"Excuse me," she said demurely and cast her eyes down. "I just received word that this meeting was moved up."
Silence.
The one in the yarmulke glared at her, adjusting the short cuffs of his tight-fitting jacket. "I see no records of past income in the file received from Leduc Detective," he said, without taking his eyes off her. "No statement of deductions either."
He rolled his sleeve up and she saw faded tattooed numbers on his forearm. He'd been in a concentration camp like Soli Hecht. She slipped her hands, covered with SS lightning-bolt tattoos, into her lap.
The man to her left joined in. "I concur, Superintendent Foborski. I also found no record of these."
Here was the superintendent-a concentration-camp survivor-and she was dressed as a neo-Nazi skinhead.
Rene stole a glance at her and rolled his eyes. Under the table she could see his pudgy hands clasped in prayer.
"Sir, these records-," Aimee began.
But the man next to her reached for his glass, promptly spilling water and knocking toner all over her coat. Accidentally or on purpose, it didn't matter. The powdery toner turned into a clumpy charcoal mess all over her.
Even sopping wet and cold, she wouldn't take the coat off. The fake tattoos were probably bleeding all over her chest.
"Pardon, I'm very sorry," he said. "Please, let me help."
Lili Stein's coat was ruined. She tried to wipe the mess up.
"I insist," he said, pulling at her sleeves. "This could be toxic."
"Leave me alone, Monsieur!" she warned.
"Are you hiding a weapon, Mademoiselle Leduc?" Superintendent Foborski's eyes glittered. "If you don't remove that garment, I'll call security to assist you."
Her shoulders sagged. Gently, she pulled her arms out of the soggy coat, dripping and smelling of wet wool. Swastikas and lightning bolts lay exposed through the holes of her tank top.
Eight pairs of eyes fastened on her tattoos.
"This has nothing to do with that-"
"This board will look at no request without the proper forms," interrupted Foborski, "it's impossible to conduct any further business. Consider your tax in default. Penalties will be levied retroactively in addition to a five-thousand-franc fine." He waved his hands dismissively.
"No!" Aimee stood up and looked him straight in the eye. "What I was attempting to say," she began levelly, "is that all those forms have been sent to you."
She rifled through Rene's file and immediately pulled out a blue sheet. "You are," she stopped and spoke slowly, "Superintendent Foborski, I take it?"
He nodded imperceptibly, glaring.
She continued, "Your office accepted and time-dated this receipt." Aimee strutted over to Foborski and laid the sheet in front of him. "Keep it, I've got several."
"Why don't I have a copy in my file?" He looked at it suspiciously. "I'll need to have this authenticated."
She'd dealt with bourgeois bureaucracy before, so she was prepared. "Here's a copy of the sign-in log stating the time I submitted them, with the tax revenuer's stamp, if that's any help to you."
He stared at the paper and shook his head. "Take this for verification," he said to his colleague.
Aimee went back, sat down, and gave them what she hoped was a professional smile. "As you know from the form, I'm a private investigator. I don't usually look like this, but in my current case"-she turned to Foborski and looked again in his eyes-"the part demands it."
Aimee passed her investigator's license, with the orange code symbol on it, around the table. She focused on the next most hostile pair of eyes and said matter-of-factly, "Can you bring me up to speed on what points my partner and you have negotiated so far?"
AFTER AN hour of negotiations, she and Rene walked down the marble staircase, partially triumphant.
"Only a seven-day extension." She looked at Rene ruefully. "We need three months."
"Even with Hecht's retainer, we're short. Of course, if our overdue accounts paid their balance we'd make it." He half smiled. "But we'd have better odds buying lottery tickets."
Near the exit to Place Baudoyer, they sat down on the wooden bench. Rene pulled out his ever-present laptop. Aimee hesitated-should she confide in Rene?
Years after the bombing, she still woke up screaming from the same nightmare. She'd be crawling on cobblestones slippery with blood amid broken glass in the Place Vendôme. Her father would angrily demand that she hurry and piece his charred limbs together so he wouldn't be late for his award dinner. "Vite, Aimee, quickly!" he'd say out of his melted, burned mouth. "I have no intention of missing this!" She'd wake up terrified and run through her dark, cold apartment.
Only once, after too much Pernod, had she told Rene about her nightmares and the bombing. Right now, she had to talk with someone she trusted.
"I need a sounding board," she said. "Got an ear?"
He nodded and left his laptop unopened. "I thought you'd never ask."
She told Rene most of what had happened since Soli Hecht had hobbled into their office. She'd already told him about finding Lili Stein.
"I wonder if Foborski attends Temple E'manuel Synagogue, the ones who supposedly hired me," Aimee continued. "Or if Abraham Stein does."
"So?" Rene said. "I can't see Stein asking a fellow synagogue member to deny you a tax extension."
"No, of course not." Aimee shook her head. "It's just strange that Foborski didn't have those forms."
"Let me help you."
She shook her head. "I'm reserving you for computer work." His hacking skills were the best she'd ever seen besides her own. Even better than her own. She saw the rejection in Rene's downcast eyes.
"Because I'm small?"
"Stop that. I dealt with your size long ago. You're my best friend."
"And tact is not your strong suit, Aimee," Rene said. "Even though you're my best friend, too. Do you think if I were tall I'd be able to help you?"
"Alors! This has nothing to do with your size, Rene. Lili Stein's homicide isn't our usual corporate crime."
"Don't count me out, Aimee."
"I swore on my father's grave." She put her head down. "Now I've blabbed to you."
"You swore to deliver something to Lili Stein. You did. Remember, I'm a black belt." He nudged her proudly. "And a good backup."
She sighed. "You keep reminding me."
"What about Soli Hecht?"
"He said no contact."
"Come to the dojo with me. You need all the self-defense kicks you can master."
"Merci." She squeezed his hand. "I'm going to see Morbier. He should have the forensics report by now."
"What is that stuff on your fingernails?"
"Like it? It's called Urban Decay," she said. "I'm going to Les Blancs Nationaux meeting tomorrow."
"Why?"
"If they murdered Lili Stein…"
He interrupted. "You need backup with those types, Aimee."
She hesitated. That might not be a bad idea. But if it was a setup…She decided against exposing him to danger.
"If I need you I'll call you." She kissed him on both cheeks. "Pressure Eurocom's accountant, make him sweat. See you later at the office."
LE COMMISSARIAT de Police seemed quiet for an early Friday afternoon. Few desks were occupied and the television blared an old American rerun of Hunter. As Aimee approached, Morbier's head appeared from under his desk.
"Lost the grip that holds up my suspenders," he said with a sheepish grin.
"Try this." Aimee plucked a safety pin from her jeans and passed it to him. "I've got plenty."
Morbier hitched up his trousers and pinned them.
"Just for that, I won't comment on your appearance." He smiled and sat down heavily at his desk.
Her father would have said something like that.
"Look, Morbier," she began. "I need a favor."
"You're a big girl now, I know," he said stiffly. "Our investigation will remain professional." He winked.
She controlled her impulse to stuff the cigarette dangling from his mouth down his throat. One minute he played hard-line and by the book. The next, he became a paternalistic old coot who couldn't express his feelings. She wished he'd decide on the role, then play it.