Murder in the Marais

Saturday Morning

AIMÉE, IN BROWN wool jacket and pants, strode through the narrow passage behind the rue des Rosiers. She rested her gloved hand in her lined pocket, keeping it warm. Fog crept through the Marais, almost to Place des Vosges. Centuries-old stone, worn smooth by countless footsteps, lined the alley. Above her, red geraniums spilled from window boxes.

A broken street lamp buzzed and blinked randomly. Nearby, on rue Pavee, stood a fancy charcuterie selling imported meats, Javel's cobbler shop, and a small dry cleaner's. She held the partial receipt copy she'd made at Homicide and hoped she'd find the other half.

First she checked the charcuterie. The owner busily informed her that all his customer receipts were yellow copies, unlike the scrap of paper in her hand. Try next door, he suggested.

Aimee opened the spotlessly clean door of Madame Tallard's dry cleaning establishment. Warm air redolent of laundry starch drifted from behind the chipped formica counter.

"Bonjour," said a white-haired woman from behind a steamy laundry press.

"Bonjour, Madame." Aimee held up her copy of the paper. "Would you recognize this?"

The woman emerged from behind the press, feeling her way along the counter. She grinned sightlessly. "Put it in my hand. There's a lot I can tell from touch."

The woman was blind. Aimee couldn't believe her bad luck. "I wondered if this was a cleaning receipt from your shop," she said.

One of Madame Tallard's eyes was milky white, veiled by a cataract, the other crossed. "I'm minding the shop for my daughter. The baby's sick." She reached for something on the counter. "Here, check yourself." She thrust a receipt book in Aimee's direction.

"Thank you." Aimee flipped through a standard receipt book with smudged carbon copies.

No numbers matched, but the forms did.

"Hmm, don't see it," she said. "But the receipt looks like one of yours.

"I help my daughter if the items don't have spots or touch-up areas." Madame Tallard cleared her throat. "My good eye gets tired easily. We do a very careful job and pay attention to detail. Nothing's too important, I always tell my daughter, for a customer with couture wear."

Aimee tried being hopeful. Madame Tallard might recall something. "A Chanel! Maybe you remember it?"

"My daughter mentioned one…hot pink?"

"Why, yes," Aimee said. "With big knobby buttons."

"Like these?" She pulled a box of buttons from a drawer under the counter. Her fingers moved over them until she handed Aimee a pearl button with raised interlocking C's. "I keep buttons in case a customer needs one."

"Exactly. Only pink," Aimee said, recognizing the type of Chanel button from Morbier's evidence bag.

"The suit was picked up Wednesday night." Madame Tallard slapped her palm on the counter. "But it's not yours…"

"I apologize." Aimee automatically took out her ID. "I'm a private investigator with Leduc Detective. Who picked up the hot pink Chanel suit?"

Madame Tallard bristled. "My clientele is private. This is intrusion!"

"Murder is more intrusive, Madame Tallard," said Aimee. "Especially when it's around the corner. Your corner."

"You mean the woman with the swastika?" Old Madame Tallard's hands trembled.

"I'd like your cooperation, Madame."

Madame Tallard shook her head. "My daughter told me about it."

"And what did she say?"

"That being old in the Marais is getting dangerous these days." She felt her way and perched on a three-legged stool. Aimee leaned over the counter.

"I'm working on behalf of the victim," she said.

"Did any of those imbeciles see you enter?"

Aimee paused. "Who exactly do you mean?"

"Imbeciles who paint swastikas on my windows!"

Madame Tallard was afraid, she realized.

"The street was deserted when I came in." Aimee peered out the window. Nobody. "Still deserted."

Madame sighed. "The suit belongs to Albertine Clouzot. She lives on Impasse de la Poissonnerie."

Aimee nodded. Impasse de la Poissonnerie, a passage with a neo-classical fountain of the kind noted by Voltaire, led to private cobbled courtyards. Very exclusive.

"Madame Clouzot always sends her dry cleaning here," Madame Tallard said. "Tells me we're the only ones who clean the pockets. That's true. What would it have to do with her?"

Aimee felt excited. Maybe Madame Clouzot had been an eyewitness. "What time did she pick up the suit on Wednesday?"

"Not Madame. Her housekeeper," Madame Tallard said primly. "I have nothing to hide."

"The housekeeper?"

"She came just before I closed. Said that Madame Clouzot needed her suit for a late supper party. And that's all I know."

"When you closed up the shop did you hear a radio playing loudly?"

Madame Tallard rubbed her lined forehead. "I didn't linger, I went home."

She asked more questions but Madame Tallard assured her that she hadn't heard anything unusual. Aimee's heart raced excitedly. Now she could question the owner of the Chanel suit and her housekeeper.

But how would a neo-Nazi from Les Blancs Nationaux following Lili Stein fit with the Chanel suit picked up by the housekeeper? She filed that in her memory and continued down the narrow street.

Her goal, the cobbler shop Chaussures Javel, stood several doors down from the dry cleaner's. She'd been wanting to talk with Javel ever since Rachel Blum mentioned the long-ago concierge's murder the night they met at Lili Stein's.

Bells jingled on the door as she entered. The purr of a cat, industrial strength, came from the window ledge under dingy lace curtains.

"Bonjour. Monsieur Javel?"

"Oui." He pronounced it "Wae" as Parisians did. A shriveled brown walnut of a man with thick white hair, he was working on a pair of black lizard pumps. His once blue apron, smudged by shoe polish, was tied behind his back.

After being surprised by Madame Tallard, Aimee decided to be up-front with Javel. That didn't mean she couldn't get her boots reheeled at the same time.

"Can you fix this heel?" she asked.

Javel's face matched the leather he worked on. "Un moment, sit down." He indicated a gouged wooden stool with his hand.

The water-stained walls were lined with a yellowish dado border. The dark veneer wooden floor sagged as she stepped on some loose slats near a modest showcase of arch supports and heels. In the corner, a heater emitted dribbles of heat with kerosene fumes. A sense of neglect pervaded his shop.

As Javel stood, reaching for a tool above him, she saw his legs. They were so extremely bowed, they resembled parentheses. He hobbled as he took a step and it was almost painful to watch.

He motioned to her to take off her boot. "I'll try." He began to root through his work tray. "Safer to reheel them before they wear down this far," he said.

"Did you know Lili Stein?" she said, watching for his reaction.

He didn't look up and kept on working. "One who had the shop on rue des Rosiers?"

Aimee nodded.

"People told me about it." His eyes remained neutral as he attached a new heel to her boot. "Brutal. What's the world coming to?"

Too neutral, she thought. "Didn't you know her a long time ago?" she said.

"Are you a flic?" He still didn't look up.

"I'm a private detective," she said. "Rachel Blum told me you would know about the concierge bludgeoned in Lili's building."

He handed the boot back to her. She reached in her bag as he pointed to the sign that said 15 FRANCS NEW HEEL.

He looked stonily at her. "What's it to you?"

"Lili Stein boarded up her window so she wouldn't have to be reminded of the scene," she said. "Did you know her then?"

He snorted. "Expect me to remember what some Yid schoolgirl did fifty years ago?"

She knew he was hiding something. Only someone who'd known Lili as a schoolgirl would reply like that.

"What do you remember?" she said calmly.

"Cooking up some crazy theory, aren't you?" He shook his head. "About Arlette and that swastika carving. Then listen up, Arlette wasn't Jewish or with the Nazis. Go bother those skin-heads who kick in my window for fun!"

"Tell me about Arlette," she said. "Was she the concierge?"

He slammed down his hammer, spattering nails and metal grommets that pinged off the walls. "She was my fiancee, Arlette Mazenc. Why the sudden interest? The flics beat me up. Never investigated…why now? Just because some old Jew is killed by punks, someone pays attention, eh?"

She felt sorry for this angry little man.

"Monsieur Javel, I feel a connection. Something threading these murders. If I could be more concrete, I would," she said.

"When you do find something, look me up. Not before."

"GUESS WHO?" said Aimee, her hands clapped over the eyes of an older woman who stood in front of rows of aluminum spindles, sorting buttons. The scent of rosemary and roasted garlic wafted through the factory air.

Small and wiry, Leah stood in wool socks and clogs, wearing a sweater buttoned over her work smock. She grabbed Aimee's hands with her rough ones. "Don't be such a stranger, Aimee," she said, twisting herself around and grinning. "You think you can surprise me?"

"I try, Leah." Aimee laughed and gave her a hug. "Something smells wonderful."

Leah, an old friend of her mother's, lived with her family above their button factory, Mon Bouton. She cooked the midday meal for her workers in a kitchen by the melting presses and button die forms.

"You don't have to be domestic to cook, Aimee," Leah said, referring to their ongoing argument about Aimee's lack of culinary skills. "I only see you when you're hungry. Cooking is a creative expression, let me teach you."

"Right now, teach me about Chanel buttons. I want to learn from an expert," she said.

"A case?" Leah's eyes lit up. She read a new spy thriller every week and loved to hear about Aimee's work.

"Leah, you know I can't talk about ongoing cases." Aimee pulled out a rough sketch of the Chanel button she'd made after seeing it. "Just give me an idea about this button."

"Color and material?" Leah said, wiping her hands on the worn smock.

"Hot pink, and the interlocking C's were kind of brassy, shiny metal."

Leah, shortsighted, pushed her glasses onto her forehead and peered intently. "I'd say the button came from a suit in the spring collection. A mohair suit. We made a prototype but the head honcho shipped it out to Malaysia for production. Couture used to mean couture made in France-thread, ribbon, zippers, lining, and buttons. Not anymore."

"Care to generalize about the owner of the suit?"

"Twenties or thirties. Rich and bored. With good legs."

"Why good legs?"

"All the mohair suits were minis."

Saturday Noon

"MADAME IS WORKING IN her office. May I say who's calling?" The smiling housekeeper dusted the white flour off her hands. Tall and thin, her liquid eyes contrasted with her starched maid's uniform.

"Aimee Leduc. I'm a private investigator. This should take only a few moments." Aimee fished a card out of her bag.

Curiosity flickered in the housekeeper's gaze. "Un moment," she said. Her scuffed mules clicked down the marble hallway.

Aimee had changed into a pleated dark blue wool skirt and blazer, her generic security-type uniform. Sometimes she stuck badges on the lapel from her extensive collection. For this interview she'd slicked her hair under a blue wedge-type hat, similar to that of a female gendarme, and wore a touch of mascara with no lipstick.

This drafty marble-floored hallway of Albertine Clouzot's apartment on the exclusive Impasse de la Poissonerie could have fit two trucks comfortably. Littered among a child's bicycle and roller blades were Roman bronze statues and busts resting on pillars.

Almost immediately, the housekeeper emerged and beckoned Aimee down the echoing hallway. Aimee entered a drawing room-for that was the only thing to call it-that could have come from the eighteenth century. And it probably did. Aimee thought it hadn't been heated since then either as she saw her own breath turn to frost in the air. She kept her angora-lined gloves on.

Tapestries with pastoral scenes hung on the twenty-foot-high walls. In the corner, framed by a window with a private courtyard behind it, sat a woman in her late thirties, working on a huge dollhouse, a Southern mansion styled with pillars and "Mint Julep" chiseled above the miniature door. A small portable heater stood by a tray of white wicker doll furniture.

"Thank you for sparing me the time, Madame Clouzot," Aimee said.

"I'm intrigued. Why would a private investigator wish to talk with me?" said Albertine Clouzot. She put a miniature chest down and stood; she wore fishnet stockings, a black leather miniskirt, and maroon lipstick. Her perfectly cut straight blond hair grazed her shoulders. She tottered on faux leopard platform heels. "What's this about? Florence, you may go."

"It might be better if she stayed." Aimee smiled broadly, turning to the housekeeper. She certainly didn't want Florence to leave. "I'd like to talk with both of you."

She reached in her bag and pulled out a note pad that she pretended to consult.

"Madame, do you own a pink Chanel suit?"

"Why, yes."

"Did you receive it from the dry cleaner's with a button missing?"

"That's right. I had to wear something else." Florence stood woodenly as Albertine preened in front of a floor-length gilded mirror. "First time I've ever had trouble at Madame Tallard's."

"I see. You didn't go to the dry cleaner's, am I correct?" Aimee kept a matter-of-fact tone.

"No." Albertine Clouzot's face looked incredulous. "Why would I?"

Albertine belonged to the world that hired other people to do their mundane chores.

"Florence, your housekeeper, did, am I correct?"

Albertine Clouzot nodded absently. She'd lost interest and was pulling open the little doll chest's drawers.

"What time did Florence leave your house on Wednesday evening?"

"Is this an inquisition? I won't tell you any more until you tell me what this is about."

I'm losing her, Aimee thought. "Madame, please bear with me." Aimee smiled broadly again. She stuck the pencil behind her ear and shook her head. "Detecting isn't like the movies. Tedious checking of details makes up most of it. All we know is that a pink Chanel button was found near the body of a murdered woman, not two blocks from your apartment."

"It must have come off…my God, you're not trying to suggest that I killed that woman! That woman with the…"

Out of the corner of her eye, Aimee saw Florence's arm jerk. Either this housekeeper was the nervous type or Aimee had struck a nerve.

"Madame," she spoke reassuringly, "I'm checking out pieces of evidence and constructing a timetable of the murder."

She looked straight at Florence. "What time did you pick up Madame's suit?"

Florence covered her mouth with her hands. Little feathery spots of white flour were left on her cheeks. "Just before the shop closed," she stammered.

I've hit it, Aimee thought excitedly.

She remembered Sinta commenting on the pair of shoes in Lili Stein's closet, looking at the repair tag and saying Lili had just picked them up. If Lili had picked up her shoes at Javel's, been trailed by an LBN member, and Florence had followed…But that didn't explain why Florence would trail her.

Aimee stifled her eagerness and kept her tone businesslike. "What time was that?"

If Florence had seen a neo-Nazi trailing an old Jewish woman on crutches she might have been alerted and followed her. Maybe she'd witnessed something.

Florence hesitated and looked down at the floor.

"Speak up, Florence." Albertine clicked her long maroon nails irritably on the dollhouse roof.

Florence shrugged, "Close to 6:15 or 6:30. Madame Tallard was about to lock her door and so I just got in to grab the suit."

But when Aimee found the body rigor mortis hadn't set fully in. She knew that the cold could retard the onset of rigor mortis but the intense muscular activity, due to Lili's struggle, could have released lactic acids hastening the process. Puzzled, she realized that wouldn't fit with Florence's timetable. But she had to check with Morbier for the inquest findings.

Florence turned to her employer. "Madame, I'm so sorry. We must check your suit to be sure but…"

"Am I being implicated in a murder?" Indignant, Albertine strode up to Aimee, towering over her in the leopard platform heels.

"Of course not, that just explains one piece of evidence that can be ruled out. The button, unnoticed by Florence in the darkness, fell off," Aimee said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. "Of course, now I understand. It's perfectly plausible."

"But the police haven't questioned me," Albertine said. "Why you?"

"I can't speak for the police," Aimee said, tucking her almost empty pad back into her bag.

"This is absurd." Albertine turned coldly to her. "If you have any more questions, go through my lawyer."

As Aimee turned to leave, she saw Albertine Clouzot glare at her housekeeper. "I'll speak with you later," Albertine said.

Florence walked behind Aimee, their footsteps echoing off the marble walls. "I've just recently joined Madame Clouzot's employ," she said hesitantly. "Two weeks ago."

Pain or fear, Aimee wasn't sure which, was etched across the older woman's face. Aimee felt sorry for her.

"Florence, my intention is not to get you in trouble," she said. "I'm investigating a murder. I had to be sure who picked up the suit from the dry cleaner's and if indeed a button was missing. Tell me what you remember hearing and seeing after you walked out of the shop."

"Nothing." She shook her head. "I hurried back. Madame was waiting."

But Aimee saw fear in Florence's eyes.

"You might have crossed the killer's path." Aimee's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure about the time?"

Florence nodded, looking away.

"As you walked from the dry cleaner's did you see an old woman on crutches?"

"No."

Was she lying?

"Did you notice any skinheads hanging around?"

"I just walked quickly."

"Or a radio blaring?"

Florence stiffened. "I mind my own business, that's all," she said. She smoothed her floured hands on her apron, sending white powdery mist onto the floor. "I told you I don't mind anything but my own business."

"The Temple E'manuel hired me. Here's my card," Aimee said.

Hesitating, Florence slowly took the card. Her hand shook as she thanked Aimee.

"The Marais is small. Phone me if you recall anything. This reaches me directly, day or night, no answering machine," Aimee said. She felt eyes on her back as she walked down the short passage.

Aimee didn't think Albertine Clouzot or Florence had killed Lili Stein. Neither had a motive that she could discern. But why was Florence afraid?

Saturday Afternoon

"GO EAT SOMETHING," LEAH said.

As Aimee nibbled on cul de lapin au basilic, she read the headline NEO-NAZI MOBS OVERRUN DEMONSTRATION AT JEWISH DEPORTATION MONUMENT in Le Figaro. The terse report mentioned several right-wing groups, Les Blancs Nationaux among them.

Leah's kitchen, toasty and warm from the hot button presses, helped her forget the cold. So did the vin rouge she poured from the bottle into a smudged wineglass. The dense, oak-flavored taste trickled down her throat.

She rooted around for Thierry Rambuteau's card in her bag. Since Morbier wouldn't help her, she knew it was up to her to identify who Thierry spoke with on the telephone. Otherwise, when she went to the LBN meeting, she could be walking into a trap.

She hooked up a code enabler to Leah's phone Minitel, then spliced the cable and ran it to the small television off the eating area.

She phoned the main branch of Post and Telecommunications. "Operations, please," she said.

"Yes," a man's voice said.

Aimee clicked on the TV screen and fiddled with adjustments. "My ex-husband is threatening me. He's calling day and night, threatening the children but I can't prove it." Aimee's pitch went higher and higher. "The judge won't do anything unless I can document it. Can you check my number at work? At least your records would verify that he calls there."

"I can verify that incoming calls occur," the man said, not unkindly. "I'm only allowed to check your office number to see calls received."

Perfect, she thought. This would reveal who called Thierry while she was in the LBN office. And it would be even more perfect if this enabler worked.

"Merci, Monsieur." She switched it on. "That's a huge help!" she said. "My office number is 43.43.25.45."

She watched Leah's TV screen display the LBN office number she'd given him as he typed from his keyboard. This generated several phone numbers on the screen that were phone numbers calling into the office that day. She copied them all.

"What is the number your husband would call from?" he said.

She made up a number and saw those numbers punched in, which resulted in "no correspondence" flashing on the screen.

"Pardon, Madam. I'm afraid it wasn't your husband this time," he said. She thanked him and hung up.

Next Aimee identified herself as a secretary with the LBN, calling to verify charges on their office bill. There were five phone numbers. The first number was a small office-supply store holding an account with Les Blancs Nationaux, the second was a local cafe that delivered pastries to them. Aimee seriously doubted if the skinny woman ate any.

The third and fourth were from Bank d'Agricole regarding account information. Aimee called the fifth number, which proved to be Jetpresse, a twenty-four-hour printing company in Vincennes. She had all but given up, but, to be thorough, she mentioned Thierry's name.

She was startled to hear the clerk begin apologizing. "They're ready, Mademoiselle," she said. "Seems there was a mix-up, we apologize. We don't deliver, that's in our contract. Somehow that wasn't clear to you."

"I'll pick them up," Aimee said quickly. "Er, what was the final count?"

"Let's see. Twenty-five editions, bound deluxe, of Mein Kampf," the clerk said.

Aimee almost choked. "I'll be there within the hour."

Saturday Evening

AIMÉE APPROACHED THE NEO-NAZIS congregating by the shuttered ClicClac video shop. She had slicked back her hair and donned her skinhead outfit. Her fingers, more for protection than decoration, were filled to the knuckle with silver rings. She wished her heart wasn't pounding so hard, keeping rhythm with the flashing purple-and-green neon sign over the storefront.

A balding Arab shopkeeper in a flowing gray robe swept the sidewalk near her in front of his produce shop. Strains of whining Arab music blared from inside.

"Your type, cherie?" several skinheads jeered. "You like sharing the street, why not share the Arab's tent?"

She growled. The box with twenty-five editions of Mein Kampf was heavy. She'd liked to have thrown it in their leering faces. Instead, their taunts forced her to establish some Aryan credentials. Hating to do it, she jostled the storekeeper, then bumped into him.

"Abdul, keep to your side," she said.

He kept his shiny head down and pushed his broom further away, mumbling something in broken French that she pretended not to understand. She kept advancing towards him, angling him into a corner. His head glistened with perspiration as he tried to sweep around her biker boots.

"Can't you speak French, Abdul?" Aimee said. "Go back where you came from!" She kicked the broom from his hands.

He cowered against the shop door, while scattered cheers erupted among the skin-heads. He scurried back to his shop and closed his doors.

As she mounted the side steps of the ClicClac shop she heard, "Who's the kick-ass Eva Braun?"

Many pairs of suspicious eyes checked her out. Her heart beat so fast she was afraid it would jump out of her chest. What if she had to do more than kick a defenseless Arab's broom away? She pushed that out of her mind as she joined a motley heavy-metal-type pair, their arms entwined, filing upstairs.

A panorama of shining Hitleriana greeted her as she entered an upstairs room. Blown-up photos of Adolf Hitler saluting to gathered masses and huge red swastikas covered the black walls along with a photo of barbed wire and wooden stalags with a red circle and line through it. The caption above it read AUSCHWITZ=JEW HOAX.

Where were the photos of the living skeletons in rags next to empty canisters of Zyklon B gas that had greeted the Allies who liberated Auschwitz? She figured details like that would probably be missing from the evening.

There was a photo of a Vietnamese whose brains were being blown out by an American officer and one of a toothless, grinning Palestinian boy, with burned-out Beirut in the background, pointing a machine gun at a corpse riddled with holes. But all in all, the vignettes of hate were predominantly Nazi.

Thierry Rambuteau, in an ankle-length black leather storm-trooper coat, stood at the front of the room. Despite his youthful shaved stubble, faded blue jeans, and hi-tech track shoes, he looked old for this crowd. Around his piercing blue eyes were age lines; he could be fifty, she thought. Something about Thierry was off, he didn't belong. Maybe it was his attempt at a youthful appearance or maybe that he had brains.

She shoved the box of Mein Kampfs on the table. Thierry nodded at her, indicating a seat he'd saved for her. She sat down. Many of the faces in the smoky room surprised her. Scattered among the shaved heads were truckers in overalls, a few professor types in corduroys, and what looked like several account executives in suits. But the crowd was mostly skinheads, average age mid-twenties, who milled around the room. Among the thirty or so assembled, most wore black, smoked, or were busy shoving cigarette butts in empty beer bottles.

She felt eyes on her and looked over at the man sitting beside her. He had dark sideburns, slicked-back hair, and wore a mousy brown sweater vest with black jeans cinched over nonexistent hips. His deep black eyes and curled lip were what got to her. Like metal filings to a magnet, she felt repelled and attracted at the same time. His eyes lingered a second too long before he averted his gaze. Behind that look she saw intelligence and felt animal attraction. Bad boys were always her downfall.

A table had been set up with stacks of free videos, a keg of beer and plastic cups, SS armbands, and Third Reich crosses on chains. There wasn't exactly a rush for the videos but the beer and crosses were going fast. She quickly snagged a pointy-edged cross to complete her fashion statement.

"Kameradschaft!" Thierry had moved to the dais. "Welcome! Let us begin our meeting, as always, with our moment of reflection."

Heads bowed briefly, then, on a signal Aimee didn't hear, loud shouts of "Sieg heil" rang through the room in unison. Arms shot up in the Nazi salute.

Thierry saluted back. This quasi-religious brotherhood feeling sickened her. Even though she knew the philosophy of the neo-Nazis, it shocked her to watch them in action.

He launched into a diatribe about Jews being scum. She surveyed the crowd's reaction. Hate was reflected in every face. True, Thierry carried fervor and a certain charisma. He explained earnestly that scientists had proven that certain races were genetically inferior. A historic fact, he pointed out simply, shown by culture and society. She felt that Thierry had convinced himself of his own words.

Then the lights dimmed and the video was shown. This was no amateur home video, but a slick production costing real money. The title, in large letters, read "The Hoax That Is Auschwitz." Scenes of present-day Auschwitz, surrounded by bucolic farmlands tucked into a green pastoral valley, flashed by while a pleasant, businesslike voice narrated, "As a nonpartisan group, we came to view the so-called 'death camp' using state-of-the-art equipment to detect mineral and bone content in soil compositions. After careful measurement in many areas of the camp where there had supposedly been gas chambers, we found no chemical residue or traces of Zyklon B gas. We discovered no evidence of mass graveyards, or anything resembling them, for that matter. The remaining compound buildings, of solid wooden construction, attest to its use as a work camp and to the skill of the German builders, in that they are still standing after more than fifty years." The camera focused then on the railroad tracks that ended at the iron gate of Auschwitz with the slogan wrought in iron still above it: "Arbeit macht Frei"-"Work Makes You Free."

After the video, a skinhead wearing tight lederhosen and a leather vest exposing pierced nipple rings connected by chains shouted, "I'm proud to be a member of the Kameradschaft."

A chorus of grunts backed him up. She noticed a banner near him emblazoned with '1889 Hitler's birthdate-When the world began!'

"We are heroic Volk," someone shouted from the back. "Like the Führer says in Mein Kampf. We have to start at the root of the problem, the mutant bacteria that contaminates everything it touches, to halt its growth. We have to strike now!"

Thierry slammed his fist down as he emphasized the Nazi tenets. "In every way, the Aryan is superior; our confidence should rise and soar."

She figured their video archives, her goal, were stored in the back room. She intended to check the area behind a lifesize photo of Hitler saluting, but a finger dug into her arm as she stood up.

"Sit down," said a trucker in grimy overalls.

"Who's she?" grumbled his friend, in a slightly more stained jumpsuit.

Nervously, she sat down. Someone elbowed her in the ribs. She turned sharply to see the one in lederhosen smiling at her. His white blond hair poked straight up, as if standing at attention.

"Boys wear tattoos, little lady," he said to the accompaniment of sniggering around her. "Aryan women don't."

"Some do and some don't." She jerked her head around, indicating other women. Not many had tattoos. Some wore dirndls but all had on clunky Doc Martens. "Depends on individual preference."

"Using big words. Do you know what they mean?" he said.

She didn't answer, just cracked her gum.

"Women look better on their knees," he said. "I know you would."

He leaned on her arm, cupping her shoulder with an iron grip. She couldn't move.

A voice next to him barked, "Service your own harem, Leif."

The dark-sideburned man glided next to her, picked Leif's fingers off her shoulder, and grinned. He wedged himself between them. Mockingly, Leif raised his eyes in surprise.

Aimee wondered if she'd gone from the frying pan into the fire but she smiled back at him. She stood up and raised her hand until Thierry acknowledged her.

Aimee forced herself to grin. "Why don't the Jews get honest? They were only victims of wartime food shortage like everyone else."

Snorts of approval greeted her as she sat down. Besides her, she felt the warm body heat emanating from the one with sideburns.

"I'm Luna," she said.

"Yves," he said, without turning his head.

Thierry continued, "Leif will outline our plans for the next few days. He'll give the details of our evening mission and protocol for tomorrow's demonstration."

Leif strutted towards a blackboard standing under an original SS recruiting poster. To her horror, he outlined a plan to bash orthodox synagogues that night. She feared one would be Temple E'manuel.

Thierry sat down beside her. "I appreciate your bringing our literature. Ignore Leif's crudeness; he's better at planning and organization details."

He motioned to Yves. "Get the equipment ready."

Yves slid out of his chair and Aimee started to follow him.

Thierry leaned over to her. "Listen to this, it will be helpful for you."

Aimee nodded, trying not to squirm in her seat. Was Yves the video cameraman? If they were taping this meeting, she hadn't spotted the camera yet.

"Vans will transport us to the synagogue," Leif said in a tone devoid of emotion. "To do the job, it has to be in and out, quick and vicious."

Aimee wondered if that was how he treated his women. Instinct told her to find out which synagogue, tell Morbier, and get the hell out of there.

Thierry nodded approvingly at Aimee. "I bet you learn quick. You'll do better sticking with us than sticking something in your arm."

If those were my only choices, she thought, I'd pick junkie any day. Thierry seemed to be trying to help her, in his own Aryan way.

He went on. "A feeling of unity is born on our missions. We join together and accomplish our goals. We achieve satisfaction transforming ideas into concrete operations."

She sensed he was speaking of himself, as if he needed a cause to justify his existence.

"We attack first. No Aryan will be a victim anymore!" Leif yelled from the podium to the crowd, who roared approval.

"Our stomachs wrench," Thierry added. "But we do it out of love."

She sidled next to Leif to find out which synagogue he'd targeted. Now he wore a Tyrolean-style short jacket, epauletted with metal lightning bolts and iron crosses. Neo-Nazi meets Sound of Music, Aimee thought.

"Do we get to hurt anybody?" she pouted, loud enough so he could hear it.

"If you're lucky," he said, eyeing her up and down. "You look healthy enough to be a breeder sow."

The neon green light of the ClicClac sign shone through the window, giving his eyes a reptilian look. He was scary. She felt like a piece of meat about to be skewered.

But she clicked her heels together and stuck her arm out in a Sieg heil. "Is that right?"

"It'll do. Let's go," Leif said.

"All right! Where are we going?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," he grinned. "Just Jew land. If you're a good girl you can kick somebody. C'mon."

"Cool, I gotta pee." She went towards the back door, passing a huddle of skinheads all in black leather.

Thierry grabbed her tightly by the arms. "That way." He pointed her in the opposite direction.

Great, Aimee thought, how do I get out of this one? Thierry sure is a piece of work and he's got his eye on me. She locked the door to the toilet and checked the battery pack of her tape recorder. Pencil thin and molded to the curve of her back, this state-of-the-art recording machine caught everything, even a yawn at fifty paces. She'd bought it at the spy store before the flics outlawed the place and closed it down.

Now if she just didn't sweat too much, since it was a highly moisture-sensitive device…She placed it in a plastic Baggie she carried, made a hole for the microphone cord, then taped it to her back. She pulled out the cell phone from her jeans pocket and punched in Morbier's direct line. Right now she didn't care if he'd been called off the Stein case, she needed backup. While she did that, she put the toilet lid down, stood on top of it, and peered out the narrow window. Down below she could see two vans under the streetlight next to glimmering rain puddles.

No answer.

There was a pounding on the bathroom door.

"Salope! Can't someone crap in peace?" she yelled.

The pounding stopped.

Finally a disembodied voice came on the line. "Yes?"

"Get me Morbier, it's urgent," she whispered.

"He's on call," the voice said. "I'll patch you through."

This was taking too long. "Hurry up," she said.

Click, click, and a hearty voice boomed, "Morbier."

Without benefit of introduction she began. "It's going down right now," she whispered slowly. "Two vans with skinheads are headed to attack synagogues in the Marais."

The pounding started again. Aimee flushed the toilet, clicked off the cell phone, and wedged it in her jeans pocket. She opened the door in time to see Leif, his back to her, helping Yves move something heavy in the dark hallway. Bumping noises echoed from the stairs and Aimee figured they were carrying equipment down. Next to her, a black-painted door stood ajar and she quickly scooted inside. Shelves of videos cataloged by date stood before her in the green-purple light from the blinking video sign. Which one?

Musty smells emanated from the threadbare carpet, which barely covered the worn tiled floor. Dates, Aimee thought, that's it! She scanned the shelves for the last two meetings, found them, and quickly stuck them inside her black leather jacket. Holding her breath, she zipped her jacket up, which sounded like a buzzing chainsaw in her ear. She held her breath but no one came in. Out in the hallway, more shuffling and dull thuds rose from the staircase.

She looked out and scanned the hall. Seeing no one, she tried the back door. Locked. Impossible to jimmy open without more noise than she felt prepared to make. All the windows faced the street, where the vans were parked. She edged down the stairs.

The party-like atmosphere still reigned as members congregated and moved towards the vans, formerly blue dairy trucks. The group numbered about twenty now. As she slowly backed out of the crowd towards the corner, Thierry caught her eye. He motioned to her.

"Carry this." He handed her a heavy gym bag. "Ride up front." He started herding the group into the vans.

In front, taking up most of the passenger seat, was a stocky skinhead with a shiny scalp dressed paramilitary style. He squeezed her knee. "Stick with me," he said.

"A privilege to be here." She removed his paw from her knee then executed a mock bow in the cramped front seat. "Don't they like me?"

"They're always suspicious of newcomers." He jerked his thumb towards the back of the van. "Everybody gets jittery when it comes to business." He grinned, showing decayed jagged stubs of brown teeth. "Ready for some fun? You're gonna like it, I know."

A whiff from his mouth caused her to look away. Uneasily, she speculated about her newcomer initiation. When Thierry told him to move over so Aimee could sit between them, she shook her head.

"Motion sickness, I need air on my face." She rolled the window down as far as it would go, which was barely more than a crack.

At least she was by the door. Thierry turned the heater on high and it hit her full blast. Conversation en route consisted of Thierry berating the paramilitary type for erasing some message from the answering machine. Sullen and surly, he ignored Thierry, his eyes focused on Aimee. She was starting to sweat inside her leather jacket. The two videos stuck to her like glue, spearing her lower ribs.

Thierry left the broad boulevards of Bastille, turning into dark narrow streets, deserted and quiet. She felt beads of sweat on her brow.

"I'm getting sick. Turn the heat down," Aimee said.

Cries of "It's freezing back here, turn the heat up" came from the back of the van.

"We're almost there," Thierry said.

Businesses were shuttered and the streets deserted. Silence except for the murmuring in the back. That's when she started sizzling. Her perspiration had short-circuited the tape recorder and she was about to fry.

She reached forward and switched off the heat, growling, "It's too hot."

Discontented rumblings came loudly from the back. She grabbed a rag from the sticky van floor and wiped off as much sweat as she could reach. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the skinhead's bandana, reeking of patchouli.

"Keep it." He grinned at her. "So you don't forget me."

The patchouli oil rose from her pores, making her nauseous. Something to do with the sixties.

"Shut up," Aimee grunted.

He giggled. "You're one of my kind."

She noticed another tattoo on Thierry's wrist as he gripped the steering wheel.

"What's that say?" she asked.

"'My honor's name is loyalty,'" he said proudly. His eyes narrowed as if to challenge her.

"Of course! Couldn't read it from here." She nodded. "The SS Waffen motto."

What were they going to do and where would they do it? Could Morbier get flics to the Marais in time? And how long would this stinking patchouli ooze out of her?

Sweat trickled off her while the tattered tank top and videos glued stickily to her chest. She used the greasy bandana again to dab at her perspiration, keeping the videos in place.

"An eye for an eye…isn't that what this is about?" She pounded her fist on the cracked dashboard. "Sieg heil and all that stuff is fine, but getting nasty with some of the kike population…" She chuckled, giving Thierry time to fill in the blanks.

"Violent assertion is part and parcel of the solution, but only as a means to an end," Thierry said.

The paramilitary skinhead frowned. "Cut the high and mighty talk! We kick Jew butt."

Thierry steered the van through a slim notch in the medieval cloister's wall into the small square of Marche-Sainte-Catherine.

Aimee pressed further, "No, you know, like help with the final solution. Take care of them, one on one?"

She never heard the answer. Motorcycle engines gunned loudly as an amplified voice instructed them to pull over. From out of nowhere the small square filled with blue flashing lights and motorcycle police.

"Alcohol check. Out of the van. Allez-y!" said a helmeted patrolman.

"Merde!" Thierry said under his breath. "Of all nights."

"Funny coincidence," someone said from the rear. "Since she graced us with her presence."

"Save your bad breath for the flics," Aimee said and hoped Morbier's tactic worked.

"Out!" the flics shouted. They tore her door open and slid the van door back. She struggled and elbowed the surprised flic in the ribs, shouting, "Get your hands off me." She started to kick him in the ankles.

She wanted to be arrested. Desperately. Get out while undercover and with the videos under her jacket. She'd take advantage of the police check, whether a ploy of Morbier's or not.

Suddenly a boot slammed against her hip, knocking her across the flics and their raised billy clubs. There were hoarse shouts of "Fascist pigs" and then all hell broke loose. Cries of pain echoed in the small square. She started crawling on the wet cobblestones. She made it to the other side of the van and almost got away.

"Hurry up," Thierry yelled, pushing her in, and flicked on the ignition.

She didn't have time to appreciate the irony of the situation or plan how she could escape. As they pulled away, Leif jumped in the open sliding door and clanged it shut.

Thierry's foot jammed down the accelerator. That caused the van to careen wildly and Aimee to shield her face with her arms. The van lunged towards a gurgling, mossy waterspout over St. Catherine's statue. Scraping the side of the van and chipping the statue, Thierry righted the steering wheel and gunned out of the square.

"Who are you?" Leif said from behind her, sticking something sharp in her rib. He slapped her hard with the back of his hand.

Thierry shouted, "Cut it out, Leif…"

"In my past life?" she said. Her cheeks stung as she peered down. "Get that knife out of my chest."

"After you convince me you had nothing to do with what just happened," Leif growled.

"What are you talking about? I'm with you," she said.

"Lay off," Thierry said. "You're too paranoid."

"Alors!" Leif said. "Look what happened last time." He plunged the knife into the already cracked dashboard, causing the windshield seam to split.

In one movement, she pulled the handle, kicked the door open, and flung herself out. As she landed, she tried to roll away from the wheels of a car following right behind. Her shoulder crunched as it hit the pavement. White-yellow pain seared up her arm. Dislocated shoulder if I'm lucky, she thought. Scrabbling to her feet, she stumbled, then ran. Behind her she heard the squeal of tires, a crash and the tinkle of breaking glass as a car hit Thierry's van. That gave her an extra minute before she heard loud pounding footsteps behind her. The van coughed, sputtered, and started up loudly.

The narrow one-way street echoed with her running steps. Behind her she heard more footsteps and the gunning of the van's motor. Around her were silent, dark stone buildings. Only a few scattered windows showed a faint glow from behind a curtain. Don't other streets connect here, she wondered frantically, vainly searching for another street to turn into. But she was surrounded by the last medieval vestiges left in the Marais. The long circular lanes designed the keep invaders out were keeping her in. She heard labored breaths right behind her. Puffing and sweating, she willed her rising panic down. A lichen-covered wall looking ten feet thick and reaching two stories high blocked her way.

Dead end. A dead-end dungeon.

To her left she saw a narrow stone passageway between the walls. Swerving into it, she ricocheted off some metal garbage cans that banged noisily, and kept on running. She heard the clanging of metal as someone behind her ran into them, too, stumbled, and yelled "Merde." This was too narrow for a vehicle. The damp air hit her lungs and her breath chugged painfully. From the dark corners she could hear the squeal of rats. Ahead, down the shadowy passageway, shone the fuzzy yellow globe of a street lamp.

When she reached it, she veered away from the sound of an engine to her left. Behind her she caught a glimpse of a taxi with a blue light signaling that it was free.

She switched back, keeping up her pace, and yelled, "Over here."

The taxi started to speed away.

"Rape! Help, rape!" she screamed.

The taxi slowed down. Aimee realized the chasing figure had probably appeared in the taxi's rearview mirror. Just as she was reaching for the door handle she heard heavy breathing and shouting right behind her. This person could easily pull her out of the taxi. She feinted to the right. Whoever was behind her lunged and just missed grabbing her jacket as she turned. She heard an "Ouff" and a heavy thud as she sprinted away. The taxi gunned its engine and sped off.

Down the slippery, glistening pavement she ran. Keep going, she told herself. Her lungs burned and dull slivers of pain shot up her arm, still hugging the videos to her chest.

Finally she saw the welcome traffic and lights of rue St. Antoine with plenty of taxis. Thank God, she thought, and took as deep a breath as her painful shoulder allowed. As she stepped out, the other blue van from the ClicClac screeched to a stop in front of her.

"Get in," Yves shouted and gestured to her.

Behind her she heard the running footsteps again, echoing off the walls. Coming closer.

"Hurry up!" Yves pulled the handle from the driver's side and the dented blue door swung open.

Before she could pull the door shut, he'd shot down busy rue St. Antoine.

"Where were you?" Aimee asked suspiciously. Why hadn't he been with the rest of the group?

"Behind everyone." He jerked his arm towards the back of the van. "Since I do most of the video I carry the equipment. Thierry trusts me."

Aimee groaned.

"What happened to you?" His dark eyes held concern. He threw his jacket at her. "Take mine. It's warmer."

"No thanks." She couldn't take her smelly, ripped leather jacket off since the recorder was still taped to her back and the videos bulged out of her tank top.

"I need some anesthetic," she said. "Let's get a drink."

Yves jerked the van to a stop in a narrow alley off Bastille, still in the Marais. A waiter shuttered the windows from inside a murky bistro on the corner. She heard strains of a jazz guitar as the door opened and a laughing couple spilled out. If she concentrated, she could probably make her feet walk to the corner and cause a ruckus so the bistro would let them in.

"Listen, this shoulder hurts," she said, feeling giddy.

"I've got just the right thing for that." His black eyes bored into her with a laserlike intensity.

"I seriously need a drink." She started to giggle and didn't know why.

"I've got that too," he smiled.

And a beautiful smile, she noted. Here she was with a neo-Nazi carrying stolen videos-possibly containing an old woman's murder recorded by him. And incredibly attracted to him. He'd seemingly helped her for the second time that night.

"My flat is over here," he said, pointing to a darkened brick turn-of-the-century warehouse. "Can you make it?"

"You leave the equipment in your van on the street?" she said and wondered at her own coherent thinking.

"No one messes with our blue vans," he said. "That's for sure. But"-he pulled out a digicode remote and punched some numbers-"I don't park on the street."

As the metal awning rolled up slowly, Yves eased the van into the warehouse courtyard.

Aimee didn't like the sound of the awning rolling back down and looked for a way out. A narrow side entrance showed a pinhole of light.

"Thinking of leaving?" Yves said, unlocking a door under the vaulted arches of the brick building.

"Not yet," Aimee grinned. "I'm thirsty."

"Let me help you, this is tricky," Yves said, scooping her up. He flicked on a set of lights and carried her down a spiral metal staircase to a brick basement flat.

Warm air hit her, laced with a strong familiar tang. They descended onto a bleached wood floor lined by deep white sofas, a long metal table, and open kitchen. The vaulted arches in the walls had been bricked in and covered by bright batik fabric.

"Site of the old tanning vats," Yves explained, setting her down on a sofa. "This was an old saddle factory. Police and cavalry saddles," he grinned.

Aimee felt sticky and hot but didn't dare take off her leather jacket. Her arm had started throbbing. Funny how things hurt when you had time to think about them, she thought. Sure that the grease and patchouli oil had been absorbed into her pores, she wanted a wash.

"Remy, OK?" Yves said as he handed her a bowl-like brandy snifter.

Aimee hadn't had Remy Martin VSOP in years. She almost purred as it slid down her throat. This neo-Nazi definitely had more class than his comrades.

"I need to clean up," she said.

He gestured. "Be my guest."

She gripped the Remy and hobbled towards the kitchen. Inside his white-tiled bathroom, she put her clothes in a pile on the floor, making sure the videos were secure in the inside pocket of her jacket.

One good thing, her shoulder hurt so much she couldn't feel much else. She turned the hot water on. Praying there was enough for a tubful, she knelt on a thick towel in front of an old gilt mirror. After she downed another shot of brandy, she noticed the thin red line of singed skin along her spine.

Her shoulder drooped, but this had happened before and she knew what to do. And with enough brandy she could do it. Gritting her teeth, she rotated her shoulder socket counterclockwise up to a three o'clock position. Taking another gulp of the brandy, she reached with her left hand to grip her right shoulder. She took a deep breath, pulled her arm straight out, swiveled it slightly, and popped the socket back into twelve o'clock. The pain shot from her fingertips to her neck. She heard a gasp behind her. Yves was in the mirror wincing, still in his jeans and sweater.

He knelt down beside her and took her gently in his arms. "Are you all right?"

She nodded and gave him a lopsided smile.

"You're not going to pass out, are you?" He kept her cradled in his arms.

"Not yet."

He poured another snifter and she sipped slowly. "I'm fine."

Softly, he stroked her wet hair. "What kind of outlaw are you?"

"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. But I should be asking you that."

"If you do, I'll give the same answer." He laughed and then Aimee knew she was headed for trouble.

They ended up in the tub with the bottle of Remy, surrounded by steam, most of it of their own making.

AIMÉE SLID back into her greasy jeans and left Yves asleep. But not before stealing his brown sweater and checking out his apartment. Off the open kitchen space she found a small office with a state-of-the-art computer, printer, and color scanner. Yves obviously had a decent day job. She searched high and low but couldn't find any other videos.

She grabbed a taxi, switched to another one at St. Paul, and rode home. Just to be sure, she doubled back along the quai twice. Dawn was an hour away. Miles Davis greeted her in the dark flat, sniffed her noisily, then burrowed into her patchouli-scented jacket. Silhouetted against the quai's street lamp, the black shadow of the Seine snaked outside her window.

Aimee felt more guilty than she ever had in her life. Somehow she should have gotten away from him. But she'd drunk too much and enjoyed how Yves had made her feel. The brandy hadn't dulled her brain, she'd known what she was doing. And she'd wanted to do it. What if he'd been a part of the old woman's murder? Sick, she made herself sick. How could she have slept with him?

She opened a bottle of Volvic spring water and popped a handful of vitamin B and C. She slid Les Blancs Nationaux's video labeled "Meeting November 1993" into her VCR. Miles Davis nestled into her lap and she hugged him, trying to prepare for the awful truth.