On her way to the Commissariat she'd come up with a logical reason for being in the area. The radio had reported large right-wing demonstrations all over the Marais protesting the European Summit.
"I'd followed her from Les Halles but I lost her at that demonstration. Neo-Nazis were all over. I figured she returned to her apartment so this evening I went there and then. . ."
At least the part she told him about how she found the body was true.
"Let me be sure I understand." Morbier inhaled deeply from a newly lit cigarette then blew smoke rings over Aimee's head. "You followed her in case she shoplifted, lost her in Les Halles at a fascist demonstration, then went to her apartment and found her carved Nazi-style?" His eyes narrowed. "Why were your fingerprints on the radio dials?"
She did her best to ignore his look.
"Mais bien sûr! Because I had to lower the volume. The killer turned the radio up to hide Lili's screams, then dropped used tissues on the floor after wiping off his or her fingerprints." Eagerly she pointed to the crime-scene photos covering his desk. "But that's an interesting point, Morbier!"
"What's that?"
"The perpetrator might be used to someone cleaning up after him-or herself."
"Or might be a slob."
She studied the swastika carved into Lili Stein's forehead in the photograph. It was then she noticed how this particular swastika slanted differently from the graffiti in the Metro. She grabbed a paper clip from his desk, rubbed it on her silk shirt, and then stuck it in her mouth. Chewing and moving it with her tongue helped her think.
In the photograph reddish discoloration under Lili Stein's ears continued along her neck. The thin line of congealed blood showed the ligature that had strangled her. Nothing explained her half–clenched fists except fear. Or anger.
"I'll corroborate your alibi after I check with your dwarf." Morbier plopped himself back into his chair, rubbing his jowl with one hand. "We make a deal, you and me. . ."
"Leave Rene out of it."
"Why should I?"
"You want to use me. No one in the Marais will talk to your flics."
She knew that ever since uniformed French police had rounded up Jews for the Nazis during the Occupation, no Jew trusted them. Morbier must have figured that if the Temple employed her they trusted her, even though she wasn't Jewish.
"Leduc, trust me."
She paused. Maybe she could trust him, maybe not. But didn't they say if you knew your enemy you were at least one step ahead?
"I'll agree to share information. Deal?"
He nodded. "D'accord."
"Give me the forensics?"
He snorted. "You did notice the ligature mark under her ears?"
"Of course. I am my father's daughter." She wanted to add, "And more."
Morbier winced at the mention of her father.
"That wasn't all I noticed, Morbier," she said grimly. "What about the lack of blood?"
"You wouldn't be suggesting that the homicide took place elsewhere and the victim was dragged?" he said.
"Since the swastika was carved after strangulation, not to mention her stockings were rolled down, her fingernails broken and her palm full of splinters, it would follow."
"That thought had occurred to me." He flicked his cigarette into the espresso cup. It sizzled and went thupt. Typical Gallic response, she thought. She noticed his mismatched socks: one blue, the other gray.
"The technicians have been combing the courtyard," he said. "If there's something there, they will find it."
"Time of death?" She riffled her hair, creating more spiky tufts.
He ignored her scarred hand as he usually did. "Say between three and seven last night. The autopsy may pinpoint the time closer."
She stood.
"Beyond sharing information, I'd appreciate your help in my investigation."
Now Morbier sounded like her father. He had actually asked for her help. Nicely. She almost sat back down.
"In other words if I don't, I'd be hindering it?"
"I didn't say that." He shook his head.
She started towards the door.
"Yet." He smiled.
"Remember why I got out of this field?"
"That happened five years ago," he said after a pause.
"I've quit this kind of work, I do corporate investigation," she said. "Why can't you ever look at my hand? If you don't answer me I won't consider working with you." She gripped the edge of his desk, her knuckles white.
His voice sounded tired. "Because if I look at that burn mark, everything comes back. I see your bloody. . ." He covered his eyes, shaking his head.
"You see Papa burning on the cobblestones, thrown by the blast against the pillar in Place Vendôme. Our surveillance van, a smoking rubble from the bomb. And me screaming, running in circles, waving my hand, still gripping the molten door handle."
She stopped. Several plainclothes types hurriedly put their heads back behind their computers. She recognized some of their faces.
"I'm sorry, Morbier." She nudged the base of his chair with her foot. "This doesn't usually happen. Nightmares generally take care of it."
"There's one remedy for shell shock," he said after a while. "Climb into the trenches again."
But he didn't know Soli Hecht had already thrown her back in.
AIMÉE WALKED along the Seine, speculating about the photo fragments. The sunlight glittered feebly off the water and a fisherman's nearby bait bucket stank ripely of sardines.
She trudged over the grooves worn in the stone staircase to her dark, cold apartment, unable to get Lili Stein's corpse out of her mind.
She'd inherited the apartment on the Ile St. Louis from her grandfather. This seven-block island in the middle of the Seine rarely, if ever, had seen real estate change hands during the last century. Drafty, damp, and unheated, her seventeenth century hôtel particulier had been the mansion of the Duc de Guise. He'd been assassinated by Henri III at the royal chateau in Blois, but she'd forgotten why.
The ancient pearwood trees in the courtyard and the view from her window overlooking the Seine kept her there. Every winter, the bone-chilling cold and archaic plumbing almost drove her out. The year before, she'd pitched an army surplus tent around her bed that held the heat in nicely. She couldn't afford repairs or the monstrous inheritance taxes due if she sold her apartment.
Miles Davis licked her in greeting. In her tall-windowed kitchen, she turned on the faucet jutting out of the old blue-tiled backsplash. She washed her hands, letting the warm water run over them a long time.
Mechanically she opened her small 1950s refrigerator. A moldy round of Brie, a six-pack of yogurt, and a magnum of decent champagne that she would pop the cork on some day took up one shelf. Beneath a bunch of wilted spinach was a white-papered package of raw horse meat that she spooned into Miles's chipped bowl. He gobbled it up, wagging his tail as he ate. She chiseled the mold off the Brie and found a baguette, hard as a crowbar, in her pantry. She left it there and found some crackers. But when she sat down, she couldn't eat.
She put on two pairs of gloves, leather over angora. Downstairs in her apartment foyer, she pulled her mobylette from under the stairs, checked the oil, and hit the kick start. She headed over the Seine towards Gare de Lyon and her favorite piscine for swimming. Reuilly wasn't crowded at this time, its humid aqua blue phosphorescence splashed jellylike against the shiny white tiles.
"Bad girl." Dax, the lifeguard, waved his finger. "Didn't see you yesterday."
"I'll make up for it. Fifteen extra laps." She dove into the deep lap lane, her mind and body ready to become one with the heavy warm water. She loved the tingly sensations in her arms and legs until her body temperature stabilized with the water. She established her rhythm: stroke kick breathe kick, stroke kick breath kick, completing lap after lap.