Cara Black - Murder in the Marais

"Sit down, Thierry," Aimee said, interrupting the strange scene. Holding Vitold's black Luger, she climbed down the bits of wood jutting out from the caked dirt in the cavern walls. Rene followed behind her.

"It's under control," Hartmuth growled. "Put your gun away."

"You first," she said.

Hartmuth hesitated. Sarah put her hand tentatively on his arm. "You don't need this," she said. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

Aimee reached the catacomb floor, where her heels sank promptly into the dirt. The last ladder rung splintered. She turned and caught Rene before he landed on a pile of rubble and bones.

"Come here, Thierry," she said.

Thierry perched on a rotten timber, his eyes twitching. "Let's play possible scenarios," he said, his voice rising in a high pitch.

"Thierry, calm down," Aimee said. "You need time to work things out."

He ignored her. "Son tries to knife long-lost mother because she's a Jew pig," he said. He stood up, his face contorted in the flicker of light. "Father shoots son because he's a two-bit Nazi wannabe. Father puts bullet in his own brain because long ago he disobeyed the Führer." He laughed manically. "I like it. Let me do the honors." He reached out to Sarah.

Aimee moved towards him but Hartmuth had leveled his gun.

"Leave her alone!" Hartmuth yelled.

Thierry stumbled.

Too late. Hartmuth shot, but not before Sarah had flung herself in front of Thierry. The shot reverberated, almost deafening Aimee as Sarah's body slammed into the earth wall. Blood spurted from her chest as she thudded to the ground, clutching at her heart.

Aimee grabbed Hartmuth's arms, while Rene quickly took the gun from him. Rumbling rose from deep in the cavern as bones and pebbles slid down the walls. The wood posts trembled above them. Dirt showered over Aimee's face.

She ran to a moaning Sarah, wanting to cover her ears and shut out this woman's agony. Instead, she knelt, attempting to staunch the blood pooling in a dirt puddle.

Hartmuth fell to his knees. "What have I done?"

"Maman," Thierry said. "You saved me." He knelt and stroked her clammy forehead.

Sarah's breathing came in shallow gasps as Aimee propped her head up.

"My baby," Sarah crooned, pulling him close. "My baby."

Aimee applied direct pressure to the hole in Sarah's chest.

"Hold on, Sarah."

"The ambulance is on its way," Rene said, putting the cell phone in his pocket. "It won't be too soon either." He looked nervously above him.

"Sarah, you can make it," Aimee said. "Just a little bit longer."

Sarah nodded. "Thierry, your Jewish name is Jacob, the healer of men." She smiled weakly. "After your grandfather."

Hartmuth remained in a heap near the bone mound, curiously immobile. Aimee realized he was in shock. His eyes focused somewhere distantly in the catacombs.

"Thierry?" Sarah wailed as her eyes clouded, gripping him tightly. "My son!"

"Bring your father, Thierry," Aimee said. She gestured towards Hartmuth. "Reunite them." She didn't need to add "before it's too late."

Hartmuth meekly knelt with Thierry. Aimee gently put Sarah's head in his lap. Wordlessly, he caressed her face as Thierry gripped his shoulders and looked away.

"I need your help, Rene." Aimee whispered instructions while she pulled him aside.

As she climbed up the ladder, her last glimpse was of a weak, smiling Sarah being held by Hartmuth and Thierry illuminated by a flashlight beam.

T HE MEDICALcrew couldn't get Sarah to let go of Thierry until Morbier arrived. Finally she let go. He nodded to the attendants, who slipped her onto a stretcher they'd unfolded.

Panic sparkled in Sarah's eyes. "I gave them all the food!" she screamed, now struggling to get away from Hartmuth. "We're hungry. S'il vous plaît, my baby is hungry!"

"Take any statements?" Morbier swiveled his head, addressing the young uniformed sergeant at the scene.

The sergeant shook his head.

Morbier leaned closely over Hartmuth's outstretched palm. He sniffed. "Notice the residue oil from the bullet chamber?" He pointed at the glove. "Your theory, sergeant?"

The uniform shook his head again and cleared his throat unsteadily.

"Strong smell of gunpowder on his right hand." Morbier cocked his eye down at the sergeant, now taking notes on a pad hastily produced from his pocket.

"Sir, I…," he began.

"Gather the evidence," Morbier snarled.

"Let's get up." Morbier gently took Thierry's arm. "You can ride to the hospital."

Empty and spent, Thierry climbed out of the catacombs. "Why couldn't I believe her?"

Morbier grimaced, handcuffing Hartmuth's wrists behind him. He muttered under his breath. "This is for your own protection, Monsieur." Hartmuth remained mute, staring vacantly.

"Does he mean why couldn't he believe Aimee?" Morbier looked at Rene.

Rene nodded.

"Take him to the station," Morbier directed.

The sergeant saluted, hustling Hartmuth forward and up a makeshift ladder.

"Why don't you tell me about Aimee's plan?"

Rene smiled grimly. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Where is she?"

"Partying," Rene said.

Surprised, Morbier dropped his cigarette.

"We're invited," Rene said.

A IMÉE KNEWif a person had been listed as dead and wasn't, he or she needed an identity. Thousands of refugees, during and after the war had lost identity papers since buildings with records were bombed, their countries gobbled up or renamed. These people were stateless. A piece of documentation had been created, called the Nansen passport, to legitimize their existence. If she found this proof, she'd have him.

She headed for the elegant Musee Carnavalet, which was located around the corner from the catacombs and housed in the former hôtel particulier of Madame de Sevigne. The museum courtyard was open. Inside the deserted marble-ceilinged restroom she switched on her laptop but realized the battery had died. She found a socket, plugged it in, and breathed a sigh of relief when she logged on.

She hacked into the Palais de Nationalite files and found him. Laurent Cazaux had been approved for a Nansen passport in 1945. But her triumph felt hollow. She had to stop him. Quickly, she downloaded the application and approval forms.

She pressed the redial button on Herve Vitold's cell phone.

"Meet me alone, Cazaux. L'Academie d'architecture bureau, at midnight," Aimee said into the phone. "If you want to make a deal."

S EARCHLIGHTS SCANNEDin pewter strokes across the sky. The sliver of a moon drooped low over the Seine, hardly a ripple on the surface. Aimee rubbed her arms in the frosty chill.

Before her, the windows of l'Academie d'architecture in Place des Vosges glowed with the light of hundreds of hand-lit tapers. A stream of dark limousines deposited guests at the entrance of the former seventeenth century Hôtel de Chaulnes. Tonight's commemorative gala was in honor of Madame de Pompadour, the true arbiter of style at the French court, who still influenced what passed for elegant today.

She, along with the rest of Paris, knew Minister Cazaux was scheduled to begin the celebration by attending the fashion show. Her rough plan, formulated in the Musee Carnavalet's restroom, several blocks away, held major obstacles. First of all, she had to surprise him at the gala before their midnight appointment and force him to reveal his guilt in public. But that seemed minor, since she had no invitation to this heavily guarded soiree. However, before that she needed to meet Martine at Le Figaro and copy the disk with her proof.

As she rounded the corner, her heart stopped. The bomb-squad truck straddled the sidewalk. Workers swept up glass blown out from the wrought-iron entrance doors of Le Figaro 's brown brick facade. She wondered if Martine had been hurt.