Murder in the Sentier

Wednesday Night

AIMÉE TOOK A LONG swallow, then passed the green bottle of Pernod to Frédo beside her on the couch. The licorice smell didn’t even bother her anymore. Normally, it shriveled her taste buds.

Had she arrived on another planet? Finally she sat with people who’d known her mother, loved her, and talked about her.

“What luck our paths crossed, Marie!” Frédo said. “So you coordinate magazine photo shoots, eh?”

Aimée hoped her wince didn’t show. “Crazy job. These art directors … so fickle, they changed their mind. Found another site on Boulevard de Sébastopol.”

“But we found you!” Georges said, leaning forward from his perch on the cheap desk. He had a plastic bag of ice on his swollen nose. “Uncanny! Such a resemblance to your mother!”

Why had no one ever told her that?

Aimée put her hand out for another swig. Her trembling was controlled now. She took several deep gulps. On the wall was a framed yellowed notice from December 1981 titled “Our Sentier Initiative”: ‘Action-Réaction will organize the occupation of numerous secret ateliers or sweatshops in addition to helping rehouse a hundred or more foreigners: Turkish families, Senegalese, and refugees fleeing U.S. imperialism.

“Such an inspiration, you know,” Georges said. “She surprised us. We thought she was soft, but she took action. So dedicated to the cause in her own way.”

Dying to find out more, she figured she’d better not appear too eager.

“We’ve been out of contact,” she said. “I’m trying to find her.”

“Let’s see, she went to Spain….”

“No, Greece with Jules,” Georges interrupted. “But that was in the seventies.”

Aimée’s heart slowed. These men were out of date. Years out of date.

“Jules?”

“Jules Bourdon.”

In the background, a radio played a plaintive Mozart aria Aimée recognized from The Magic Flute. Pamina’s mother’s voice trilled and vibrated, mourning the disappearance of her daughter, the daughter whom she’d tried to coerce to kill the rival king.

Aimée’s grandfather had played the vinyl record on Saturday mornings. She’d heard the strains when she returned from her piano lesson and waited on the steps with the bag of warm brioches in her arms, until the aria had ended. As she didn’t understand German, she’d only learned the story years later. And figured out why her grandfather changed the record when she returned. The evil mother sacrifices her daughter … maybe that came too close to home.

“You’re off there, Georges,” Frédo said. “She did time in Frésnes.” His mouth tapered into a thin line. “We all did. Wasn’t she involved in the squats we organized in the eighties?”

“You’re asking me?” Georges didn’t wait for an answer. “We were in Frésnes together in the eighties, Frédo!”

Bickering like an old married couple, she thought.

“Sydney flitted like a butterfly … from thing to thing,” Frédo said. “Charming and elusive. One never knew her reality.”

“But I heard she was involved with Haader-Rofmein,” Aimée said.

“Didn’t you know, Marie?”

“Know what?” Had Liane lied to her?

Silence. Georges took a big drink.

Frédo looked down. “What difference does it make now?”

Her heart hammered at his ominous tone.

“Tell me … she died?”

“Rumor had it she went to find Jules. He became a mercenary en Afrique.”

“Afrique?”

“Old revolutionaries never die,” Frédo said. “They just fade away. Though some change colors.”

The room’s atmosphere, close and stale, the glare from the hanging bulb, the tang of the Pernod and the whining violin made her claustrophobic.

She got off the sagging sofa. People changed, moved on, evolved. Most of the former radicals probably had mortgages paid off and grandchildren. Not these men. They seemed stuck in a time warp.

“Look at the former Maoists and anarchists in the Green Party or even in ministry positions,” Aimée said. “Even Daniel Cohn-Bendit, Danny the Red, he’s a European Parliament minister!”

Frédo stood up. “We’ve got to get these ready for the congrès in Strasbourg,” he said, piling lists of signed petitions inside boxes.

“When did you last see my mother?”

Instead of answering, Georges motioned her outside. The dark courtyard held a welcome coolness. Water plopped from a mossy tap into a grooved marble urn. Probably the original water source, Aimée thought.

“He was more than a little in love with her,” Georges said. “We all were.”

Jealousy stabbed her. What right had these old radicals, these losers, to say that … had they ever really known her? Aimée’s words caught in her throat. Pangs of bitterness hit her. Even though she was Sydney’s daughter, she didn’t know her.

“I’m sorry, Georges, I just want to learn everything I can,” Aimée said. “She left us when I was young.”

“Some women have the equipment but they’re not made to mother,” he said. He turned away.

She couldn’t see his face.

“You’re better off if you realize that.”

Aimée tried to catch his expression.

“Was she a drug mule?”

“We’re talking about the seventies. Who wasn’t into drugs, eh?” Georges said, throwing up his arms. “People were politicized in prison, their awareness heightened. Focused on the movement’s issues. Right now, two Action-Réaction members have been kept in solitary since 1987. They got married last year. Alors, the governor gave them a whole half hour!”

Georges snorted, then squinted as he moved the ice pack up his nose. “It’s a blatant violation of the most basic human rights. We’re protesting outside Strasbourg prison, presenting a petition to the World Court in The Hague.”

Maybe they weren’t the losers she’d thought. They’d stayed committed and dedicated to social change for more than twenty years.

“What about the protests against the World Trade Organization at the Palais des Congrès?”

“Tell me about it, eh!” Georges pointed to his nose. “This shiner’s courtesy of the CRS^* riot squad,” he said readjusting the ice. “I’m getting too old for this.”

She remembered the newspaper headline about the nerve gas Sarin. “What about that rumor of a copycat attack on the Metro, like that Japanese cult.”

“Not Action-Réaction,” Georges said. “We’re for political change, not terrorism; that faction split off in the eighties.” Georges pointed to the buildings surrounding the courtyard. “But it’s a tradition in my family. Socialists for generations. Even an anarchist or two. During the Occupation, the Resistance had a stronghold here, courtesy of my uncle’s printing press. Funny thing is, a German headquarters was at the other end of the courtyard.”

^*Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité

He stood straighter and grinned. “Before the war, the Sentier was home to newspapers and honeycombed with small presses, my uncle once told me. During power cutoffs, they’d print Combat, the clandestine Resistance newspaper, and counterfeit identification papers, by pedaling bicycles hooked up to the presses. In the eighties we squatted in the derelict buildings peppering the Sentier, agitating to rehouse the sans-papiers.”

Aimée touched the cold, worn stone and wondered why her mother had gotten involved.

“Some of the old machines were left in the basement,” Georges said. He rubbed his tired eyes. “We still use them. Same struggle against tyranny and oppression.”

He made a pfft sound, shrugged. “Alors, it’s a tradition in this blue-collar quartier. Revolution has been fomented here since the Bastille. In central Paris one works hard to stay afloat: shop owners, printing presses, the rag and shag trade, right next to couture houses and the Bourse. But now that the dot-coms have moved in, things may change.”

She’d seen the nonstop activity in the streets, felt the pulse. The people who lived here worked here, a remnant of old Paris.

All true but none of this got her closer to her mother or her ties to Jutta. Then a thought occurred to her. Romain Figeac was an old radical, he’d lived a few blocks away, and his wife was rumored to have been pregnant with a terrorist’s child.

“But you must have known Romain Figeac … wasn’t he involved in Action-Réaction?”

Georges frowned. “Figeac held a grudge against us after his wife left him. Blamed us. Never got over it,” he said. “Like me, he’s a grown-up titi from the quartier. He supported the movement at first. When it was fashionable, he housed us all.”

Now she was getting somewhere.

“Did Figeac know my mother? I heard she helped Sartre with Haader’s interview about agit888. Do you know about it?”

“An article?” He shrugged. “There were parties at Figeac’s apartment. Everyone went. But your mother and Jana, Figeac’s wife, never got along.”

“What do you mean?”

“She thought Jana was too hard-core, too irrational, and took too many drugs,” he said. “But that’s all I remember.”

“Georges, did you know Jutta Hald?”

Sadness crossed his face. “Radicals pass through here all the time. But I’m not into violence. Our group never was … like I said, we split from the terrorists.”

“Jutta just got out of prison, did you see her?”

“My grandson said she came by, but I was at the manif demonstration.”

“Did she leave you a message?”

Georges shook his head. “Why would someone kill her?”

Before she could say she’d found Jutta, he spoke.

“Why don’t you help us?” he asked. “Like your mother.”

Startled, she leaned against the dank wall for support. “What do you mean?”

“Provide places to stay for those who’ve gone underground,” he said. “In the seventies we had a goal. We still do.”

“But I don’t …”

“There’s someone now. If you want to know about Jules, he’s the one to ask,” Georges interrupted.

“Who?”

“No names.”

He was right. It was better not to know.

“And my mother …?” She felt Georges had deliberately left things out, withheld information.

“Her life was revolution and art,” he said. “So you’ll help?”

She looked down and nodded. She had to find out about Jules. “Call me,” she said and gave him her cell phone number.

“Is your name Marie?”

“Non.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said, his mouth in a lopsided grin. “Like mother, like daughter.”

SHE CHECKED her messages. Only one from Etienne, to meet at Rouge.

The bouncer, a massive, bald, ebony-skinned man with an earring and leather vest, stood guard at the door. A line of fashionable people waiting to enter the members-only club trailed around the corner.

“Your name?” The bouncer gripped her by the shoulder.

“Aimée, Etienne Mabry’s guest.”

“Let me check,” he said. He spoke into a walkie-talkie.

Outside the club, the faded blue letters of an old hotel sign trailed across lichen-covered stone.

“Just left on his ’arley,” he said in a broad Guadeloupe accent.

“Alone?”

His eyes shuttered.

“Masculine or feminine, that’s all I want to know,” Aimée said, wondering if he’d met up with Christian. “Several of us were meeting.”

“Very feminine.”

“For your help, merci.” Aimée smiled. Of course, he’d attract women like Velcro. She’d had her chance, sort of, but the timing had been off.

The bouncer winked, then turned to open the door of a Mercedes limo that had just pulled up.

* * *

AIMÉE WANTED to go home and research Jules but something nagged at her. On her way back, she stopped at Romain Figeac’s apartment on rue de Clery. Despite the darkness, she’d try once more to discover tapes, or anything she might have overlooked.

She stepped over the police tape. Using her penlight and the one remaining lamp that shone, she pulled latex gloves from her bag and shuffled through the charred debris. Wet ash, muck, and smokiness pervaded the gutted rooms. Romain Figeac’s leather chair was turned upside down. She pulled out her Swiss Army knife, righted the chair, and checked the seams. But someone else had beaten her to it. A clean slice round the leather. She reached in, felt only soggy ticking and wire springs.

What a waste, she thought. Figeac’s work, gone or destroyed. Everything floated midair, aloft. Out of her reach. She wasn’t even sure of what she searched for.

This fire made no sense to her … if someone was seeking valuables in the apartment, why burn it up?

She turned the chair upside down again, leaned against its wooden legs, and thought over what Georges had said. His conversation reinforced feelings she’d kept buried. Or tried to.

Her mother had risen above a mundane life of domestic worries and child care, devoting her time to fighting injustice. Imbibing new-found excitement in the heady seventies radical existence. Taking lovers, living in a commune, making art.

Her mother was no innocent. She’d been a drug mule, according to Jutta. A terrorist.

An addict?

Jutta had probably touched only the tip of the iceberg. Too bad her brains had been splattered on the stones of the Tour Jean-Sans-Peur before Aimée could find out what she’d known.

No answers. Only thoughts of a skinny woman with a faint, lingering scent of muguets, who at this moment could be roaming the backstreets of Africa.

She found a broom in a closet. With slow strokes, she swept the muck into a pile, then sifted it through her gloved hands.

All she found were blackened rattan and burnt jacquard drapery pieces. Mildewed, and home to a mouse nest.

But what if the arsonist hadn’t found Romain Figeac’s work either?

She tried to think as if she were Figeac … tried to relate to a washed-up writer, once a radical, who’d nursed thoughts of revenge upon those who ruined his wife. For the next hour, she raked through every crackled drawer, charred closet, and blistered wallpaper seam, even climbing on piled-up chairs to unscrew the faux ceiling plate from which the blackened and dust-covered chandelier hung.

Nothing.

In the kitchen, she checked the bottom of every dish, behind the cupboards, behind the old refrigerator, and in the flour bin in the pantry.

All she came up with was a white coating on her greasy, blackened latex gloves.

The pompiers had broken the glass to Christian’s mother’s room; her seventies jumpsuits and Afro wigs were smoke-and water-damaged. Little remained in the musty room besides stained and faded peach satin sheets on the four-poster bed. Despite the years, Aimée felt a disturbing sense of intimacy with this woman.

Smelling of soot and with blackened bits under her broken nails, Aimée left. Tired and discouraged, she went to the familiar marble stairs. She’d been here three times and grown no wiser.

She was convinced she’d missed something. Christian had paid her to find his father’s killer and his work and it looked like the fire had been set by an arsonist who couldn’t find the work either.

And she’d come no closer to her mother. Most of her life she’d been haunted by this woman who, it seemed more and more obvious, wanted nothing to do with her. Otherwise, why wouldn’t she have come back?

Better to get rid of the smoky smell, soak in a long, hot bath, and warm her bones.

At the foot of the staircase, by the cellar door, a shrunken woman struggled with a case of empty champagne bottles. Whether she was bent over from its weight or osteoporosis, Aimée couldn’t tell.

“Tant pis!” the old woman mumbled under her breath.

“Let me get the door for you,” Aimée said.

“Commes vous-êtes gentille,” the woman said, glad of assistance. Her hair, pulled back in a tight chignon, was bone white and a scarf draped her caved-in shoulders despite the heat. “If you’d be so kind as to unlock it.”

Aimée turned the big key, shoved the door open, and reached for the light switch.

“Madame, please let me help you get them downstairs.”

“I won’t protest, Mademoiselle. My great-grandson’s baptism party,” she said, as if the bottles needed an explanation. “I have to get them downstairs, can’t stand them in my apartment anymore!”

Aimée hefted the crate and edged down the shadowy, steep steps. She wondered how the frail, elderly woman would have negotiated them. The jiggling bottles and the damp odor of mildew and rat traps on the beaten dirt floor made her regret her impulse. Then she spotted the gated tenant lock-ups with numbers on the rotting wood doors.

Of course … why hadn’t she thought of this?

“Voilà.” She set down the full crate. A low-watt bulb illumined one end of the cellar, casting shadows over the vaulted stone.

“Merci,” the woman said.

“Do these numbers correspond to the apartments?” Aimée asked, looking around and dusting off her hands.

“Let me see, it’s been so long since I came down here.” The woman took the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and peered up.

Aimée pulled out her penlight and shone the thin beam about her. Stone arches supported an aqueductlike array of storage alcoves. A wonderful chill traveled up her legs.

“That’s better,” the old woman said, shuffling forward. A faint fragrance of violets trailed her. “My key ring has my storage key.”

Cobwebs, sticky and heavy with dead insects, caught on Aimée’s sleeve. They clung like skin when she tried to brush them off.

“Which one’s Romain Figeac’s?” she asked.

“Number 311, that’s his,” the old woman said, turning the corner of the dank tunnel. “Right here.”

Aimée pointed her penlight.

The busted lock shone, hanging by a hinge.

Beaten to it. Again! Her hopes sank.

She touched the door, which sagged open. Inside lay balled-up newpapers on the packed dirt. A water-stained plywood piece closed off the old stone wall.

Beaten at every turn.

“My storage stall sits over there.” The old woman pointed. “By the old exit. Mind helping me?”

“The old exit?”

“Bien sûr,” said the old woman, clutching her scarf around her. “Paris sits on a big Swiss cheese, that’s what my papa used to say.”

Aimée grinned. She’d never heard it referred to like that before. “Like the catacombs in the Marais?”

“Older. Underneath here, it’s limestone laced with holes. Much of the quartier’s built on limestone, like Montmartre.”

Maybe that’s why so much of Paris had stayed the same for centuries—the foundation wouldn’t support new construction. Fascinating, but Aimée didn’t understand the connection.

“How does that make for another exit?”

The old woman rubbed her arms in the dank chill. “They all connected at one time. Probably some still do. There was a colony of underground people, rumor had it.” She shrugged. “Stories, eh? But during the war, people came down during air raids when they were too lazy to go to the Metro.”

Aimée looked at the faded writing on the wood. “Looks unsafe.” She peered closer. “Does this go to Place du Caire?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” the woman said. Stacked plastic boxes stood inside the woman’s coved storage space. “What’s that?” she said. “I haven’t put anything down here in years.”

Curious, Aimée stepped closer. Papers filled the clouded plastic. Had Figeac hidden his work here?

“How about we open one, just to check?” Aimée asked.

Before the woman could say no, she stepped in a puddle, rank and brown, then knelt down. The plastic cover stuck. Keeping her hand steady, she pulled, using so much force that when the top came off she fell back in the dirt.

Eager, she shone the penlight. Scraps of a browned discharge certificate and war medals attached to crumbling blue, white, and red ribbons.

“What does it say?”

“Yvon Edelman, distinguished service,” Aimée said.

“My uncle,” the old woman said. “I forgot, of course, I asked my grandson to bring these down. He carries the light things, always forgets the heavy ones.”

Disappointed, Aimée put them back.

“Madame, did you know Romain Figeac?”

Aimée was surprised to see the old woman’s mouth purse in disapproval.

“Of course! The great Monsieur ‘Figeac,’ as he called himself. Alors, try Monsieur Finkelstein—his real name! Maybe that didn’t fit on those book covers. His father was a tailor like mine. From the same street in Lodz even!” She rolled her eyes. “Yet the way he acted, who’d know it. But the old poseur’s gone. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead …” Her voice trailed off.

That’s why Figeac lived in the Sentier—he’d been born here.

“Dabbled in politics, didn’t he?” Aimée asked. “Wasn’t he married to an actress?”

“That’s him,” the old woman nodded. She’d become reenergized. She stood up straighter in the thin flashlight beam. “He played at life. Never read his books so I don’t know about them. But he still could run up a fine inseam, like his papa taught him. The young one, his son, seems so hapless!” She shook her head. “When he was little he was a sweet lost lamb. He’s never gotten his life together.”

Poor Christian. She could see what the old woman meant.

Ahead of them hung a rope ladder. Aimée grasped the rope, damp and frayed at the edges, and climbed. But her head hit something hard. She peered up to see a wooden hatch. It didn’t budge.

She climbed down, dusted her legs off, and escorted the old lady upstairs.

“Have you noticed anyone hanging around … any strangers,” Aimée asked.

“Like you, you mean?” The woman shook her head.

“I work with the arson investigators,” Aimée said, stretching the truth. “If something comes to mind, here’s my card. Please, give me a call.”

The old woman trundled off to her apartment.

And then Aimée saw it. A bullet hole in the wall. Like a splattered graphite flower. She sniffed. Gunpowder … fresh or at least recent.

If a silencer had been used, as with Jutta, would the old woman have heard it?

She wished she had a fireman’s hatchet with which to chop out the piece of the wall. She knew a .25 didn’t blast a crater like this.

She found her metal nail file, Swiss Army knife, and clippers in her backpack and got to work. Finally the plaster gave way. By gouging, poking, and levering she managed to scrape down to something metallic. Five minutes later, she’d hooked the curved nail file edge under the bullet and pried it out.

The slug of a .357. She dropped it in a Baggie, put it in her backpack, and left.

TIRED, NO taxi in sight, and only few francs in her secondhand Vuitton wallet, Aimée caught the Metro, changed at Chatelet, and exited at Pont Marie. The soft summer night’s wind lofted from the dark Seine. Blue lights of the bateau-mouches glided under her.

What a night, she thought, crossing the bridge—meeting Etienne at the squat but not Christian; Georges and Frédo’s reminiscing about her mother; discovering the ancient underground vaults in Romain Figeac’s building and then the fresh bullet hole in the wall. More questions and she was still no closer to her mother.

She strode along the edge of the walkway, kicking a pebble against the low stone wall, when she noticed lights shining in her apartment. And for a moment, time was suspended … someone was home waiting for her … like her papa … or Yves once … but her papa lay in the cemetery and Yves had returned his key…. René? Non, he always called first.

“Maman?” escaped her lips.

A woman walking her dog on the quai turned to look at her as she ran, crossing the cobbles at breakneck speed. She hit the numbers on the digicode and barreled inside her building. She bounded up the marble stairs, grooved and worn from centuries.

In the black-and-white-diamond-tiled hallway her apartment door lay open, the drone of conversation and static from a police radio coming from the foyer.

Nom de Dieu!

Of course, her mother wasn’t here … what had got into her?

She went to the door. Someone caught her elbow. Gripped and held it. She turned to see a middle-aged blue-uniformed flic with a radio to his ear.

“Where might you be going in such a hurry?”

She surveyed the foyer. “I live here.”

“You can prove that?”

She pulled out her carte d’identite, flashed her detective badge.

“Merci, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said. “Seems you’ve had a break-in.”

Her heart hammered.

“A break-in … who informed the police?”

“A concerned neighbor,” he said. “But you’re the best one to let us know what’s missing.”

“Commissaire Morbier’s in charge?”

If the flic was surprised at her knowledge he didn’t show it.

“Lieutenant Bellan’s on robbery detail,” he said. “We just got here, Mademoiselle. It was like this—the door wide open, but no lights on. Sorry for the shock.”

She studied the man, saw his shoulder stripes. He was more informative than most, downright human.

“You look familiar, Sergeant.”

“Helier. I worked under your father briefly, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Before he retired. I was proud of the opportunity.”

Now she remembered. “Of course, Sergeant, thank you for your kind words. Aren’t you from Quimper in Brittany?”

He nodded, a big smile on his face.

Her father always said the best biscuits came from there. He’d buy them from Fauchon for a treat.

“Mademoiselle, this way, please!” beckoned another flic from her kitchen.

As she passed Sergeant Helier, he covered his mouth. “I didn’t believe what they said,” he said in a low undertone. “Never. He was a good man.”

Before she could reply or ask what he meant, a flic holding a squirming and barking Miles Davis approached her. Miles Davis yelped and jumped to the parquet floor.

“Merci. Where was he?” she said, opening her arms and catching him.

The flic rolled his eyes. “Locked in the bathroom.”

“Tiens, furball,” she said, ruffling his ears and smoothing the hair from his eyes. His chin dripped. “Drinking from the W.C.?” Miles Davis whimpered. “Of course, you were thirsty and someone bad locked you inside.”

“How did they get in?”

“Forced entry, front door.”

She expected to see furniture turned over, papers strewn about, and linens ripped up. But apart from the flics dusting for fingerprints, nothing appeared disturbed. She checked the high-ceilinged dining room, the corner converted to her home office. Her computer, the zip disks, and floppies, appeared untouched. She did a quick scan of her bedroom, the guest room, bathrooms, the unused parlor piled with her grandfather’s auction-find furniture, the morning room, and her father’s old bedroom.

Even her Fendi tote bag hung from its hook in the hallway. The sheen of dust in the unused rooms lay undisturbed … for once her lack of housekeeping skills was useful.

Nothing seemed unusual except the sugar spilled from a canister in the kitchen. Clumps of brown sugar trailed over the blue tiles.

“A thief with a sweet tooth?” said a voice behind her. “Or scared off by the neighbors?”

She’d thought the same thing, and turned around to a grim-faced Lieutenant Bellan.

“We meet again, Lieutenant Bellan,” she said. “Isn’t the 2nd arrondissement your turf?”

“Par l’habitude,” he said with a shrug. “Vacation schedule, we’re consolidating services. Which means most of the robbery detail lies on the beachfront at Biarritz while we sweat in Paris.”

She nodded.

“You know the drill,” he said. “We make a report, you come down to the Commissariat tomorrow, sign it. And stay somewhere else tonight.”

He seemed downright affable. And tired. Big bags under his eyes. He glanced at his watch. “My wife’s gone into labor … number three, shouldn’t take long. If you’ll excuse me.”

“One thing, Bellan,” she said. “What’s the case against Christian Figeac?”

“Confidentiality laws forbid me to talk about that inquiry, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said. The pager clipped to his wrinkled jacket pocket beeped.

“Confidentiality?” She shrugged. “Looked like harassment to me.”

He consulted his beeper. “Zut! I better hurry,” he said, passing her and going down the hall. “Baby’s crowning.” Bellan shut the door behind him.

She knew she was in danger and her hands shook. She’d been hit from behind at the fire, her office phone tapped, and now someone had violated and invaded her apartment.

After she gave her statement to the flics, she punched in Martine’s number.

“Allô,” came Martine’s breathy voice after one ring.

“Got a couch Miles Davis and I could borrow tonight?”

“Sounds like a perfect ending to a horrible evening,” Martine said. “Any reason why? Not that you need one.”

She told Martine about the break-in.

“Tiens, you better stay here,” Martine said. “Hop on your Vespa. Now.”

Aimée navigated her way to Martine’s apartment in the exclusive 16th arrondissement, overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. She avoided the notorious transvestite traffic in the bois, which could be quite active on a summer night.

The concierge of Martine’s Belle Epoque building yawned and pointed for her to park the scooter in the courtyard. Backlit stained-glass windows illumined the plush red runner that carpeted the apartment stairs. She carried Miles Davis in his straw basket over her shoulder, hoping Martine hadn’t acquired a cat since her last visit.

“Entrez.” Martine greeted her in a form-fitting coral tube dress, walking awkwardly on her heels, blue foam separators wedged between her toes. “Giving myself a pedicure.”

“Don’t you usually get that done?”

“Not if I’m waging nuclear war with Jérôme and waiting for you,” Martine said. She led Aimée into the high-ceilinged white-and-gold trimmed salon with carved wood boiserie and gilt cornices. “How’s Miles Davis holding up?” She nuzzled his chin and palmed him a biscuit. “You two can stay with me as long as you like.”

“Merci, but after I fix the locks at my place, we’ll be fine.”

This flat was big enough for an army but Aimée didn’t think Jérôme would appreciate their visit. He’d inherited it from his aristo family who were long on name but short on cash. His ex-wife had supplied that, but liked modern skyscraper living in La Défense better.

“Don’t be silly,” Martine said. “In this museum, you can have your own wing.”

She gestured to a drinks cart loaded with decanters and bottles, then handed a champagne flute to Aimée.

Martine popped the cork of a Pol Roget, then poured the golden bubbled mixture. They clinked glasses and Aimée hoped she hadn’t spilled any on the jade, peach, and white Aubusson rug.

“Are we celebrating?” Aimée asked. “Come up with anything I should know?”

Martine gave a small shake of her head as she blew on her toes. “Voilà. Did they take anything?”

Aimée knew Martine too well not to notice her evasion.

“If they did, it’s not obvious,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll check.”

“You’ve been busy,” Martine said as she poured them another drink. “What about the Bourse hunk you met?”

Leave it to Martine to zero in on men.

“He wanted to meet at Rouge but I missed him.”

Martine looked up, horror on her face. “So exclusive … he invited you there?”

She said. “Anyway, he left with a woman, c’est la vie. So I checked out Romain Figeac’s burned-out apartment.”

“But he invited you!” Martine clinked her glass to Aimée’s.

“Why scour Romain Figeac’s apartment?”

Aimée told her what had happened so far: Jutta’s murder, Christian Figeac hiring her, and the lead provided by Georges, from Action-Réaction.

Martine listened. “But you’re in danger, Aimée. I think you should leave it alone.

“First tell me what you found, Martine.”

“Not much,” she said, looking away. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Bad?” Aimée stood up, grabbed the champagne. “Guess this will make the news go down better.”

“It’s all exaggerated. Nasty stuff. Sure you want to hear it?”

“Better hearing it this way than by hints and rumors.”

“I delved pretty deep,” Martine said. “The night desk faxed me the hard copy.” Martine lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring. She pulled the foam from between her toes, tapped her coral pink polish to see if it had dried. “It’s not pretty.”

“That my mother ran drugs, got involved with terrorists, and escaped to Africa?” She didn’t know that for sure, but Georges had intimated as much. She figured it was a good guess.

Martine’s eyes widened. Then she blinked.

“Worse? She’s a mercenary?” Aimée asked.

“Drink your bubbly, we’ll talk in the morning.”

“What did she do?” Aimée reached for Martine’s cigarette. She took a deep drag, exhaled, and gulped her champagne. “I can take it.”

Martine sighed. “Nothing’s conclusive, the article’s full of conjecture.”

“Like I said, I can take it.”

“The article says things about your papa … I’m sorry.”

Martine gestured toward the silk-upholstered Directoire chair by the long windows. Some faxes sat on the arm. Beyond the dark black of the woods shone the distant glow of Neuilly. Aimée grabbed a paper and skimmed the article.

“Some investigation with my father … I don’t understand.”

“Rumor was terrorists blew him up. Seems there was a l’inspection de police, internal affairs had put him under investigation.”

“Makes no sense,” Aimée said, her hand shaking. “The police judiciare contracted with us for surveillance in the Place Vendome. Routine. We did it all the time.”

“Some mistake … they made a mistake, the reports are exaggerated,” Martine said, her eyes down. “It’s late, let’s find you a room.”

And then Aimée understood.

“They thought Papa was dirty, a bent flic!”

Her father’s half-smile floated before her. She imagined his patient eyes and the way he combed his thinning hair over his bald spot. How she’d find him asleep in his uniform in the hard chair by her bed after an all-night stakeout. How he called her his little princess.

“They said he was dirty, didn’t they?” She stood up, knocking over the champagne, which fizzed over the rug. “Never!” she shouted. “Papa worked hard. His men respected him. Not Papa!”

“Of course,” Martine said. She lit another cigarette, passed it to Aimée. “Look at how it’s written. All hearsay. Nasty innu-endo.”

“Every department has flics who lie, who shave the truth, stick bribes in their pocket. But not Papa!”

AIMÉE READ the article standing by Martine’s guest bedroom window overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. The year she’d been an exchange student in New York had been a busy one for her parents. According to the article entitled A COUPLE IN CAHOOTS? by Jacques Caillot in Le Figaro, her father had been under review in connection with art heists. Her mother was mentioned in the same sentence as two bank robberies, one of them involving Haader-Rofmein, one attributed to Action-Réaction.

She remembered the kidnapped Paul Laborde and his Modigliani collection. And that her mother had written Modigliani backwards in the notebook. But the Figaro article only hinted, and gave no proof.

She’d assumed her father had joined her grandfather at Leduc Detective because he’d had enough of bureaucracy. Maybe there had been more to it.

So that’s why Morbier never talked about her father, his old colleague from the police academy. He suspected he was crooked.

Desolation swept over her.

She finally fell asleep, Miles Davis beside her.

Her dreams were filled with bright-hued iguanas, scales swollen and pulsating, trampling through the artists’ squat. Then the nightmare again. This time … her father crawling over the cobblestones, his face melted, her hands bloody from the explosion, only this time the doors led to bricked-in walls … doors to nowhere. Some were blood-smeared, others covered with peeling WANTED posters.