She tried imagining herself as the scared sixteen-year-old Lili Stein. A young Jewish girl, her family gone, living alone and dependent on the concierge. A concierge who, according to Javel, had been dangerously involved in the black market.
"All recorded now, Leduc," Serge was saying. "I'm packed up, the plasterers are ready to come in, time to go." He tapped his heel impatiently. "This is union time we're talking about here, Leduc."
Aimee was still not satisfied. "I need one more look. I'll meet you on rue des Rosiers."
The plasterers, in white-caked coveralls, waited, grumbling, in the courtyard. The Steins' building was getting a reconstructive face-lift long overdue and major renovation, courtesy of the city of Paris and the 4th arrondissement. Records showed that the most recent construction had been done in 1795. She figured it would be that long again before another renovation.
She had the nagging feeling she was missing something, something that was crying out to her but she couldn't get it. The high-pitched "beep beep beep" of the plasterers' van was deafening as it backed into the courtyard and almost drove over her toe.
"Hey, watch out!" Frustrated, she kicked at the bumper, pounding the metal.
That's when she realized the one place she hadn't looked. The one place a killer would pause, maybe grip the sink, to wash his hands. Wash the blood off his hands.
She ran back into the courtyard and crawled under the sink. Sharp cobblestones dug into her sore shoulder, mildew assailed her nostrils. Shining her flashlight in every crevice and knobby ridge, she strained to reach as far as she could, lying on her back. Then she saw it.
"Get your Luminol out again, Serge. Tent and cover the sink. See the very faint ridges of a fingerprint in the crack?" she said. "This fingerprint will shine up nicely when you've done your stuff. I've got him!"
Tuesday Late Afternoon
RENÉ BUMPED THE CITROËN over the narrow gutter lining rue des Rosiers.
"I thought you were in Lyon," she said, surprised.
"Get in, Aimee," he said.
Rene's Citroën was customized for his short legs and arms, allowing him to clutch, shift, and zoom like any other speed demon in Paris. And did he ever. The car was adjustable, so Aimee could manipulate the levers to fold her five-foot, eight-inch frame into the marshmallowy interior.
"I got him, Rene, I knew the answer was here," she said. "Now I just have to figure out who he is or was." Her eyes shone brightly and her cheeks were flushed. "I took a Polaroid of the fingerprint. At the office I'll magnify and scan it into the computer."
"How does this involve Lili Stein?" Rene asked as they roared around the curb into another medieval one-way street.
"I'm working on that," she said. "I'll find it."
"You and Morbier are stars on the evening news. Not worried about undercover anymore, Leduc?" he said.
"The press weren't there at my invitation, Rene, I tried to stay away from the cameras."
"Cut the defensiveness, Aimee. I saw your feet in those fluorescent little booties on France 2," he said. "That Luminol might illuminate things you hadn't bargained on. Stay at my place."
She rubbed her hands at the memory of Herve Vitold's scissor-like grip.
"When was the last time you cleaned it up? I'm not a snob, Rene, but certain standards of hygiene need to be maintained."
"Haven't you considered someone doesn't want this Pandora's box opened?"
Vitold had made that loud and clear.
"That's why it has to be opened," she said.
Several horns blared as his Citroën swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic. Grudgingly, she took the spare key to his flat.
Rene let her off on the corner of rue de Rivoli. "Miles Davis is upstairs." She bounded up the stairs of her office building, anxious to log into FRAPOL 1, the police system, and search for a match with the Luminol fingerprint.
The muffled bark of Miles Davis didn't sound right as she ran up the last flight of stairs. And the frosted-glass door of her office stood slightly ajar, so she couldn't put her uneasy feeling down to intuition. Rene would never leave the door like that. Someone had been inside and today wasn't the cleaner's day. Instead of entering, she kept on climbing to the next flight. Éditions Photogravure Lapousse had its door open and she could hear the click of computer keys.
"Bonjour, ca va? Permit me," she said to the older woman with headphones typing data entry who nodded distractedly and then ignored her.
Aimee walked past her and opened the double windowed doors to the street. She climbed over the black wrought-iron balcony guard, gripping the thick rail, and was greeted by a dusky sunset over the Louvre and the Seine beyond. It was almost enough to sweep away the anticipation of finding out who was in her office.
The moon dangled over the distant Arc de Triomphe and the traffic hummed below her. Carefully, she wedged her toe into a crack in the limestone facade and rested her boot heel on the metal sign support. Four stories above the rue du Louvre, she slowly climbed down the first E of the LEDUC DETECTIVE sign to peer into her office window for an intruder.
From the slightly open window, a smell of fresh paint hit her. Very fresh. She knew Rene wouldn't schedule the office to be painted and forget to tell her. She slipped her Glock 9-mm from the strap around her leg.
As she molded her body to the semicircular curve of the window, she hesitated. She had the firearms permit but not the license to carry her Glock. Drawing an unlicensed gun on anybody spelled trouble. French firearm laws, still enforced by the Napoleonic code, didn't allow her the right to bear arms. Even in self-defense or equal-force situations. If the flics were inside, she'd really be in trouble. Her PI license would be revoked immediately, if Herve Vitold of the Brigade d'Intervention hadn't already done that.
She didn't feel like bursting into her office when the door had been left ajar, without any kind of backup. She pulled her cell phone out and punched in her office number. The phone rang right below her toehold, inside the window.
As the answering machine came on, she waited, then shouted, "You're in my crosshairs, salope. I'm at the window directly opposite."
Heavy footsteps beat below her, then the office door slammed shut. This is going to be easy, Aimee thought, I'll just wait and see who comes out of the building.
Five long minutes later, no one had emerged from the entrance. Of course, she'd realized she'd told them they were being watched from across the street. Only an idiot would exit from the front. Now she'd have to go in, not knowing if they'd really left or not. She steadied her gun. The flics wouldn't act like that. At least, she didn't think they would.
As she slid down and perched on the rusted tin drain she heard an ominous creak below her and grabbed the big D. Just in time, too. The drain came loose and went crashing down four stories to the street. Luckily, no one was on the pavement below. By the time she'd jimmied the window lock and fallen into her office, it was empty.
Papers and files were strewn everywhere. Her desk drawers had been dumped upside down, every nook and cranny searched. A professional job by the look of it, she thought. She kept her gun drawn as she slowly opened the closet. Miles Davis tumbled out, ecstatic to see her. Cautiously, she searched her office to make sure no one was there.
She inched into the hallway. A chill breeze blew from the open window facing a shadowy passage between prewar boxlike apartments. She heard the creaking of the rusty fire escape swinging below her. Her intruder had probably made it to the Metro station by now. Dusting herself off, she took a swig of mineral water and called Martine.