She went to work on her face. That done, she pulled out her wig box, dusty from neglect under her bed, then chose a black one from her collection. She snipped and teased it to the style she wanted.
A beep and hum came over the fax machine from her office. She leaned in anticipation, hoping for an update regarding an overdue account that would enable them to cover last month's office expenses. She grabbed the sheet, then stopped in mid-arc. The top header was the address of a self-serve fax/copy depot near Bastille. The paper held one sentence.
Leave the ghosts alone or you will join them.
She dropped the fax and grabbed the table edge for support, as the image of the Nazi carving in Lili Stein's forehead flashed before her. Someone considered her worth threatening and she hadn't even begun to investigate.
"SELF-SERVE MEANS exactly that," the harassed manager of the Bastille fax/copy place told her.
"Wait a minute," Aimee said threateningly, "here's the time and date. Who sent this fax?"
"Stick the francs in the machine and it faxes." He shrugged.
"Somebody's trying to kill me, Fifi." She edged closer. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. "Who was in here today?"
"Little or no contact is made with clerks." He retreated to safety behind the counter.
Her ripped leather biker jacket was fastened with chains; the torn black jeans were welded to her legs. Clunky black biker boots and a tank top with holes that showed tattoos completed her ensemble. SS lightning bolts and iron crosses peeked from her chest amid safety pins, skulls, and swastikas. Her large eyes were outlined blackly with kohl, matching her purple-black lipstick. And her black wig was spiked into a scruffy mohawk.
She questioned the other clerk anyway. He winked, saying it had been too busy. But if she met him later, she could call him Fifi as much as she wanted.
From Bastille she took the Metro to Porte Bagnolet. En route she mentally narrowed possible fax senders from the general public to a few old Jews plus Morbier who knew she was investigating Lili's murder.
Would someone who sat shiva at the Steins' have threatened her? Had Sinta, sparked by anger, faxed her a warning to leave the past alone? No, no matter what Sinta's feelings were about her detecting skills, she wouldn't do that. It didn't make sense, and whatever else Sinta was, Aimee instinctively sensed her practicality.
She found Avenue Jean Jaurès, a broad tree-lined boulevard. Every village, town, and city in France had an Avenue Jean Jaurès named after the famed Socialist leader and Paris was no exception.
Next to the front door of a flat brown building indistinguishable from the others, a piece of paper with "L B N" typed on it was fitted into the address slot. Simple and anonymous.
A metallic buzzer above it said rez-de-chaussee. She wouldn't have to climb up stairs in these skintight jeans. Imitation parquet flooring led down a fluorescent hallway that echoed with her footsteps. Posted on a wooden door was a typewritten notice: "Free Videos: Learn the Real History!"
The smell of fresh paint and disinfectant hit her as she knocked loudly. The door was opened by a thin woman in a black jumpsuit who scowled at her. One of the woman's gray eyes wandered. The other looked Aimee up and down.
"You're late!" she said.
Disconcerted, Aimee sucked in her breath and half smiled. The phrase about joining Les Blancs Nationaux evaporated on her lips.
"Don't just stand there," the woman snapped. "Entrez."
She followed the woman into the office, minimally furnished with steel desks and chairs.
"Traffic. You were expecting. . .," Aimee said.
"Your arrival twenty minutes ago," the woman barked. She sat down and appeared calmer. Her wandering eye wobbled less as her fingers thumped expectantly on the metal reception desk. "Where are they?"
Aimee slid her purple-black fingernails into her tight jeans pockets. She shrugged, then scratched her head.
"Don't even start," the woman said. She looked angry enough to spit.
Aimee jumped. "Look, I. . ."
"Last time was enough!" the woman interrupted.
There definitely was a bee in this skinny, funny-eyed woman's bonnet.
Aimee heard noises from the hallway.
An expression of alarm crossed the woman's face. She was scared, Aimee knew that much. The woman bolted from her chair.
"You explain it to him!" she said, striding to the door.
Cold fear of the unknown coursed through Aimee's veins. Now she wished she'd brought Rene as backup.
The door shot open. A tall man with dark stubble shading his skull wheeled in a dolly piled high with boxes. His pinstriped suit showed behind the top of the cardboard boxes.
"Just got back," he said. He called to the woman, "There's more in the car."
She moved quickly. "You deal with her," she said, then she was gone.
The man heaved the boxes with a grunt, set them down, then noticed Aimee. His tan, hard-lined face contrasted with his bright, sharp turquoise eyes. He picked a plastic-cased video from the box, tossed it at her, and began stacking a pile of videos in the corner.
Aimee read the blurb inside the clear plastic: "It's all here, see the TRUTH, visit what they call a 'death camp' and see the hoax that has been perpetuated for fifty years."
"Impressive!" she said.
He turned around and took her in with one look.
She blanched. SS lightning bolts were tattooed bracelet-like around his wrist.
"We discuss ideal art forms, comparing today's degenerate art and exposing myths in twentieth-century philosophy like the fallacy of death camps." He pointed to a poster in front of her.
She pretended to study the slogan on the poster: "Guidelines to recognize Zionist tentacles in literature!"
He stretched his arm out and jabbed at it, pantomiming
shooting up with a needle. "Our bodies are Aryan temples and we don't do dope." His icy turquoise eyes never left her face.
He didn't miss a beat, she thought. And he was scarier than the wandering-eyed receptionist. "No problem, I'm clean, really clean," she said too earnestly.
"Who are you?"
She shrugged. "That's something I wonder about, too."
"Where are they?" he said.
"Not ready." She panicked. What were they expecting? What if the real messenger arrived while she was talking?
The phone rang on the desk behind him and he picked it up. He turned away from her, scribbling on a note pad.
If that was someone calling about her supposed item she was in big trouble. She began studying the pamphlets in the racks along the wall, edging towards the door, as he spoke into the phone. She was almost at the door when he slammed the phone down.
"Not so fast," he said. "Take these with you," he said, handing her a bunch of videos. He seemed more relaxed. "It's been rearranged. Bring them to our Saturday meeting. At Montgallet, upstairs from the ClicClac video."
"D'accord," she agreed. She pulled out her card. "This is my real job."
He appeared almost amiable now. Her card read "Luna of Soundgarden, Events Producer/Performance Sound, Les Halles." It was one she had picked from her alias file.
Theatrically he dusted his hands off, then reached for his. As they exchanged cards she noticed his hands were ice cold. His card read "Thierry Rambuteau, DocuProductions" with a short list of phone/fax/E-mail addresses and numbers.
Loud shouts erupted from the hallway. At the sounds of breaking glass and scuffling she gripped the brass knuckles deep in her leather jacket pocket. Thierry's face remained masklike as raucous laughter echoed in the outer hallway. He herded her towards the door.
"Stay and talk after our meeting, Luna," he said, his tone changed. Warmth shone from his blue eyes. "Our cause will change your life. It changed mine."
Fat chance, she wanted to say. Outside the door, shards of glass sprinkled the parquet hallway flooring. There was no trace of anyone, but the bathroom door opposite stood slightly ajar.
She emerged into the sunlight on Avenue Jean Jaurès, curious to know what had happened but glad to leave. What was going on?
She waited ten minutes then retraced her steps into the building. Silence. A citrus scent lingered in the hallway. The glass had been swept up and the door to Les Blancs Nationaux had been padlocked.
Had Thierry Rambuteau discovered Aimee wasn't who the skinny woman with the wandering eye took her to be? What if he'd played along? She could find out if Morbier helped her.
She'd left Lili Stein's cedar-smelling coat in a locker at the station, intending to drop in at the cleaner's. Now she put it on, tired of the reactions of others in the Metro.
She thought about Lili Stein and her own mother. The mother whose face remained blurry, hovering dimly on the outskirts of memory. She put her arms around the coat that covered her tattoos and black leather. "Maman," she whispered quietly, hugging the coat to her body.
Friday Noon
"SARAH!" A HIGH-PITCHED GIGGLING voice came from behind her.
The old woman stopped, half smiling, and turned around. Too late she realized a group of young girls were talking to each other, not to her. No one had called her that for fifty years. Why had she turned after all this time?
She reached the corner and stood in front of reflecting shop windows. And for the first time in a long time, she took a good look at the way she appeared to the world. Staring back at her was a sixty-five-year-old woman, a thin, lined face with strong cheekbones, and full shopping bags between her feet. She didn't see any sign of the Sarah she used to be.
She stopped for a cafe au lait on Boulevard Voltaire across from Tati, the cut-rate store. Above the espresso machine hung a gilt mirror framed by smudged business cards and old lotto stubs.
Marie, the pudgy, aproned proprietress, sucked in her breath and asked her, "You made it to Monoprix's big sale, eh?"
Sarah nodded. "Oui." She pulled strands of hair over her ears, careful not to disturb her wig.
Marie shook her head approvingly as she wiped the counter. "I want to go before it's too late; it's only once a year. Much left?"
Sarah managed a tired smile as she adjusted the scarf over her forehead. "I couldn't make it up to the fourth floor, too jammed, but housewares still had quite a bit, people hadn't started fighting yet."
"Ah," Marie sighed, "that's a good sign." She moved to wash some glasses near the end of the counter.
Sarah pulled a newspaper from the rack. Her bursitis ached and she knew that it would be too hard to get up again if she sat down. She'd enjoy her coffee standing, not to mention the francs she'd save by not sitting at a table.
She glanced at Aujourd'hui, scanning the photos of models and celebrities caught in various scandals. Rarely, if ever, did she read the pulpy, skimpy articles below them.
Suddenly, her cup fell from her fingers and cafe au lait splashed all over the zinc counter. Staring at her was a face she knew.
How could it be? She pulled her reading glasses from her purse and stared at the photo. The nose was different but the eyes were the same. Then, taking a pen from her purse, she colored the white hair black. She couldn't believe it. Wasn't he long dead? Unconsciously, she began to shake and gasped shallowly for air.
"Ça va? You don't look well," Marie said as she appeared with a cloth to wipe the counter. "Feeling sick, eh?"
She just nodded, afraid to tell the truth. The awful truth.
"Come sit down," Marie said as she guided her to a booth.
The normal movements of walking and sitting didn't calm her. She laid her head down on the sticky table littered with cups and saucers, took deep breaths, and closed her eyes. She'd been so sure he was dead. When she'd stopped shaking and her breathing was normal, she stood up and retrieved the paper.
It read like any other glossy name-dropping article. Below the photo the caption identified the man as Hartmuth Griffe. She used the pen again and drew epaulets and a swastika on the black jacket he was wearing and she knew. It was Helmut.
Friday Noon
"GET A TAXI!" RENÉ 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.