by Cara Black
He shrugged. "A few minutes."
Shuffling ahead, he led her into an antiseptically clean windowed breakfast room. A long melamine-topped table held a place setting for one. Next to a sunflower-patterned plate, its matching cup and saucer, and an empty wineglass were vials of multicolored pills. Yellow roses wafted their scent from a bubbled glass vase by the window.
The man motioned for her to sit down on a couch by the window. He leaned forward and took off his dark glasses. From the kitchen she could hear the monotonous tick of a clock. Piles of papers and a cardboard box of yellowed press clippings littered the floor.
Aimee opened her damp backpack and took out a sopping note pad.
Embarrassed, she said, "My ink will run on this wet paper. Can I trouble you for some dry paper?"
Monsieur Rambuteau hesitated, then pointed. "On top of one of those piles should be a writing tablet. I was making a list."
"Merci." She reached for the nearest stack. On top was the empty tablet. She took it and a folder to write on.
He was nervously twisting the knuckle on his ring finger. "Are you investigating Les Blancs Nationaux group?" A note of anguish stuck in his voice.
Aimee replied calmly, "I'm exploring all possibilities."
He let out a big sigh and rested his palms on the spotless white table, facing Aimee. "My wife just passed away." He pointed to a silver-framed photo sitting atop a glass-front china cabinet. "I'm due at Père Lachaise; her funeral is today."
"I'm very sorry, Monsieur Rambuteau," she said.
In the photo, a woman with thin penciled eyebrows wearing shiny leather pants and a rhinestone-flecked sweater peered out from under a helmetlike bob of hair. Her eyes had a surprised look that Aimee attributed to a face-lift.
"Her things," he said, indicating the piles of paper.
"I know this isn't a good time, so I'll be brief," she said. "Did your son know Lili Stein?"
"My son gets carried away sometimes. Is that what this is about?" he said.
"I'll put it another way, Monsieur Rambuteau. Your home isn't far from the victim's deli on rue des Rosiers. Did Thierry know Lili Stein?"
"I don't know if he knew her or not. But I doubt it."
"Why do you say that?" Aimee said.
"He didn't make a habit of. . .er. . .let's say, having social contact with Jews," Monsieur Rambuteau said.
"Would he carry his feelings to an extreme?"
Startled, Monsieur Rambuteau looked away. "No. Never. I told you he can get carried away but that's all. My fault really; you see, I've encouraged him. Well, at the beginning I was happy to see him get involved in politics. A good cause."
Obviously, Aimee thought, Thierry's apple didn't fall far from the tree. She willed herself to speak in an even tone. "A good cause, in your opinion, includes Aryan supremacist groups?"
"I didn't say that." He cleared his throat. "At the beginning, Thierry and I talked about their ideology. There are some points in their program, whether one agrees or not, that make sense. I'm certainly not condoning violence but as far as I know, Thierry hasn't been involved with them recently. Filmmaking is his field."
"Would you say, Monsieur Rambuteau, that your son's upbringing was in a politically conservative vein?" she said.
He raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, "Let's say we served sucre a la droite, not sucre a la gauche."
He referred to white and brown sugar, the metaphor for right-wing conservatives and leftist socialists. She knew that in many households political leanings were identified by the kind of sugar sitting in sugar bowls.
"Did your wife hold these views?" she said.
"I'm not ashamed to say we held Marechal Petain and his Vichy government in the highest regard. You didn't live through a war. You can never understand how Le Marechal aimed to untarnish the reputation of France," he said.
Aimee leaned forward. "Is that why Thierry receives funds from a German right-wing extremist group and you support Les Blancs Nationaux?"
His eyes narrowed. "You can't prove that."
"Proving that Les Blancs Nationaux are bankrolled by the DFU Aryan supremacists isn't too hard. And that's sure to bother people who still remember Germans as Nazis and 'boches.'"
Monsieur Rambuteau's cheeks had become red and his breathing labored. He reached for the bottle of yellow pills on the table in front of him. He shook out three, poured a glass of water, and gulped both. His shallow breath came in short spurts.
Finally, he took a deep breath and folded his hands. "I'm a sick man," he said. "You'd better go." He rose with obvious effort, and walked her to the door. "My son couldn't hurt anyone," he said. In his small, tired eyes, Aimee saw pain.
"You haven't convinced me, Monsieur." She adjusted her beret and looked at him resolutely. "I'll be back."
He closed the door and Aimee walked out into the drizzling rain to the bus stop.
She would prove that Les Blancs Nationaux existed on neo-Nazi money with Rene's help on the computer. Twenty minutes later she stepped off the bus on Ile St. Louis near her flat and entered her neighborhood corner cafe. Chez Mathieu was inviting and much warmer than her apartment.
"Bonjour, Aimee." A short, stout man in a white apron playing a pinball machine in the corner greeted her. Bells clanged as the pinball hit the targets.
"Ça va, Ludovice? A cafe crème, please."
He nodded. The cafe was empty. "I've got bone shanks for your boy." He meant Miles Davis.
"Merci." Aimee smiled and chose a table by the fogged-up windows overlooking the Seine. She spread her papers to dry and took out her laptop, but the marble tabletop was sticky and she needed to put something over it. She pulled out some paper and realized she held Monsieur Rambuteau's tablet. And a folder, too, that she'd picked up by mistake. She opened it.
Lists of Nathalie Rambuteau's personal belongings filled two sheets. Well-thumbed film scripts and old theater programs lined the folder next to a sheaf of photocopies, one labeled "Last Will and Testament." Curious, Aimee opened it. On the top was a codicil, dated three months previously: "Suffering from a terminal illness, I, Nathalie Rambuteau, cannot in good conscience keep secret my son's origins. I cannot break the promise I made to my son's biological mother. Upon my death, I request that my son, Thierry Rambuteau, be informed of his real parentage."
Stapled to the back of it was a note in spidery writing: S.S. letter with Notaire Maurice Barrault. Shaken, she sat back. Who was Thierry's real mother?
"Ça va?" Ludovice asked as he set her cafe on the table.
"God, I don't know. Got a cigarette?"
"I thought you quit." He rubbed his wet hands across his apron and reached in his pocket.
"I did." She accepted a nonfiltered Gauloise and he lit it for her. As she inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke hit the back of her throat, then she felt the familiar jolt as it filled her lungs. She exhaled the smoke, savoring it.
Aimee gestured to the chair. He untied his apron, sat down, and lit a cigarette.
"Let me ask you something—" she began.
"Over a drink. I'll buy." He reached for a bottle of Pernod and two shot glasses and poured. "What's the question?"
The empty cafe was quiet except for the drizzling rain beating on the roof.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" Aimee asked. "Because I think I'm beginning to."
AIMÉE LEFT the cafe when the rain stopped and wearily entered her apartment. Before she could kick off her damp clothes her phone began ringing.
She answered. The nurse she'd slipped several hundred francs to inform her of any changes in Soli Hecht's condition spoke quickly.
"Soli Hecht came out of his coma fifteen minutes ago," she said.
"I'll be right over."
Quickly, she put on black stirrup pants and red high-tops, draped her Chanel scarf around her neck under her jean jacket, and ran down two marble flights of stairs. Her mobylette wobbled and bounced over the uneven cobbles on the Quai. Rain-freshened air mingled with a faint sewer odor a
s she crossed the Seine. The perfume of Paris, her father had called it. She kept to small streets in the Marais. Outside l'Hôpital St. Catherine, she rammed her moped in a row with all the others and locked it.
Dead cigarette smell and muffled bells on a loudspeaker greeted her as she emerged on the hospital's fifth floor. Overflowing ashtrays littered the waiting area near a row of withering potted plants.
She strode over the scuffed linoleum towards room 525. Loud buzzers sounded as a team of nurses and doctors flew by her.
"Attention! Out of the way," yelled a medic, who wheeled a shock unit past them.
She followed him, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding. A doctor kneeled over an unconscious blue-uniformed policeman, sprawled on the linoleum.
Uneasy, she asked, "What's happened?"
"I'm not sure," the doctor said, feeling for a pulse.
She ran into room 525. Hecht lay naked except for a loose sheet across his waist, wires and tubes hooked into his pasty white body. His skin glistened with perspiration. His forearm showed an injection mark with a bubble of blood.
She rushed to the hallway. "Doctor, this patient needs attention!"
Surprised, he nodded to the nurse and they went in.
Aimee reached for the radio clipped to the policeman's pocket and flicked the transmit button. "Request assist; fifth-floor attack on Soli Hecht—officer down. Do you copy?"
All she heard was static. As she reached for the policeman's pocket, her hand raked a cold metal pistol. She wondered why a Paris flic would carry a Beretta .765. Flics she knew didn't carry this kind of hardware. They weren't even issued firearms. She slid it into her pocket.
More static, then a voice said, "Copy. Backup is on the way. Who is this?"
But Aimee stood at the foot of the bed where doctors and nurses worked on Soli Hecht.
"Adrenalin, on count of three," said a doctor near Soli's chest, which was heaving spasmodically.
She looked at the bubble on his arm, swollen and purple now, heard the labored breathing. Soli's hollow cheekbones contracted as he desperately sucked air. Recognition flashed in his eyes.
The doctor looked up. "Better get the rabbi. Somebody go look. Any family here?"
Aimee ignored her pounding heart and stepped forward. "I'm his niece. My uncle is on twenty-four-hour protection but someone got to him. Injected him with drugs."
The doctor looked up and gave her a quizzical look. "You mean this on his arm. . .?" He grabbed Soli's chart, hooked to the bed. Scanning it, he shook his head. "He's not responding. Check the IV solution."
"Can't you do something?" Aimee moved towards the head of the bed, feeling guilty for lying. Soli's eyes fixed on her and she returned his gaze.
"Vital responses are minimal," the doctor said.
Aimee bent over, gently touching Soli's arm, which was clammy and moist to the touch. Her conscience bothered her but she didn't know how else to find out. She whispered in his ear, "Soli, what does that photo mean?"
His arms broke loose from the tubes and flailed wildly. He reached out to her.
"You know, Soli, don't you?" She searched his eyes. "Why Lili was killed."
His sharp nails dug like needles into her skin. Aimee winced, drawing back, but he pulled her close. He rasped in her ear, "Don't. . .let. . .him. . ."
"Who?" Aimee said as his arid breath hit her cheek.
Someone touched her shoulder. "The rabbi is here. Let your uncle pray with him."
Soli's eyes rolled up in his head.
"Tell me, Soli, tell me. . ." But the nurses started pulling her away.
His head shook and he pulled Aimee tighter, his nails raking into her skin.
"Say it! Say his name," Aimee begged.
Soli's other arm flailed, scrabbling at the sheets. "Lo. . ."
"L'eau, Soli? Water?" she said. "What do you mean?"
He blinked several times, then his eyes went vacant. The heart monitor registered flat lines. Blood trickled from Soli's nose. Gently, the doctor pried Soli's fingers loose from Aimee's neck.
"Yit-ga-dal v-yit-ka-dash shemei." The rabbi entered, intoning the Hebrew prayer for the dead.
The nurse led Aimee to the hall, where she leaned against the scuffed walls, shaking. She'd seen her father die in front of her eyes. Now Soli Hecht.
Her neck felt scraped raw. Raw like her heart. Another dead end. He'd only been asking for water.
The rabbi tucked his prayer book under his arm and joined her in the hallway. He gave her a long look. "You're not Soli's niece. His whole family was gassed at Treblinka."
Aimee's shoulders tightened. She looked down the hallway, wondering why the police backup hadn't arrived. "Rabbi, Soli Hecht has been murdered."
"You better have a lot more than chutzpah to lie at a dying man's bedside and then say he's been murdered. Explain."
Either the police response time had dwindled or that hadn't been a real police radio she'd talked into. Her uneasiness grew.
"I'm willing to explain, but not here," she said. "Let's walk down the hall slowly, go past the lobby towards the elevator."
They walked by the mobile shock unit, now abandoned in the hallway.
"Temple E'manuel has hired me to investigate."
His eyes opened wide. "You mean this has to do with Lili Stein's murder?"
She nodded. "Didn't you see the policeman who'd guarded the room lying unconscious on the floor? And the injection spot on Soli's arm, a bad job that swelled like a golf ball?"
The rabbi nodded slowly.
"Someone pushed Soli in front of a bus," she said. "That didn't work so when he came out of the coma, they finished him off with a lethal injection. Unfortunately, they got here before I did. I don't know how, but it involves Lili Stein. Was he able to talk at all?"
The rabbi shook his head. "He drifted in and out, never regaining consciousness.
Loud voices came from the corridor. Several plainclothes policemen strode down the hall. Why hadn't a uniformed unit arrived? Her suspicions increased. Aimee turned away from them, bowed her head, and hooked her arm in the rabbi's. She whispered in his ear, "Let's walk slowly towards the stair exit. I don't want them to see me. Please help me!"
The rabbi sighed. "It's hard to believe anyone would make this up."
He nudged her forward. They walked arm in arm towards the stairs while she buried her face in his scratchy gray beard. As she heard the static and crackle of police radios from down the hall, she burrowed her head further in his shoulder.
Around the corner, the rabbi hissed in her ear, "I'm only helping you because Soli was a good man." He sidled close to the stairs, blocking the view, while Aimee crept through and down the stairway. She moved as quietly and quickly as the old stairs would allow.
"Excuse me, rabbi. Where is the woman you were in conversation with?" a clear voice asked the rabbi.
"Gone to wash her face in the ladies' room," she heard him reply.
Down the stairs, Aimee quickly followed a glassed-in walking bridge to the older part of the hospital. Outside, she unlocked her moped and scanned the area.
A few unmarked police cars were parked at the hospital entrance, but she didn't see anyone. The pungent smell of bleach drifted from the old hospital laundry. She hit the kick start, then pedaled down tree-lined rue Elzevir, quiet at this time of evening.
Le Commissariat de Police didn't carry Berettas. Professional hit men did, she knew that much. Behind her, a motorcycle engine whined loudly. Few cars used narrow rue Elzevir. The engine slowed down, then roared to life. She looked back to see a black leather–clad figure on a sleek MotoGuzi motorcycle. She veered towards the sidewalk as it came closer. Suddenly, a car darted out from an alley across from her. All she saw was the darkened car window before the front wheel of her bike hit a loose cobblestone and threw her up in the air. Airborne for three seconds, she saw everything happen in slow motion as she registered the motorcycle speeding away.
She ducked her head and rolled into a somers
ault. Her shoulders smacked against a parked car's windshield. She inhaled the stench of burning rubber before her head cracked the side-view mirror like a hammer. Pain shot across her skull. She rolled off the hood.
Stunned, she sprawled on the sidewalk, partly wedged between a muddy tire and the stone gutter. The car stopped, then backed up, its engine whining loudly. Dizzy, she crawled over grease slicks and rolled under the parked car. She barely fit. She slid her Glock 9-mm from her jean jacket, uncocking the safety. The car door opened, then footsteps sounded on the pavement near her head.
Afraid to breathe, she saw black boot heels. She'd be lucky if she could shoot him in the foot. Loud police sirens hee-hawed down the street. A cigarette, orange-tipped, was flicked onto the pavement near her and fizzled in a puddle. The door clicked open, then the car sped away.
She flipped the gun's safety back on, then slowly rolled out from under the car, her head aching. Her knees shook so badly she staggered in the gutter and fell. She just lay there, hoping her heart would stop pounding. Grease and oil stains coated her black pants and her hands were streaked with a brown smudge that smelled suspiciously of dog shit. She picked up the soggy cigarette stub. Only a well-paid hit man could afford to smoke fancy imported orange-tipped Rothmans.
AIMÉE KNOCKED at the frosted-glass door. She kept her eyes on the blurry outline visible in the hallway.
"I need to speak with you, Monsieur Rambuteau," she shouted. "I'm not leaving until I do."
Finally the door opened and she stared into portly Monsieur Rambuteau's face.
"Nom de Dieu! What's happened. . .?"
"Do you want to discuss your wife's will in the street?"
Pain and fear shot across his face. He opened the door wider, then shuffled towards the breakfast room.
Her head throbbed with dull regularity. "Do you have any aspirin?"
He pointed to a bottle on the table. Aimee shook out two, gulped them down with water, and helped herself to ice from the freezer.
"Merci," she said. She stuck the ice in a clear plastic bag, twisted it, and applied it to the lump on her head, wincing.