Georges smiled and said, "I'll check."
Aimee motioned to Morbier. "I'm inviting you."
He feigned indifference. "What's the occasion?"
"It goes on the business account," she said. "Under purchasing information."
He chuckled as he lit up a nonfiltered Gauloise blue. "You can try."
They edged towards a booth with cracked brown leather seats. Dingy and comfortable, a cop hangout with good food. Several others from the Commissariat nodded and raised their glasses of le vin rouge in mock salute as they walked by. She recognized several from her father's time. A table of men in pinstriped suits were busily arguing and slurping Georges's signature dish. Bankers, stockbrokers from the Bourse, even a famous designer would roll up here. Many a time, Aimee had seen the prime minister's chauffeured Renault out front while he came in for a bowl. It was that good.
"No dice on the forensics. Lili Stein's file has disappeared upstairs." He tore off a piece of crusty baguette.
"I need to know when she was killed."
"Formulating some theory that I should know about?"
"Just a theory," Aimee said.
"Like what?" He lifted the edge of the white tablecloth and wiped his mustache.
She frowned and tossed him a linen napkin.
"Nothing points directly to the LBN. The swastikas I saw at the meeting were different from what was on. . ." Aimee stopped. She remembered the bloodless lines carved in Lili Stein's forehead and heard the bland voice from the Auschwitz=Hoax video. Burning anger rose in her throat.
"Is something wrong?" he said.
She stopped herself. Anger would get her nowhere.
"No. The closest hate crime in the videos I borrowed was burning the Star of David in front of the Jewish Center."
Solange Goutal, the receptionist at the Jewish Center, had guessed right.
"Borrowed?" he said.
After watching the videos, she'd been relieved to see Les Blancs Nationaux hadn't recorded killing Lili. But that didn't mean they hadn't done it. Just that she hadn't found a tape, if any existed. Not only had she slept with Yves, deep down she wanted to do so again.
"Like a lending library," she said. Her back still ached as if large logs had rolled over it.
Morbier snorted.
"All I know for sure is that they're sick misfits," she said.
"Misfits. That's quaint." Morbier nodded. "They figured you were some kind of plant. And they're not sure from who."
"Mystery is my middle name, Morbier," she said. "Nail anybody in the alcohol check?"
"Got one of the cockroaches for parole violation. That's it," he said.
"At least they didn't bash a synagogue."
"You sure bring 'em out of the woodwork, Leduc."
Just then, Georges appeared with two steaming, fragrant bowls of soupe a l'oignon gratinee. Big chunky pieces of half-melted cheese sitting on a piece of baguette floated lazily in the middle. For eons, these huge blue bowls had fed butchers, fishmongers, sellers of vegetables, cheese, and fruits in early dawn.
"Sorry, we're out of cassoulet," Georges apologized. That was the running joke. Le Renard never had cassoulet, only the best onion soup in Paris.
For a time, the only sound between them was the serious dunking of chunks of bread.
"I want the records of a murder in 1943," she said.
Georges, a blue-and-white-checked towel draped over his arm, stood by the counter. She nodded at him and mouthed "Espresso." He winked back in reply.
Morbier shrugged. "Would this murder be related?"
"Inspector called Lartigue investigated in 1943." Aimee plopped a brown sugar cube in her espresso. "Victim named Arlette Mazenc."
"Before my time. What's it got to do with anything?" he said.
She had to be careful what she told him since her suspicions derived from information illegally obtained off the computer. Too illegal to tell Morbier.
"I've got another theory," she said.
"In 1943 a lot of people disappeared and there weren't exactly detailed investigations being conducted," Morbier said.
"She didn't disappear, Morbier. Murdered. Indulge me here, check the records," she said.
His voice changed. "Why?"
She motioned to Georges for the check. "Because you asked for my help, remember? It's awfully odd that another woman was bludgeoned to death in Lili's building. Somehow it's connected."
He snorted. "Connected? Not even coincidental, Leduc. If there's a link, it's all in your mind."
"This woman, Arlette, was murdered under Lili's window. . ."
Morbier interrupted. "And fifty years later Lili got snuffed by some Nazi type. Where's the connection?"
"The forensics would tell us."
Georges brought them each a thimble-sized glass of amber liquid with Aimee's change. "My brother's Calvados. Home brewed," he said proudly.
Aimee downed it, feeling the coarse tang of the apple brandy burn her throat.
"No wonder we never see your brother, Georges." Aimee grinned. The tart sting became a slow, toasty aftertaste.
Morbier continued. "Forget it. I'm off the case."
"But you have authority to get old files. Morbier, I can't prove anything yet; I need to explore my way."
"You still haven't told me the possible connection," he said, looking up. He dropped ashes onto the white butcher-paper tablecloth scattered with bread crumbs.
"I think Lili saw who murdered Arlette," she said.
"So what? It doesn't explain the swastika."
"It doesn't explain anything, Morbier, but I've got to start somewhere. Get me the file, let me prove that Lili's murder. . ."
He stopped her. "I'm off the case, remember? Leduc, stick with computers. You're way off the track here."
She put her elbows on the table and tented her fingers as she began. "Morbier, you never heard this from me and if you talk, I'll deny everything."
He leaned forward.
"But I've got an idea. It's rough, but it could tell us something," she said. "I need Luminol to test a theory about bloodstain traces left in Lili's light well. Some trace could point to the killer."
In the end he agreed.
LATER ON, as they were bidding adieu to Georges, she noticed how quiet Morbier had become.
"Maybe I should retire," he said as he put his hands in his pockets.
Outside on narrow rue du Bourg Tibourg, she searched her shoulder bag for her Metro pass. "What's that, Morbier?" she asked distractedly. "You've just had too much to drink tonight." Then she looked at his forlorn expression.
"Never been pulled off a case before," he said.
"Who exactly pulled you off?" she said.
He shrugged. "My superintendent informed me on his way out."
"His way out? Relieved of his post?" She looked directly at Morbier.
"Promoted. Now I report directly to the antiterrorist unit chief. At the Commissariat, instead of onward and upward, we say wayward and francword. You get the meaning, eh?"
"Are you talking bribery?" She cocked her head sideways in disbelief. "The chief superintendent of greater Paris?"
Morbier shrugged. "Well, to be fair, he was up for promotion in a few months anyway. Just happened sooner than expected."
"So what are you saying, Morbier?"
"Could be a coincidence or"—he peered at the luminous fingernail of a moon hanging in the cold sky—"vagaries of nature due to the cyclical spheres of the moon. I don't know."
"Why would someone from the antiterrorism bureau override you?" she asked.
"Certain things happen and you accept them or leave. That's all. Let's walk."
She hooked her arm in his and they walked. They walked in silence for a long time. Like she used to with her father. Paris was the city for walking when words failed.