AL01 - Murder in the Marais ali-1

by Cara Black

  Just what France needed, she thought, more fascism.

  "Maman?" A man's deep voice came from the hallway.

  Startled, she stood up too quickly and knocked into the bedroom's rolltop desk. The angelfish tank swayed, and she reached out to steady it. That's when she saw the torn photo under the tank, barely visible through the black gravel. She pulled it out, quickly aligning the encrypted photo next to this torn piece. They matched. Shaken, she realized she held the missing corner of the photo that this woman might have been murdered for.

  "Maman, ca va?"

  She slid the photos into the envelope and stuffed it down the calf of her leather boot.

  "Monsieur, don't come in here," she said loudly, summoning authority in her voice. "Call le Police."

  "Eh? Who. . ." A middle-aged man, rail thin and tall, walked in. He stooped as if apologizing for taking up space. His forelocks were worn long in the Hasidic style under a black felt hat with an upturned brim.

  She blocked his view. "Is Lili Stein your mother?"

  "What's happened?" He stiffened. "Maman is ill?" He peered over Aimee's shoulder before she could stop him. "No, no," he said shaking his head.

  She edged toward this man, trying to help him.

  "Who are you?" Fear registered in his eyes.

  "I'm working with. . ." She caught herself before she mentioned Hecht. "Temple E'manuel. I'm a private detective, we had an appointment." She guided him towards an alcove hung with rolled scriptures. "Sit down."

  He shook her off. "How did you get in here?" His eyes grew wide in terror.

  "Monsieur Stein?" She kneeled at his eye level, willing him to meet her gaze.

  He nodded.

  "I'm sorry. The door was ajar. I found her a few minutes ago."

  He collapsed, sobbing. She pulled out her cell phone, punched in 15 for SAMU, the emergency service, and gave the address. Then she called 17, Police Centrale.

  "Yisgaddal v'yiskaddash shmey rabboh." He began the Hebrew prayer for the dead. Then he broke off. She put her arm around his thin shoulders, made the sign of the cross, whispering, "May she rest in peace."

  By the time the SAMU van screeched to a halt in the courtyard, waves of the Brigade Criminelle then the Brigade Territoriale had already tramped through. The Police from the 4th arrondissement came next. A rotund figure puffed up the stairs, a droopy mustache above the half smile on his face. Aimee blinked in surprise. "Inspecteur Morbier!"

  She hadn't seen this old friend of her father's for several years. Not since the day of the explosion. Everything came flooding back to her: the reek of cordite and TNT, the hiss and pop of cold rain falling on twisted hot metal, her palm burning on the surveillance van's door handle. She had watched as the force blew her father into a smoking hulk.

  "Aimee. . .!" Then Morbier quickly corrected himself in the presence of the Brigade members. "Mademoiselle Leduc."

  He'd changed little. His blue suspenders strained over his wide belly. He flicked a kitchen match, lit up a Gauloise, and inhaled deeply. She could almost taste the tobacco in the stuffy hallway.

  "Smoking at a murder scene, Morbier?"

  "I'm supposed to ask the questions." He flicked ash into his cupped palm.

  Crime-scene technicians, their lab coats drooping under short yellow rain jackets, glided efficiently amid muffled conversations up and down the stairs.

  "Don't tell me you're involved in this dog and pony show," he said.

  "I'm not involved." She wasn't really lying. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. When she was little he'd always caught her out faster than her father.

  The threadbare Turkish carpet in the hall was already tracked with mud. Stein rocked back and forth on a chair, dazedly shaking his head.

  Aimee and Morbier sidestepped the crime photographer loaded with camera equipment, heading for the kitchen down the hall.

  Stein sputtered to life. "I'm Abraham Stein. This woman was here when I found Maman."

  Morbier's eyes narrowed. "Explain how you happened to find the body."

  She shook her head, indicating she wouldn't speak in front of Stein and tugged Morbier's sleeve, nodding her head towards the kitchen. He rolled his eyes, then lumbered after her.

  "Temple E'manuel hired me to trail her." She kept her voice low, remembering that the best defense is a good offense. "Explain to me why Brigade Criminelle arrived and secured the scene before"—loud banging erupted in the hallway as the stretcher hit the door frame and she stared at him—"you did."

  "Inspecteur Morbier!" A hoarse-voiced detective beckoned to him. "Forensics needs you. Now."

  Morbier growled and left.

  She turned away to hide her relief.

  He stopped a few steps away and jerked his thumb at the nearby pockmark-faced sergeant. "Investigating officer, check the contents of her bag."

  Her shoulders sagged. "Why?"

  He blustered, "A possible suspect at a homicide should cooperate."

  She attempted to check her anger, keep her tone even. "I have nothing to hide."

  She dumped her cell phone, expired Metro pass, extra modem cable, two tubes of ultrablack mascara, business cards, pack of Nicorette stop-smoking gum, mini-tool set, and a well-thumbed manual on software encryption smudged with red nail polish.

  At Lili Stein's bedroom door Morbier turned to her, his expression masked. "I want you at the Commissariat. First thing in the morning." He nodded to the sergeant. "Escort her home."

  Wednesday Evening

  AS THE PILOT ANNOUNCED descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport, Hartmuth Griffe, the German trade advisor, felt an acid taste, drier than the cabin atmosphere, fill his mouth.

  Fifty years and now he was back. His heart raced. Despite the surgery, he feared recognition even after all these years. And the past. What if somehow she'd survived?

  Suddenly, below the mist, tiny pinpricks of light twinkled in the dusk. The landing gear ground heavily below his feet and his stomach lurched. He fought nausea as the wheels hit the runway squealing and the plane taxied along the blue-green lighted lines. He'd promised himself he'd never come back. The plane braked with a jolt.

  "Wie geht's?, mein Herr?" Ilse Häckl, his bureau administrator, greeted him at the gate, with a wide dimpled smile.

  Hartmuth caught himself and compressed his lips in a quick grin. What was she doing here?

  Plump, rosy cheeked, her snow white hair in a bun, Ilse was often mistaken by newcomers to his office for someone's grandmother. However, she supervised one arm of the trade ministry and newcomers either caught on quickly or left.

  "Ilse, aren't you supposed to be on holiday in. . ." He paused, racking his brains. Where had she been going?

  "The Tyrol." She shrugged and smoothed down her shapeless dress. "Ja. My orders, I mean my job, Herr Griffe, is to assist you in any way possible." She stood at attention as much as an older woman in flesh-colored orthopedic hose could.

  "Danke schoen, Ilse. I appreciate it," he said, disturbed but determined to take it in stride.

  At the curb, she whisked Hartmuth into a black Mercedes. As they glided into Paris on Autoroute 1, flat streams of light hinted at the monotonous strips of housing projects along the highway. On the right after the interchange, the cathedral of Sacre Coeur emerged like an elliptical pearl bathed in lunar light.

  The skyline of Paris shone, but not as he remembered it. It was bigger, brighter, a jagged vista ready to swallow him. Already he was desperate to escape.

  "These came this afternoon," Ilse said, as she sat beside him in the back seat. She cleared her throat and thrust a pile of stapled faxes at him. "And this just now, a memo from Bonn."

  Surprised at this direct approach from the ministry, he leaned forward. Why all of a sudden, he wondered.

  "You've read this, Ilse?" Hartmuth's eyes narrowed as he scanned the Bonn printout.

  "Mein Herr. . .," she began.

  "Ja, ja," Hartmuth said, looking straight at her. "But you are here to make sure I lobby
for this trade treaty." He punched the paper. "Is that correct?"

  Ilse shifted slightly but kept her head high. She pinned a stray white hair back into her thick bun. "Unter den Linden, mein Herr," she murmured.

  Hartmuth shuddered. Mein Gott, she was one of them.

  Now he understood why, without warning, he'd been sent to Paris. The Werewolves, descendants of the old SS, still operated in blitzkrieg style.

  The Mercedes pulled into the cobblestoned courtyard of the seventeenth century Hôtel Pavillion de la Reine, tucked unobtrusively in a corner of the Marais. This part of the quartier, residence of nobility until the court moved to Versailles, once filled with rundown mansions, decrepit hôtel particuliers, had become a Jewish ghetto until Malraux saved most of the area from the wrecking ball. Gentrification had made it the trendiest address in Paris.

  Hartmuth could imagine a liveried footman in powdered wig running out to greet him. But the door sprang open courtesy of a bland-faced man wearing a headset with a microphone cupped under his chin.

  "Willkommen et bienvenu, Monsieur," he said.

  Upstairs, Ilse disappeared into the room next door to Hartmuth's. In his suite, he stared at his luggage without unpacking and his fingers trembled as they raked through his still thick white hair. He barely felt the old scars but knew they still webbed his scalp.

  Sixty-eight years old, lean, tan, with a craggy face etched in a permanent squint, Griffe was too vain to wear glasses. Alone among the antique armoires and gilt-framed paintings, he felt empty. He opened the glass balcony doors, stepping out into the frosty chill air. The vacant playground and fountains of the fenced Place des Vosges spread below him.

  Why hadn't he ignored the minister? But he knew the reason why. As the silent architect of previous trade agreements and treaties, only his lobbying glued the EU delegates together. But did the trade summit have to be here?

  Under the pigeon-spattered statue of Louis XIII straddling his horse, he'd said goodbye so many, many years ago to the only woman he'd loved. A Frenchwoman. A Jew.

  Sarah.

  The cooing of pigeons and soggy chill of an early November evening floated past his open balcony doors. His hands shook as he grasped the door handle. What if someone recognized him and screamed his past out loud?

  Unter den Linden; that was an order. Also the Werewolves' codeword meaning: one day we will meet under the flowering linden trees in Berlin under a new Reich. The Third Reich reborn.

  Unable to work, he gazed at the restored rose stone facades of the square opposite the window. I'm just an old man with memories, he thought. Everyone else had been ground into dust long ago.

  Fifty years ago he'd been young, and the City of Light had spread before him, ripe for the plucking. Very ripe, for Hartmuth Griffe had been an officer with the SiPo-SD Sicherheitspolizei und Sicherheitsdienst Security Police and Gestapo, responsible for sweeping the Jews from the Marais.

  THURSDAY

  Thursday Morning

  THE SEINE FLOWED SILVER, chill mist hovered, and along the mossy-stoned quai Aimee walked, debating whether to call Hecht. No contact, he'd said. But as far as she was concerned, the rules had changed when she'd found Lili Stein dead.

  She crossed the Pont Neuf with the still-lighted bateaux mouches gliding below as dawn crept over the Seine. Thick fog silhouetted Cafe Magritte under her office on rue du Louvre.

  Inside, at the zinc counter, she dunked a buttery croissant in a steamy bowl of cafe au lait. The espresso machine rumbled like a jet at takeoff.

  She'd accepted a simple job but the stakes had skyrocketed with this grisly murder. Morbier had treated her as a suspect and had her escorted home, whether to establish authority with his minions or—she didn't like to finish the thought. Nothing about this felt good. She shivered, remembering the look on Lili Stein's face.

  Warm coffee vapors laced the windows overlooking the Louvre's western wing. She especially didn't want to lie to Morbier about some odd Nazi hunter who would deny knowing her.

  Revived, she slipped twenty francs across the counter to Zazie, the owner's freckle-faced ten-year-old, who worked the cash register before school.

  "Mind if I get ready for work?" she said, pulling out her battered makeup kit.

  Four-foot-tall Zazie stared awestruck as Aimee applied red lipstick in the mirrorlike espresso machine, ran mascara through her lashes, and outlined her large eyes with kohl pencil. She smoothed her short brown spiky hair, pinched her pale cheeks for color, and winked at Zazie.

  "Buy yourself a goûter after school." She wrapped Zazie's fist around her change.

  "Merci, Aimee." Zazie grinned.

  "Tell your papa l'Americaine wants to settle her tab later, d'accord?"

  Zazie's brown eyes grew serious. "Why does Papa call you l'Americaine? You never wear cowboy boots."

  Aimee struggled not to smile. "I keep them in my closet. Real snakeskin. My maman sent them from le Texas." She had the cowboy boots but she'd bought them herself at the Dallas airport.

  Upstairs, lights glowed behind her frosted-glass office door.

  "Soli Hecht left you a present," said her partner, Rene Friant, a handsome dwarf with green eyes and goatee. He wore a three-piece navy blue suit and tasseled loafers. Rene pumped the hydraulic lift handle of his custom orthopedic chair with his foot.

  Curious, she picked up the thick manila envelope with her name scribbled on it.

  Fifty thousand francs were inside along with a note.

  Find her killer—tell no one. I don't trust the flics. I trust you.

  Wads of franc notes tumbled out as she grabbed the desk edge to steady herself.

  "He must like you!" Rene's eyes grew wide. "We'll convince the tax board to. . ."

  She shook her head. "I can't. . ."

  Rene pumped furiously until the seat aligned with his desk.

  "Look at this." He thrust one of several threatening letters from the bank manager at her. "Our tax extension is up in the air, the bank is calling in our note. Now, the Eurocom accountant refuses to pay us the eight months of back payments we're owed, he's quibbling about a clause in the contract; it could take months." He struggled to adjust a knob on his seat. "Time you got out of the computer clouds, Aimee, and got back in the field."

  "I don't do murder." She winced.

  "You make it sound like there's a choice."

  "INSPECTEUR MORBIER is expecting me," Aimee said to Madame Noiret, gritting her teeth at the Commissariat de Police reception desk. Not only did her jaws ache from the biting cold outside, she was dying for a smoke.

  "Bonjour, Aimee, ca va?" Madame Noiret, the gray-haired clerk peered through reading glasses and smiled. "I'll let him know you're here."

  "Ça va bien, merci, Madame."

  She hated coming back to the Commissariat in Place Baudoyer; her father's memory stabbed her from every corner. There was the cold marble floor of his office where she'd done homework as a little girl when he worked late, later helping him clean out his desk when he joined Grandfather at Leduc Detective, then collecting his posthumous medal from the Commissaire.

  Aimee's American mother had disappeared from her life one evening in 1968. She'd never returned from the Herald Tribune, where she worked as a stringer on the news desk. Her father had sent Aimee to boarding school during the week and on weekends he took her to the Luxembourg Gardens. On a bench under the row of plane trees by the puppet theater, she once asked him about her mother. His normally sympathetic eyes hardened. "We don't talk about her anymore." And they never had.

  Three weeks without a cigarette and Aimee's tailored jeans pinched, so she paced instead of sitting. She'd always thought the crimes investigated by the Commissariat of Police in the Marais rarely matched the division's elegant accommodations. High-tech weapon sensors hid nestled in brass wall sconces of this Second Empire style nineteenth century mansion. Rose lead-paned windows funneled pink patterns across the marble walls. But the dead cigarettes in overflowing ashtrays, greasy crumbs, and
stale sweaty fear made it smell like every other police station she'd been in.

  This palatial building neighbored Napoleon's former barracks and the 4th arrondissement's Tresor public, the tax office on rue de la Verrerie. But Parisians called it flics et taxes, la double morte—cops and taxes, the double death.

  She drifted over the scuffed parquet floor to read the bulletin board in the waiting area. A torn notice, dated eight months earlier, announced that Petanque leagues were forming and serious bowlers were encouraged to sign up early. Next to that, an Interpol poster of wanted criminals still included Carlos the Jackal's photo. Below that, a sign advertised a sublet in Montsouris, a "studio economique" for five thousand francs a month, cheap for the 14th arrondissement. She figured that meant a sixth-floor walk-up closet with a pull-chain squat toilet down the hall.

  Aimee stood in front of the board, reknotting her silk scarf, knowing she'd got it right the first time. She hated lying to flics, especially Morbier.

  Maybe she should convince Morbier she was thinking of converting to Judaism instead of telling him the truth about an old Nazi hunter who had made her fifty thousand francs richer, hiring her to deliver half a photo to a dead woman. Then hiring her to find her killer.

  Madame Noiret pushed sliding glasses up her nose and pointed inside.

  "Go ahead, Aimee, Inspecteur Morbier will see you."

  She walked into the seventeen-foot-high-ceilinged room of the homicide division. Few desks were occupied. Morbier's was littered with a stack of well-thumbed files. A demitasse of espresso sat next to his flashing computer screen. His pudgy fifty-nine-year-old body leaned back in a dangerously tilted chair. He cradled the phone against his shoulder while one hand scratched his salt-and-pepper head and the other held a cigarette conspiratorially between his thumb and forefinger. As he hung up, she watched his nicotine-stained fingers with their short splayed nails, rifling in the cellophane-crumpled pack of Gauloises for another cigarette. High above the desks, a TV tuned to France 2 displayed continuous car wrecks, tanker accidents on the high seas, and train fatalities.