The institutional-looking Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine stood close to the Seine. A bronze memorial to the Martyr Juif Inconnu filled the entrance. Aimee strode briskly past it to the gravel quai.
She remembered the envelopes in Lili Stein's desk drawer addressed to the center, the list in her knitting with "Soli H" on it. Most of all, she thought about Hecht's words. She had put the photo in Lili Stein's hand. But it had been too late. What did Hecht know that put him in danger?
Uneasiness gnawed at her. First Lili, now Soli.
Pigeons swarmed near her feet hoping for bread crumbs as she pulled out her cell phone. Her footsteps popped gravel and the pewter-colored Seine flowed lazily beside her. She shooed the pigeons away as Morbier answered.
"I just saw Soli Hecht put into an ambulance," she said. "Rumor is he got pushed in front of the bus."
Aimee wanted to hear the official spin from Morbier. See if the police were treating it as an accident or attempted homicide.
"Alors!" came Morbier's reply. "Someone trips in front of a bus and you call me at le Commissariat! Anybody see him pushed? Eh? A perpetrator and a motive would help, too. Voila, then you have something."
"Just sharing information." She clicked off.
She didn't like this at all. She hadn't from the beginning. Things didn't smell right, as her father would say. She entered the Center's paved square to inquire if Soli had been there or if someone noticed something. On the memorial, death camp names were chiseled. She gazed, saddened by the long list: Auschwitz, Belzec, Birkenau, Chelmno, Ravensbruck, Sobibor-so many places she'd never heard of. "Never forget" was handwritten in bold letters on a placard propped below.
"Never forget," Lili Stein had told her young son, Abraham. What had Lili meant? Aimee wondered-had it killed her?
The interior of the five-story building blended fifties architecture with anonymous high-tech features. State-of-the-art alarm sensors and high-density vision cameras perched in marble niches above her. On the wall in the sparse reception area hung a directory of the Center's services in several languages.
A small young woman with a thick black braid down the back of her denim smock bustled out to greet her. Her name tag read "Solange Goutal, Administration Assistant."
"Yes, may I help you?" Behind rimless glasses her bright eyes were puffy.
Aimee displayed her ID. "Did you know Soli Hecht was involved in an accident in front of this building?"
"Why, yes," Solange said. Anguish was printed on her face. "I spoke with him as he left."
Aimee hoped her surprise didn't show. "When was this?"
"Are you from the police? Show me your ID again," said Solange.
Aimee kept her smile businesslike. This woman could have been the last person to speak with Hecht before his accident. "I'm a private detective, investigating the murder of the Jewish woman near here."
"Of course I want to be helpful, but how is it related?" Solange said. She pulled a lace mouchoir from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.
"My job," Aimee said, frustrated that Solange Goutal was the curious type, "consists of eliminating coincidences to find solid clues and build a case."
Solange's eyes crinkled. "I see." But Aimee could tell she didn't. "Vandals set fire to our Star of David last week. Les Blancs Nationaux didn't claim responsibility, but it wouldn't surprise me if they had."
"Hard to say." Aimee gritted her teeth but kept smiling. She wanted this woman to answer her questions, not pose other questions. "Why don't you tell me about Hecht."
"Well, he needed assistance down the stairs because of his arthritis." She indicated the curved marble stairway. "I helped him with his coat. I always helped Soli if I could. His work is so important." She smiled sadly.
"Did you see the accident?"
She sniffled, holding back tears. "My back was turned, deactivating the security system," she said. "I heard brakes squeal, then a thud. I ran outside but…" She closed her eyes.
"You deactivated the security system after Soli Hecht left?" Aimee said. That didn't make sense. "Why?"
"If Soli is involved with a project, he works here any time. We close at noon Fridays for Shabbat. However, today, for the deportation memorial services I came in to finish up some work. Sometime after three Soli buzzed the office so I deactivated the alarm, then let him in. I reactivated the alarm but he only stayed a short time. To let him out I had to deactivate again. In doing so, I forgot to disarm his office alarm code."
"But I just walked in," Aimee interrupted.
"My mistake." Solange shook her head. "I was supposed to activate the process again. But it's so hard to remember."
"He has special access?" Aimee asked.
"Of course!" Solange sounded surprised. "Soli got the grant from the 4th arrondissement for this building space. His foundation maintains an office upstairs. Since the Jews lived and died in the Marais, he always said, their history should be shown here. But this week was the first time I'd seen him in several months."
Startled, Aimee realized that this information fit if his recent contact with Lili involved his work at the center. Keeping her excitement in check, she asked, "What was he working on?"
"That's confidential information," Solange said. She glanced at her watch. "I need to close the center."
"Is there anyone in his office whom I can talk to?" Aimee asked.
"Only Soli could tell you that. There's no one else in today."
Why wouldn't Solange talk? Supposedly there'd been an attempt on Soli's life, so why worry about confidentiality?
"Solange, I need to know about this work he's involved in."
"I told you it's confidential," she snapped.
Hecht had slipped her fifty thousand francs to find Lili Stein's killer and now he'd been hurt. There must be a connection to Hecht's foundation, but she wouldn't find out if this braided lackey kept blocking her way.
"Your director better be more helpful." She leaned close to Solange.
"She's involved in the memorial at the deportation monument today, but she'll be in Sunday." Solange backed up against the highly polished wood reception desk.
"What if Soli doesn't make it until tomorrow and you've obstructed my investigation-would you like that on your conscience?"
Solange's chin quivered. "I don't make the rules, I'm sorry."
"Answer me this." Aimee crossed her arms. "Did Soli act differently today than before?"
Solange paused, knotting her fingers. "His rheumatoid arthritis had become worse. He was in constant pain," she said, then sighed, "That's why it seemed unusual."
"Unusual?" Aimee said, alerted by the change in Solange's tone.
"That he was at a bus stop," Solange said matter-of-factly. "He told me he was going to take a taxi home."
Aimee willed her face muscles to stay put, hiding her excitement. Her suspicious feeling about Solange evaporated. "Did you report the accident to the police?"
"They didn't even respond when I called. Told me to dial SAMU, the emergency. Soli's a special man. This doesn't seem fair."
Outside, Aimee stared at the now dull brownish spot on the cobblestoned street. It didn't make sense for Hecht, in constant pain, to wait at a bus stop when a taxi stand was a few meters away. Especially since he'd said he would take a taxi. Somehow she'd unearth this mess, cobblestone by cobblestone if need be.
Late Friday Afternoon
"YOU SAY SOLI HECHT is in a coma?" Aimee asked Morbier as she stood across from his desk. "Is he going to wake up?"
"Severe trauma, internal injuries." Morbier shrugged. "Then again, I'm not a doctor."
"If he wakes, can you arrange it so I talk with him?" she said.
France 2 droned above them on the TV in Homicide. On the screen, angry demonstrators at the Élysee palace gates paraded near a newscaster who vainly attempted to interview them.