Dead cigarette smell and muffled bells on a loudspeaker greeted her as she emerged on the hospital's fifth floor. Overflowing ashtrays littered the waiting area near a row of withering potted plants.
She strode over the scuffed linoleum towards room 525. Loud buzzers sounded as a team of nurses and doctors flew by her.
"Attention! Out of the way," yelled a medic, who wheeled a shock unit past them.
She followed him, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding. A doctor kneeled over an unconscious blue-uniformed policeman, sprawled on the linoleum.
Uneasy, she asked, "What's happened?"
"I'm not sure," the doctor said, feeling for a pulse.
She ran into room 525. Hecht lay naked except for a loose sheet across his waist, wires and tubes hooked into his pasty white body. His skin glistened with perspiration. His forearm showed an injection mark with a bubble of blood.
She rushed to the hallway. "Doctor, this patient needs attention!"
Surprised, he nodded to the nurse and they went in.
Aimee reached for the radio clipped to the policeman's pocket and flicked the transmit button. "Request assist; fifth-floor attack on Soli Hecht—officer down. Do you copy?"
All she heard was static. As she reached for the policeman's pocket, her hand raked a cold metal pistol. She wondered why a Paris flic would carry a Beretta .765. Flics she knew didn't carry this kind of hardware. They weren't even issued firearms. She slid it into her pocket.
More static, then a voice said, "Copy. Backup is on the way. Who is this?"
But Aimee stood at the foot of the bed where doctors and nurses worked on Soli Hecht.
"Adrenalin, on count of three," said a doctor near Soli's chest, which was heaving spasmodically.
She looked at the bubble on his arm, swollen and purple now, heard the labored breathing. Soli's hollow cheekbones contracted as he desperately sucked air. Recognition flashed in his eyes.
The doctor looked up. "Better get the rabbi. Somebody go look. Any family here?"
Aimee ignored her pounding heart and stepped forward. "I'm his niece. My uncle is on twenty-four-hour protection but someone got to him. Injected him with drugs."
The doctor looked up and gave her a quizzical look. "You mean this on his arm. . .?" He grabbed Soli's chart, hooked to the bed. Scanning it, he shook his head. "He's not responding. Check the IV solution."
"Can't you do something?" Aimee moved towards the head of the bed, feeling guilty for lying. Soli's eyes fixed on her and she returned his gaze.
"Vital responses are minimal," the doctor said.
Aimee bent over, gently touching Soli's arm, which was clammy and moist to the touch. Her conscience bothered her but she didn't know how else to find out. She whispered in his ear, "Soli, what does that photo mean?"
His arms broke loose from the tubes and flailed wildly. He reached out to her.
"You know, Soli, don't you?" She searched his eyes. "Why Lili was killed."
His sharp nails dug like needles into her skin. Aimee winced, drawing back, but he pulled her close. He rasped in her ear, "Don't. . .let. . .him. . ."
"Who?" Aimee said as his arid breath hit her cheek.
Someone touched her shoulder. "The rabbi is here. Let your uncle pray with him."
Soli's eyes rolled up in his head.
"Tell me, Soli, tell me. . ." But the nurses started pulling her away.
His head shook and he pulled Aimee tighter, his nails raking into her skin.
"Say it! Say his name," Aimee begged.
Soli's other arm flailed, scrabbling at the sheets. "Lo. . ."
"L'eau, Soli? Water?" she said. "What do you mean?"
He blinked several times, then his eyes went vacant. The heart monitor registered flat lines. Blood trickled from Soli's nose. Gently, the doctor pried Soli's fingers loose from Aimee's neck.
"Yit-ga-dal v-yit-ka-dash shemei." The rabbi entered, intoning the Hebrew prayer for the dead.
The nurse led Aimee to the hall, where she leaned against the scuffed walls, shaking. She'd seen her father die in front of her eyes. Now Soli Hecht.
Her neck felt scraped raw. Raw like her heart. Another dead end. He'd only been asking for water.
The rabbi tucked his prayer book under his arm and joined her in the hallway. He gave her a long look. "You're not Soli's niece. His whole family was gassed at Treblinka."
Aimee's shoulders tightened. She looked down the hallway, wondering why the police backup hadn't arrived. "Rabbi, Soli Hecht has been murdered."
"You better have a lot more than chutzpah to lie at a dying man's bedside and then say he's been murdered. Explain."
Either the police response time had dwindled or that hadn't been a real police radio she'd talked into. Her uneasiness grew.
"I'm willing to explain, but not here," she said. "Let's walk down the hall slowly, go past the lobby towards the elevator."
They walked by the mobile shock unit, now abandoned in the hallway.
"Temple E'manuel has hired me to investigate."
His eyes opened wide. "You mean this has to do with Lili Stein's murder?"
She nodded. "Didn't you see the policeman who'd guarded the room lying unconscious on the floor? And the injection spot on Soli's arm, a bad job that swelled like a golf ball?"
The rabbi nodded slowly.
"Someone pushed Soli in front of a bus," she said. "That didn't work so when he came out of the coma, they finished him off with a lethal injection. Unfortunately, they got here before I did. I don't know how, but it involves Lili Stein. Was he able to talk at all?"
The rabbi shook his head. "He drifted in and out, never regaining consciousness.
Loud voices came from the corridor. Several plainclothes policemen strode down the hall. Why hadn't a uniformed unit arrived? Her suspicions increased. Aimee turned away from them, bowed her head, and hooked her arm in the rabbi's. She whispered in his ear, "Let's walk slowly towards the stair exit. I don't want them to see me. Please help me!"
The rabbi sighed. "It's hard to believe anyone would make this up."
He nudged her forward. They walked arm in arm towards the stairs while she buried her face in his scratchy gray beard. As she heard the static and crackle of police radios from down the hall, she burrowed her head further in his shoulder.
Around the corner, the rabbi hissed in her ear, "I'm only helping you because Soli was a good man." He sidled close to the stairs, blocking the view, while Aimee crept through and down the stairway. She moved as quietly and quickly as the old stairs would allow.
"Excuse me, rabbi. Where is the woman you were in conversation with?" a clear voice asked the rabbi.
"Gone to wash her face in the ladies' room," she heard him reply.
Down the stairs, Aimee quickly followed a glassed-in walking bridge to the older part of the hospital. Outside, she unlocked her moped and scanned the area.
A few unmarked police cars were parked at the hospital entrance, but she didn't see anyone. The pungent smell of bleach drifted from the old hospital laundry. She hit the kick start, then pedaled down tree-lined rue Elzevir, quiet at this time of evening.
Le Commissariat de Police didn't carry Berettas. Professional hit men did, she knew that much. Behind her, a motorcycle engine whined loudly. Few cars used narrow rue Elzevir. The engine slowed down, then roared to life. She looked back to see a black leather–clad figure on a sleek MotoGuzi motorcycle. She veered towards the sidewalk as it came closer. Suddenly, a car darted out from an alley across from her. All she saw was the darkened car window before the front wheel of her bike hit a loose cobblestone and threw her up in the air. Airborne for three seconds, she saw everything happen in slow motion as she registered the motorcycle speeding away.