Murder in the Marais

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.

Loudly she demanded, "Quickly! For the monsieur, s'il vous plaît!"

Immediately, a cafe au lait in a Limoges cup and a bountiful fruit tray appeared.

"Compliments of the hotel," the manager said, almost scraping his chin on the table with a low bow.

"Merci," Hartmuth said, reaching for his cup.

She tried not to look at his hands. Tried not to stare at the pigskin leather gloves he wore. Most of all, she tried to hide her disappointment at not being able to lift his fingerprints. She decided to get to the point.

"Did you know Lili Stein?"

"Excuse me, who?" Hartmuth Griffe stared at her.

She noticed the creamy foam in his cup trembled slightly.

"Lili Stein, a Jewish woman maybe a few years younger than you." She paused.

"No." He shook his head. "I'm in Paris for the trade summit. I know no one here."

She sipped, watching his eyes as they met hers. His stare had grown glassy and removed.

"She was murdered near this hotel," Aimee said, slowly setting her cup down on the table. "Strangled. A swastika was carved in her forehead."

"I'm afraid I don't know that n-name," he said. He blinked several times.

She heard the stutter and saw his mouth quiver at the effort to stop it.

"Her family said she'd been very scared before it happened. I think she knew secrets." Aimee watched him. "But you've been to Paris before, maybe you met her then, non?"

It was a long shot but worth a try.

"You've mistaken me for someone else. This is my first time in Paris." He stood up quickly.

Aimee stood up also. "Here is my card. Odd bits and pieces lodged in one's memory tend to emerge after conversations like this. Call me any time. One last question. Why are you listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad, Herr Griffe?"

He looked truly surprised.

"Ask the war office. All I remember is seeing bodies stacked like cordwood in the snow. Mounds of them. Frozen together. Kilometers of them, as far as the Russian horizon."

Then Hartmuth stiffened like a rod, as if he remembered where he was.

"But go ahead, Mademoiselle Leduc, and pinch me, I'm real. If you'll excuse me." He clicked his heels and was gone.

She slumped on the velvet sofa. Did he wear those gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints? All she knew was that something was bottled up inside him. Tight and close to explosion.

Aimee finished the fruit platter; it would be a shame to waste raspberries in November. But she'd learned at least one thing. He was either an incredible liar or a mistake had been made. She opted for the former. After all, he was a diplomat and a politician.

HORDE S OF protesters chanting, "Not again, not again!" blocked her way to the Metro. Buses lined narrow rue des Francs Bourgeois, the air thick with diesel fumes and high tempers. Aimee wished she could get past the seventeenth-century walls, high and solid, hemming her and passersby in to the sidewalk.

Police encased in black Kevlar riot gear squatted between the Zionist youth and skinheads screaming, "France for the French." A light drizzle beaded in crystalline drops on the clear bulletproof shields of the police, who crouched like praying mantises.

Ahead, a polished black Mercedes limousine, stuck in the Hôtel Pavillion de la Reine courtyard, caught Aimee's eye. The driver gestured towards the narrow street, arguing with a riot-squad member. The smoked window rolled down and Aimee saw a veined hand stretch out.

"Phillipe, please, I want to walk," came the unmistakable voice. She remembered the last time she had heard it-on the radio after she discovered Lili Stein's body.

The highly waxed door opened and Minister Cazaux, the probable next prime minister of France, emerged into the stalled traffic. The plainclothes guards rushing to surround his tall, bony figure caught the crowd's attention.

"S'il vous plaît, Monsieur le Ministre, these conditions-" a bodyguard began.

"Since when can't a government servant walk among the people?" Cazaux grinned. "With the treaty about to be signed, I need every chance to hear their concerns." He winked at the small crowd around the car, his charm melting many of them into smiles as he moved among them shaking hands, totally at ease with the situation.

He smiled directly at Aimee, who'd become awkwardly wedged among the hotel staff. He appeared younger than he did in the media but she was surprised at his heavy makeup. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I hope you will support our party's platform!"

Cazaux grasped her hands in his warm ones, as she winced at the sudden pressure.

"Je m'excuse." He pulled back, glancing at her hand.

His charm was laserlike. Once appointed he would be prime minister for five years.

"Monsieur le Ministre," she said, stifling a smile, "you promote social reform, but your party sanctions this racist treaty. Can you explain this contradiction?"

Cazaux nodded and paused. "Mademoiselle, you've made a good point." He turned to the crowd, assorted skinheads, shoppers, and young Zionists. "If there was another way to reduce our crippling 12.8 percent unemployment, I'd be the first one to do it. Right now, France has to get back on its feet, reenter the global market, and nothing is more important than that."

Many in the crowd nodded, but the young Zionists chanted, "No more camps!"

The minister approached them. "Simple answers to immigration don't exist; I wish they did."

He embraced a squealing infant shoved at him by a perspiring mother. With all the time in the world, he rocked the young baby like a practiced grandfather. Then he kissed the cooing baby on both cheeks, gently handing it back to the beaming mother. "Discussion is the foundation of our republic." He smiled at the Zionists. "Bring your concerns to my office."

Cazaux was good, she had to admit. He worked the crowd well. Several photographers caught him in earnest discussion with a Zionist youth. By the time the traffic jam broke up, even the Zionists were almost subdued.

His guards signaled to him, then Cazaux waved, climbed in the limo, and shot down the street. The whole incident had taken less than fifteen minutes, she realized. His adept handling of potential violence triggered her unease. He'd manipulated the volatile situation almost as if he'd planned it. When did I get so cynical, she wondered.

Ahead of her stood an old man in a lopsided blue beret. "Just like the old days. Maybe they'll do it right this time," he muttered. His face was contorted by hate.

"There's blacks and Arabs everywhere," he continued. "My war pension is half what the blacks get. Noisy all night and they can't even speak French."

She turned away and stared straight into the eyes of Leif, the lederhosened skinhead from LBN. He stood by the entrance of a dingy hôtel particulier, watching her. Even in a red suit with makeup and heels instead of leather, black lipstick, and chains, she wasn't going to wait and see if he recognized her.

When she looked again, he was gone. Stale sweat and the smell of damp wool surrounded her. She froze when she saw his bristly mohawk appear over the old man's shoulder.

"Salopes!" the old man swore into the jostling crowd, Aimee wasn't sure at whom.

She was scared. In this narrow, jammed street, she had nowhere to go. She crouched behind the old man, pulled her red jacket off, and stuck a brown ski cap from her bag over her hair. She shivered in a cream silk top in the now steady drizzle, put on heavy black-framed glasses, and melted into the crowd as best she could.

"They laid my son off, but he doesn't get the fat welfare check those blacks get for nothing," the old man shouted.

Aimee felt groping fingers under her blouse, but she couldn't see who they belonged to. Leaning down, she opened her mouth and bit as hard as she could. Someone yelped loudly in pain and the crowd scattered in fear. Aimee darted and elbowed her way through the grumbling crowd. She didn't stop until she had reached the Metro, where she shoved her pass in the turnstile and ran to the nearest platform. Gusts of hot air shot from the tiled vents as each train pulled in and out. She stood in front of them until her blouse had dried, she'd stopped shaking, and had come up with a plan.

Wednesday Noon

AIMÉE WORKED IN HER apartment on her computer, accessing Thierry Rambuteau's credit-card activity, parking tickets, and even his passport. He drove a classic '59 Porsche, lived with his parents, and had dined the night before at Le Crepuscule on the Left Bank using his American Express card.

On the previous Wednesday morning, the day Lili was murdered, the card showed a gas purchase off the A2 highway near Antwerp, Belgium. That gave him plenty of time to drive into Paris by early evening. She scrolled through the rest and was about to give up, but just to be thorough she checked his passport activity. There it was. Entry into Istanbul, Turkey, a week ago Saturday and no record of return. But most countries didn't stamp your passport on departure. No wonder he had a tan, she thought, when she'd first seen him at LBN office. And a possible alibi.

She took a swig of bottled water and called Martine at Le Figaro.

Martine put her on hold briefly, then spoke into the phone. "Here's what I found. Like clockwork, there's a deposit every month into Thierry and Claude Rambuteau's joint account from DFU. That's the Deutsche Freiheit Union, the fascists who burn Turkish families out of their homes. Why are you investigating this guy? I'm just curious."

"He's a suspect in a Jewish woman's murder," Aimee replied.

"Let me guess," Martine yawned. "He's really a Jew."

Aimee choked and almost dropped her bottle of water. "That's an ironic angle I hadn't thought of."

Martine was awake now. "Really? I was just kidding; it would give him some excuse to be screwed up."

"Screwed up enough to strangle a woman and and carve a swastika into her head?" Aimee said.

"Oh God, Gilles told me about that, it's in his follow-up story for the Sunday evening edition. You think he did it?"

"Martine, this is between us. Not Gilles," Aimee said firmly. She tapped the name Claude Rambuteau into her computer as she talked. "Why would Thierry's father…?"

"Wait a minute, Aimee. Who is his father?"

"According to Thierry's Amex application, his father is Claude Rambuteau," she said, pulling up the information from her screen and downloading it.

"Were you wondering why he would have a joint account with his son Thierry and receive DFU money?" Martine asked.

"Something along those lines," Aimee said. "I better go ask him."

RAIN SPLATTERED over the cobblestones as Aimee ran to number twelve. She rang the buzzer next to the faded name Rambuteau, adjusting her long wool skirt and tucking her spiky hair under a matching wool beret.

The outline of a smallish figure materialized, silhouetted in the frosted-glass door. A portly man, short with gray hair and dark glasses and dressed in a fashionable tracksuit, opened the door halfway.

"Yes?" He remained partly in the door's shadow.

"I'm Aimee Leduc, with Leduc Investigation," she said, handing him her card. "I'd like to speak with Thierry Rambuteau."

"Not here, he doesn't live here, you see," the man said. Already she'd caught him in a lie.

"Perhaps I could come in for a minute," she said evenly. Her beret was soaked.

"Is there a problem?" he said.

"Not really. I'm working on a case and-"

Here he interrupted her. "What is this about?"

"Lili Stein, an elderly Jewish woman, was murdered near here. A local synagogue enlisted my services." She glanced inside the hallway. A black leather storm-trooper coat hung from the hall coatrack. "That's your son's coat, isn't it? Let me talk with him."

He shook his head. "He's not here now. I told you."

"I'd like to clear up a few points, Monsieur Rambuteau. You can help me." She edged closer to him. "I'm getting awfully wet and I promise I'll go away after we talk."

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 as 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 somersault. 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.

"Who are Thierry Rambuteau's real parents?"

He sat down heavily. "Did my son do this to you?"

"That wasn't my question but he's certainly on my list."

"Leave the past alone," he said.

"That phrase is getting monotonous," she said. "I don't like people trying to kill me because I'm curious."

She pulled out the folder and slapped it on the white melamine-topped table. "If you won't tell me, this lawyer, Monsieur Barrault, will."

"You stole that!" Monsieur Rambuteau accused.

"You offered to let me use this, if you want to get technical." She slowly set her Glock on a sunflowered plate, her eyes never leaving his face. Half of her skull had frozen from the ice and the other half ached dully. "I'm not threatening you, Monsieur Rambuteau, but I thought you'd like to see what the big boys use when they need information. But I went to polite detective school. We ask first," she said.

His hand shook as he reached for a bottle of yellow pills. "I'm preventing the reading of my wife's will with a court order. So whatever you do won't matter."

"I'll contest that as public domain information," she said. "Within three days, Monsieur, it can be published as a legal document. What exactly are you hiding?"

"Nathalie was naive, too trusting." He shook his head. "Look, I'll hire you. Pay you to stop further damage. The war's been over fifty years, people have made new lives. Some secrets are better left that way. My son's certainly is."

"Two Jews have been murdered so far, and I'm next," she said. What would it take to reach him? "You better start talking because everything points to Thierry Rambuteau. Who is he?"

He glanced around furtively, as if someone would overhear.

"I had no idea Nathalie changed her will," he said. "We never agreed over him. Maybe she'd been drinking. Why should the mistakes we make when young stay with us all our life?"

She wasn't sure what he meant but he appeared fatigued and wiped his brow.

"Cut to the chase, Monsieur." Her head pounded and her patience was exhausted. "Who is he?"

"During the war, Nathalie was an actress, I did lighting and camera work for Coliseum. We worked with Allegret, the director, in the same acting troupe with Simone Signoret." A melancholy smile crossed his face. "Nathalie never tired of telling everyone that. Anyway, Coliseum was accused of being a collaborationist film company and later grew to become Paricor. But then we just made movies and Goebbels made the propaganda. And like everyone in France, we had to get Gestapo permission for anything we did. At that time, cutting your toenails required approval from the Gestapo Kommandantur, so I've never understood the uproar about collaborators. We all were, if you look at it like that."

Maybe that was true, but it reminded her of the joke about the Resistance. Fewer than five in a hundred of the French had ever joined, but if you talked to anyone today over sixty, they'd all been card-carrying members.

He paused, sadness washing over his face. "Anyway, at Liberation we had a stillborn child. My wife couldn't get over it, but then, you see, so many babies came out stillborn during the war. Maybe it was the lack of food. But Nathalie felt so guilty. Everyone went crazy happy at Liberation. Our saviors, the Allies, were rolling in and here she was about to commit suicide."

His breath came in labored spurts now and his face was flushed. "On the street we'd see parades of women with their heads shaved. They'd slept with Nazis."

"Monsieur, some water?" she interrupted. She passed the bottle of yellow pills across the table towards him.

"Merci," he said, gulping the water with more pills.

"What does this have to do with Thierry?" she said.

"There was a knock on our door one night. Little Sarah, a girl really, held a baby in her arms. I knew her father, Ruben."

"Sarah?" she said. Where had she seen that name? Then her brain clicked-she'd seen it on Lili's yarn list next to Hecht's! "What was her last name?"

Claude Rambuteau shook his head. "I don't remember. Her father worked on the camera crew before the war, a Jew, but…" His eyes glazed, then he continued. "Anyway, it was such a shock, I hadn't seen her for several years. Sarah's head had been shaved and an ugly tar swastika branded on her forehead. She cried and moaned at our door. 'My baby is hungry, my milk has dried up, and he's going to die.' The baby cried piteously. I noticed on her torn dress a dark outline of material where a star had been sewn. 'Where is your family?' I asked. She just shook her head. Then she said, 'No one will give me milk for my Nazi bastard.'

"I told her that I couldn't help her. People might suspect me of collaborating. Especially since I'd worked at Coliseum all during the war. She looked at my wife and said that the baby would die if he went with her and she didn't know anyone else to ask. She said she knew we'd had a baby, couldn't my wife nurse hers, too? I told her our baby had died."

Rambuteau closed his eyes. "She begged me, got on her hands and knees in the doorway. She said she knew he'd be safe with us because we had connections. Bands of Resistance vigilantes roamed Paris, out for revenge. I tell you, it was more dangerous to be on the streets after the Germans left than before, if they thought you'd collaborated."

He took a few deep breaths, then kept talking determinedly. "All of a sudden, my wife took the crying baby in her arms. She opened her blouse and instinctively the infant sucked greedily. Nathalie still had milk and her face filled with happiness. I knew then we'd keep the baby. So you see, Nathalie is his real mother. She gave him milk and life, I've always told her that. I never saw Sarah again. She brought us the baby because we were rightists and no one would ever suspect."

Incredulous, Aimee asked, "How could you accept the baby with the way you feel about Jews?"

"I've always regarded him as Aryan, because half of him is."

"Half-Aryan?" Aimee sat up.

"The product of a union between a Jew and a German soldier. Evidently, my wife had made some foolish promise to reveal the past to Thierry. Sometimes her drinking got her into trouble." Wearily, he raised his hand and brushed his thinning gray hair behind his ears. The man had no tears left. Aimee recalled the cobbler Javel mentioning a blue-eyed Jewess with a baby.

"Did this Sarah have bright blue eyes?" she said.

Monsieur Rambuteau looked surprised, then wrinkled his brow. "Yes, like Thierry." He shrugged. "He's as much my son as if he came from my loins. And he's all I have left."

"Tell him the truth. Be honest," she said.

Monsieur Rambuteau looked horror-stricken. "I don't know if I could. You see, he would have such a reaction."

"You mean a violent reaction?" She thought he seemed afraid of his own son.

He shook his head sadly. "His real parentage is against everything I've raised him to believe. And now it's come back to haunt my life. I never meant to be so anti-Semitic when he was growing up. I just felt the races should live separately. And I spoiled him, I could never say no to him. He's very strong-minded, I just don't know what to do."

Aimee was struck by this irony in Monsieur Rambuteau. But his obvious love for his son, even though he was half-Jewish, touched her.

After a minute of quiet, his labored breathing had eased and he smiled faintly. "I'm sorry. I'm a sick old man. And I'm desperate. The truth would destroy him." He sighed. "My son is not the easiest person to deal with. If he asks you lots of questions, tell him that all records of births were destroyed by the Nazis when they abandoned Drancy prison. That's the truth."

"You love him," she said. "But I can't help you."

"The records were destroyed, there's nothing left," he said.

Aimee pulled out a Polaroid of the black swastika painted on her office wall. "This is your son's handiwork."

He shook his head. "Wrong, Detective."

"How do you know, Monsieur Rambuteau?" She searched his face.

"Because that's how Nazis painted them in my day."

Taken aback, she paused and studied it again.

"He could have copied the style," she said.

But even though Aimee pressed him, he just shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, young lady, we never had this conversation. I'll deny it. Take my advice, no one wants the past dug up."

Wednesday Afternoon

THIERRY RAMBUTEAU, LEADER OF Les Blancs Nationaux, paced impatiently in front of a sagging stone mausoleum. Where was his father? They'd arranged to meet before his mother's funeral.

This was ridiculous. He wasn't waiting any longer. Striding between the narrow lanes of crooked headstones in Père Lachaise cemetery, he realized he was lost. Every turn he took seemed to take him further away from where he wanted to go. A trio of seniors involved in a heated discussion stood on the gravel path, their breath puffy clouds in the crisp air.

"Alors, is this the western section?" Thierry asked of the one with a shovel. "I'm looking for Row E."

The old man looked up and nodded knowingly. "A new burial, eh? You're in the east corridor, young man, made a wrong turn a few turns back."

The old man pulled his heavy work gloves off, reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out a fluorescent orange map. On it were the faces of celebrities buried in Père Lachaise. Like a Hollywood map to stars' homes Thierry had seen sold in Beverly Hills. Only these stars were in homes of the dead. Just then, a group of tourists wandered past them, rattling away in Dutch and consulting their own maps.

"What is this, a tourist stop?" Thierry asked in disgust.

The old man had lit a Gauloise. "The dead don't mind it." He shrugged and pointed at his map. "Anyway, go left at Oscar Wilde-it's very obvious with the angel; he's a big draw, you know-and then straight until the marble crypt. If you hit Baudelaire you've gone too far. Then go just to the right past Colette and you should be there."

The old man put the map in Thierry's hands. "Someone in your family?" he asked.

"My mother," Thierry said. He'd been amazed that her love affair with the bottle hadn't killed her. Cancer had done that.

"Ah, well, my condolences. You must have an old family vault; no new space here anymore. But you'll enjoy visiting her. Never a dull moment here, especially over by that rock star Jim Morrison's grave, lots of all-night parties there."

Thierry started on his way and paused at the angel, as the old man had pointed out to him on the map. The name Oscar Wilde and the dates 1854-1900 were carved into the marble with the inscription "For his mourners will be outcast men and outcasts always mourn."

A single red rose lay at the angel's foot. Bleakly, Thierry concurred. He knew how it felt to be an outcast.

WHEN THIERRY reached the burial site chosen for his mother, he waited for a long time. His father finally shuffled towards him. Monsieur Rambuteau was red in the face and out of breath.

"Even with a map, this place was hard to find," he puffed. "But at least your mother is in good company." He pointed to the graffitied tombstone of Jacques Brel a few plots over.

"Why don't they charge admission like the Eiffel Tower?" Thierry said angrily.

Fifteen people attended the ceremony. Nathalie Rambuteau, an agnostic, had requested a simple graveside service with her family and some friends. Several old hands from her theatrical and film days appeared.

As Thierry and his father walked away from the grave, Monsieur Barrault, the attorney, reminded them that he would be in his office later to read Madame Rambuteau's will.

As they passed the sagging gravestone of Stendhal, blackened and weedy with neglect, Thierry shook his head. "How could they let Jews in here?"

His father's grip on his arm had tightened until it hurt and he leaned heavily on Thierry for support. Surprised, Thierry looked at his father's face and saw his pained expression.

"Papa." Thierry hadn't called him that for a long time. "You look ill. Why don't you go home and rest?"

Monsieur Rambuteau didn't answer.

In Thierry's Porsche on the way back to the apartment Monsieur Rambuteau was quiet. Then he spoke in an odd voice. "Close our joint account, Thierry. I've been meaning to tell you for some time," he said. "It's much safer if you route the funds another way."

"Why, Papa?" Thierry said.

"One can never be too cautious," Monsieur Rambuteau said. His voice changed. "Do you remember how we used to feed the pigeons crumbs in Place des Vosges?"

Thierry was shaken by the softness in his father's voice. "But that happened long ago, Papa. I was a little boy."

"You loved to do that. Every night after supper you begged me to take you," he said. "You told me you were the happiest boy in the world when you sprinkled bread crumbs near the statue of Louis XIII on his horse."

Thierry grinned. "I haven't thought about that in years. What made you bring…"

Monsieur Rambuteau had covered his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.

"Papa, what is it?" Thierry reached over, patting his father's arm. "We'll have good times again." He meant like the frequent times his mother had dried out at the Swiss clinic.

Claude Rambuteau nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Thierry, look for a blue envelope near your maman's picture."

Thierry glanced at him quizzically, as his father slumped in the bucket seat.

"In the breakfast room, don't forget!" Monsieur Rambuteau was gasping now.

"My son," he gurgled as Thierry pulled over.

Thierry frantically searched his father's pockets. "Of course, don't worry…Papa!" he cried in alarm.

Claude Rambuteau's face was turning from beat red to purple. His knees spasmodically jerked against the leather dashboard.

"Where are your pills? Your pills?" Thierry screamed.

But Claude couldn't hear him as Thierry raced through the half-empty streets to the emergency entrance of St. Catherine's Hospital.

Wednesday Afternoon

AIMÉE CHANGED INTO CRISP wool trousers and a tailored cashmere cardigan. She looped the silk Hermes foulard, another treasure found at the flea market, around her neck. She popped more aspirin as she downed a generous shot of Ricard. Her head felt sore but the ice had prevented any major swelling. The dull throb had subsided and if it recurred she would drink more vermouth. Around the corner from her apartment she climbed onto the open-backed bus bound for the Palais Royal.

The law offices of notaire Maurice Barrault were located at street level of what had once been an hôtel particulier on rue du Temple. Renovated probably in the seventies, the high-ceilinged salon had been chopped into office suites. Much of the charm had been lost but not the cold drafts, Aimee noted with discomfort.

"Monsieur Barrault is in conference," the clipped secretarial voice behind designer wire-frame glasses informed her.

"Oh, what can I do?" Aimee sighed. "My aunt's will is supposed to be read today. Of all days!"

"I'm sorry. Would you like to reschedule?" The secretary pushed some files to the side of her desk and pulled out an appointment book.

Aimee parted her sleek black shoulder-length wig with her fingers. "But I have a reservation on the TGV to Bordeaux in two hours."

She eyed the framed baby photos lining the secretary's desk. French people loved children, giving excessive warmth and attention to any child.

"My one-year-old came down with croup! The doctor is worried about complications with pneumonia."

The secretary's concerned gaze radiated from behind the wire frames. "I understand. Your name, please." she said.

"Celine Rambuteau," she said. "Nathalie Rambuteau was my aunt."

"I'll see what I can do." The secretary patted the chair next to her desk and there was warmth in her voice. "Calmez-vous."

The secretary disappeared behind a wooden partition. Aimee heard a door open, then click shut. She stood up quickly and scanned the file of some fifteen legal briefs piled next to the baby photos. Nothing. Then she rifled through a stack next to them labeled "To be transcribed," fuming to herself. The will was probably right on the lawyer's desk and she'd never be able to get a look at it.

In the secretary's open drawer, she saw hanging files. Under the "To file for probate section," a folder hadn't been shoved in completely. She peeked, then started in excitement. In the middle was a file labeled NATHALIE RAMBUTEAU.

Beside her, the telephone rang loudly on the desk. She jumped. The red light blinked on and off. She wouldn't have time to pull Nathalie Rambuteau's file out. Her hands shook. She knew the secretary would be on her way to answer.

Suddenly the light stopped blinking and went off. Aimee took a deep breath. Deftly, she slid the file out, flipped the cover, and scanned the sheets. She turned the pages hurriedly, looking for anything about Thierry. Deeds of property and legalese. Nothing about Thierry. Behind the wooden partition, she heard a door close and the click of heels. What story had Rambuteau been feeding her? Had he lied about this whole thing to throw her off the track?

Stapled to the back of the will was an envelope with THIERRY RAMBUTEAU in black spidery writing. Aimee coughed, covering the noise as she tore it off and slipped it in her pocket. As the secretary rounded the partition, Aimee dropped the will back in the hanging folder.

"I'm afraid there's been a complication, Madame Rambuteau." The secretary looked worried. "Your aunt's will goes into probate."

"But why?" Aimee said.

"Monsieur Barrault wanted to tell you; unfortunately, he is in conference. He'll call you later this afternoon."

"Probate?" Aimee raised her eyebrows.

"I apologize if this seems unexpected…," the secretary began.

"Unprofessional is what it seems to me." Aimee stood up, adjusted her silk scarf, then made for the lawyer's door. "I need an explanation."

The secretary barred the way but her eyes were evasive. "Monsieur Barrault is meeting with a vice president of the Bank of France. As soon as he's finished he'll call and explain."

Aimee was about to make a scene and barge through the tall oak doors but she stopped herself. The reason a will went to probate clicked in her brain.

"My uncle is dead, isn't he?"

The woman's eyes shifted nervously, then she nodded. "I'm sorry. Monsieur Rambuteau suffered a heart attack after the funeral. Now the reading of the will is blocked until your uncle's estate goes through probate."

Aimee sat back down, shaken.

"I'm sorry you heard it from me." The secretary bent down, patting Aimee's arm. Her eyes were kind. "Truly sorry." The woman took Aimee's shocked behavior for grief.

"A heart attack?" Aimee shook her head.

"Right after the funeral, on the way back to his apartment. And you have just seen him at the cemetery! What a shock for you."

"And my poor cousin, Thierry…I have to go to him!" More than ever, she had to discover Thierry's identity.

The secretary threw her hands up. "Please don't let Monsieur Barrault know I've told you. My job would be…"

"Of course." Aimee nodded and stood up. "I'll find my cousin. We'll keep this between us."

ENTERING HER office, Aimee was immediately alarmed by the look on Rene's face. He avoided her eyes and concentrated on his computer screen.

"Rene, what happened?"

He sucked in his breath, bowing his large head and pointing to the fax machine.

Miles Davis scampered noisily into her arms as she bent down to pick him up. He licked and nuzzled her wetly with his nose.

A long fax feed had come in from Martine, curling all the way down to the floor. Martine had scribbled at the top, "I've lost my appetite…let's do dinner another time."

Enlarged from microfiche records were one-page cheat sheets titled, in crudely set print, CITOYEN-CITIZEN. Full of vindictive articles and accusations about collaborators, a starved and widowed France vented its spleen. J'ACCUSE headed each of the articles.

There were photos of collaborators hung garroted from streetlights with swastikas painted on their grotesque figures, village squares filled with contorted bodies shot by vigilante firing squads, and groups of women with their heads shaved, being stoned by crowds. The rest was a hideous description. No wonder Martine was sick.

Aimee looked sadly at these photos of women, herded like sheep before a people's street tribunal at Liberation. Just like Claude Rambuteau had said. The line under one photo read:

Not only did French whores take the Germans' food while their neighbors starved but Jewesses slept with the Nazis as their families burned under Gestapo orders!

In the motley-dressed group of women with shaved heads, one carried a baby. She looked young, her expression stony, her head held high. Aimee pulled a magnifying glass from her drawer to see the details more clearly.

The next scene caught by the photographer preserved the ugly truth forever. A swastika had been tarred into her forehead. The young mother had sagged to the ground in pain, still holding the baby and keeping it away from the crowd. Could that be Thierry in the young woman's arms? Was this the Jewess who'd slept with a Nazi?

In the crowd she noticed a leering adolescent girl. Around the girl's neck hung a gold chain with odd symbols. Peering closer through the lens she remembered seeing those same distinctive symbols before, twisted into the ligature marks. She recognized that face. A young Lili Stein stood in the crowd.

"I LIKE your theory," Rene said. His fingers raced over his laptop. "Les Blancs Nationaux works as a front, financing Aryan hit squads, operating from DFU money via the Rambuteaus' joint bank account."

"Makes sense," Aimee said. "The German funds provide perfect cover for the final solution Thierry earnestly believes in. Now we just have to prove it."

Rene had already started accessing the Rambuteau's bank account on his computer. "For Thierry to murder Soli Hecht because he was an interfering Nazi hunter and Lili Stein for an initiation rite would fit," he said.

Aimee opened the oval window facing rue du Louvre. The November chill did nothing to disguise the four coats of paint needed to cover the swastika. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could still make out the curved edges.

"Look at this," she said, handing the blue envelope to Rene. "I stole it off Nathalie Rambuteau's will. Here's confirmation from his real mother."

"His real mother?" Rene said. He hit "save" on his laptop. "Who's that?"

"A woman named Sarah. The irony is, he's part Jew," she said. "Like they say Hitler was."

She would leverage the truth out of Thierry. Not only would she display his incriminating bank account, she would show him the contents of the envelope.

"Then who is his father?" Rene said after he read the letter. "Or do you have ideas about that?"

"A Si-Po officer who deported Jews from the Marais," she said. "But there's only one way to find out for sure. And Thierry will help me do that."

Wednesday Evening

AIMÉE WRAPPED HER FINGERS around the cold plastic of her 9-mm Glock and knocked on the door with her gloved hand. A white-faced Thierry Rambuteau appeared. He stared at her. A glimmer of recognition passed over his face.

"You! What do you want?" he said.

"We need to talk," she said.

"Who are you, anyway?" He didn't seem to want to know the answer because he started to close the door.

She stuck her boot in the door, still keeping her hand balanced on the gun handle in her pocket. "I have something you should see."

He shook his head.

"And I'm not going away."

He stood aside. "Since you insist."

She strode down the hallway. The breakfast room, formerly so bright and meticulous, appeared dull and gloomy. Papers were scattered over the sofa. Nathalie Rambuteau's framed photo watched her from the mantel.

"Tell me why you tried to kill me," Aimee said evenly, her finger poised on the trigger in her pocket.

"Me? Not me," he said. His wild bloodshot eyes darted around the room. Abruptly he shook his head, then ran his hands across his stubble.

"Who else would?" she said, still not relaxing her grip.

"I thought you were a flic but I certainly wouldn't pull a knife. Leif's the vicious one. I tried to stop him, but you got away."

"Leif, the one in lederhosen, chased me?" she said.

"Leif was right about you." He stood up and began mumbling to himself, pacing distractedly back and forth.

"They are all amateurs! I must work harder so they understand." He ignored her and shuffled old newspaper clippings together. His blue eyes shone fiercely. "My obligation, my commitment is to the white race. I work for Les Blancs Nationaux out of love and sacrifice. Who else will keep the world pure if we don't?"

She was appalled. "Was Lili Stein killed to keep the world pure?" she said. "Did you engineer both Lili Stein's and Soli Hecht's murders, then have your minions execute them? Tell me the truth."

"The truth?" He laughed. "My father warned me. You're searching for who cut the old lady, eh? That's LBN turf. But murder is not our style."

"Why should I believe that? You have a motive," Aimee said. "And no real alibi."

"Motive? The flics questioned me," he interrupted, irritated. "I was in Istanbul, flew into Antwerp, picked up new videotapes, then drove back. It's stamped on my passport."

She'd seen his credit-card activity on the A2 highway from Belgium the day of Lili's death. "Show me."

"The flics kept it. Go ask them. If something juicy comes up, they plan to pin it on me." Thierry's eyes glittered.

"New members of Les Blancs Nationaux kill as part of their initiation rites," she said. "To prove their commitment!"

Thierry shook his head. Wonder shone in his eyes. "Aryan supremacy is real," he said. "No one has to kill for it."

The irritating thing was she believed that he was being honest. It bothered her. Made it difficult to advance her theory of him as the killer.

The harder part followed. He was a human being who had lost both parents. She'd have to push him to the edge, make him reveal the truth, prove or disprove her theory. She began reluctantly, "There's no easy way to do this." She stood in front of Nathalie Rambuteau's photo.

"To tell me I'm adopted?" he said.

She was surprised; how would he know?

"My father told me you would come," he said. "Spin me a pack of lies. Now, get out. Play girl detective somewhere else. I know the truth!"

Of course, Claude Rambuteau would try to discredit her. He'd promised as much.

"My father died in my arms," Thierry said. His voice cracked. "Leave me alone. I didn't kill anyone!"

"You better read this," she said. She tightened her hold on the pistol in her pocket as she withdrew the envelope with spidery writing. "This is for you. Your father planned on blocking the will, but he died and threw everything into probate."

Thierry looked unsure.

"Of course"-she opened it slowly-"I helped matters along at the lawyer's office. I think your real mother is alive, Thierry."

"He said you'd try…," Thierry sputtered.

"And you are a Jew."

Thierry stopped dead. "What are you talking about?"

"Technically," Aimee continued, "since you were born of a Jewish mother. Judaism follows matriarchal lines. But you're German too since your father was an occupying soldier. Probably Si-Po, responsible for the Gestapo who pursued enemies of the Reich."

He shook his head. "Why are you doing this?"

"Read it," she said.

Doubt flickered in his eyes.

"Nathalie wanted you to know your real parentage, Thierry," Aimee said. "Her soul couldn't rest after her promise. Secretly, it hurt her to see you hate the Jews. Especially…"

Thierry grabbed the letter out of her hands. He went to the window and read it. For what seemed an eternity, she heard the monotonous tick of the kitchen clock.

"How could this be true?" His eyes flashed at Aimee. He sat down and reread the letter. "All these years? Lies, a pack of lies! Is this why she drank?"

"I can't answer that," she said. She caught his wild gaze and held it. "How does this involve Lili?"

"How would I know?" Thierry's voice dropped. "Nothing makes sense. It's like I've been hit by a wave in the ocean and my feet can't touch the sand. I don't know which way is up for air." Then he asked simply, "Why didn't they ever tell me I wasn't theirs?"

He looked devastated. Even though she felt sorry for him, she still had to know the truth.

"Did you kill Lili? Make an example of her death?" She watched him closely.

He shook his head. "From an airplane? I told you, I flew in from…"

"Who did it?" she interrupted.

"Someone's trying to frame me," he said. He began rummaging through papers near the window.

"What are you looking for, Thierry?"

"Something that tells me who I really am." Thierry picked up papers, never taking his eyes off her. "All this reveals is…" But he couldn't say it.

"That your mother was Jewish and your father a Nazi?" she finished for him.

"What does this mean?" Thierry said with a strange look. He pulled Nathalie Rambuteau's photo out of the silver frame and lifted up a scrap of paper. "Is this my Jew name?" He thrust it at Aimee.

She took it. Sarah Tovah Strauss, nee April 12, 1928, was printed on a yellowed, otherwise blank scrap of paper.

"Can you believe that?" he said. "Even with all my work in Les Blancs Nationaux I've never really felt like a Nazi," he laughed.

He hurled the frame on the floor. Nathalie Rambuteau stared up, filtered by glittering shards of glass.

"Maybe that's because I'm half-Jew," he said.

SHE HATED going to the Archives of France but if any record of Sarah Tovah Strauss existed, besides in the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine where it was not, that was the only place it would be. The old palace, glacially cold and littered with rodent droppings in its corners, was open late on Wednesdays. Napoleon's records and Nazi documentation along with most of French history filled much of the adjoining mansions, hôtel de Soubise and hôtel de Rohan. Her level-two access card allowed her entry twenty-four hours a day.

She followed a clerk with a thinly curled moustache who reeked of garlic-laced rabbit stew. They entered a glassed-in lobby, filled with large wooden reading tables.

"The material is quite heavy. Use a cart." He pointed to a high-tech metal wire construction resembling an Italian sports car.

Off this parquet-floored area, open and light due to myriad skylights, stood racks and racks of leather-and cloth-bound volumes.

She approached the small checkout desk. "Bonjour, I'm looking for records from 1939 to 1945 in Archives of the Commissariat general on the Jewish question."

"Something specific?" the librarian asked. "We have thousands of files."

"Strauss, Sarah Tovah," Aimee said.

The librarian clicked on the computer. "Living or deceased?"

"Well," Aimee stumbled. "That's why I'm here."

"I only ask because some patrons already know." The librarian smiled understandingly. "Find the AN-AJ 38 division. The Deceased section is to the left, oddly numbered. Aisle 33, Row W has volumes with the names starting with S. Unknown or nonreported deceased are to the right." She indicated a much smaller area. "Please call if you need assistance. Good luck."

At the entrance to the racks, a sign proclaimed that the blue labels were German Occupation Documents, orange labels were Allied Forces documentation, and green labels were French National Records. Most of the racks were filled with blue-labeled material. Aimee knew the German reputation for recording details but this was staggering. She picked up a sagging blue volume tied with string and read a five-page itemized list of the contents of a clock factory at 34 rue Coche-Perce owned by a Yad Stolnitz. A red line had been drawn through his name. She often walked on narrow, medieval rue Coche-Perce, which angled into busy rue St. Antoine, full of boutiques and sushi bars. Once it had thrived with small Jewish bakeries and falafel stands.

She climbed up the small library stairs and found the Service for Jewish Affairs, the 11-112, of the Sicherheitsdienst-SD, the intelligence agency of the SS. Among the S volumes, "St-" alone took up sixteen volumes. She loaded up her high-tech cart carefully with yellowed documents and wheeled it to a reading table.

Sadly, Aimee sat and turned page after page, filled with Parisian Jews who were no more. Straus, Strausz, Strauz, she read, going down columns of names. Every single derivation of Strauss had been drawn through with a red line. There was a Sara Straus-man listed but no Sarah Tovah Strauss. After two hours her eyes ached and she felt guilty. Guilty for being part of a race that had reduced generations to ashes or ooze in mass-grave lime pits.

Convoy lists composed most of the Unknown section. Jews who had arrived at death camps were checked off but no further records existed. No Sarah Tovah Strauss listed here either.

Back in the Deceased section, Aimee discovered that the Germans also cross-referenced deportees with their arrondissements in Paris. They had sectioned the city into areas with Judenfrei status. Probably the idea of that Gestapo brown-noser in the memo to Eichmann who'd worried he couldn't get them to the ovens fast enough. She wondered how human beings could do this to each other.

Well then, she would start with the 4th arrondissement, the Marais, where most of the Jews had lived. Streets, alleys, and boulevards listed names and addresses. Forty minutes later she found a household at 86 rue Payenne cross-referenced from an Strauss, Ruben with this under it:

Strauss, Sarah T. 12-4-28 Paris Drancy JudenA Kamp Konvoy 10

A red line ran through the name, like all the others on the page. The Strauss family were routed via the Vel d'Hiver transit camp. Sarah T. Strauss had entered Drancy prison and then was listed on Convoy number 10 to A, meaning Auschwitz. How could this Sarah Strauss be Thierry's mother?

Aimee noticed how bright the red line through Sarah's name was compared to the others. Odd, she thought, every other red line had faded to a rose hue. It almost looked to her as though the A had been squeezed next to the non-Aryan classification column, with its bold black J for Jew. As if the A for Auschwitz had been added later. But that didn't fit with what she'd discovered.

Claude Rambuteau had seen Sarah alive when she handed them the infant Thierry. Aimee remembered Javel's comment. He'd mentioned the bright-blue-eyed Jew who'd given birth to a boche bastard.

As she returned past the desk, wiping her hands of dust, the librarian said that it was their policy for the librarian to reshelve.

"Find what you were looking for?" she inquired.

"Yes, but it raises even more questions," Aimee replied.

"A lot of people who come here say that. Try the National Library in Washington or the Wiener Library in London. Those are the major sources besides Yad Vashem in Jerusalem."

Aimee thanked her and slowly walked down the sweeping marble stairway. She felt dirty after touching those pages and her fingers reeked with a special musty smell that clung to the catalog of the dead. At home she collapsed and thought over all the events of the day. She took a long shower and stayed under the hot water until it ran out. But she couldn't get rid of the smell or erase the red lines from her mind.