Read Online Murder in the Marais by Cara Black - Free Book Online

enable them to cover last month's office expenses. She grabbed the sheet, then stopped in mid-arc. The top header was the address of a self-serve fax/copy depot near Bastille. The paper held one sentence.
    Leave the ghosts alone or you will join them.
    She dropped the fax and grabbed the table edge for support, as the image of the Nazi carving in Lili Stein's forehead flashed before her. Someone considered her worth threatening and she hadn't even begun to investigate.

    "S ELF-SERVE MEANS exactly that," the harassed manager of the Bastille fax/copy place told her.
    "Wait a minute," Aimee said threateningly, "here's the time and date. Who sent this fax?"
    "Stick the francs in the machine and it faxes." He shrugged.
    "Somebody's trying to kill me, Fifi." She edged closer. Perspiration beaded his upper lip. "Who was in here today?"
    "Little or no contact is made with clerks." He retreated to safety behind the counter.
    Her ripped leather biker jacket was fastened with chains; the torn black jeans were welded to her legs. Clunky black biker boots and a tank top with holes that showed tattoos completed her ensemble. SS lightning bolts and iron crosses peeked from her chest amid safety pins, skulls, and swastikas. Her large eyes were outlined blackly with kohl, matching her purple-black lipstick. And her black wig was spiked into a scruffy mohawk.
    She questioned the other clerk anyway. He winked, saying it had been too busy. But if she met him later, she could call him Fifi as much as she wanted.
    From Bastille she took the Metro to Porte Bagnolet. En route she mentally narrowed possible fax senders from the general public to a few old Jews plus Morbier who knew she was investigating Lili's murder.
    Would someone who sat shiva at the Steins' have threatened her? Had Sinta, sparked by anger, faxed her a warning to leave the past alone? No, no matter what Sinta's feelings were about her detecting skills, she wouldn't do that. It didn't make sense, and whatever else Sinta was, Aimee instinctively sensed her practicality.
    She found Avenue Jean Jaurès, a broad tree-lined boulevard. Every village, town, and city in France had an Avenue Jean Jaurès named after the famed Socialist leader and Paris was no exception.
    Next to the front door of a flat brown building indistinguishable from the others, a piece of paper with "L B N" typed on it was fitted into the address slot. Simple and anonymous.
    A metallic buzzer above it said rez-de-chaussee . She wouldn't have to climb up stairs in these skintight jeans. Imitation parquet flooring led down a fluorescent hallway that echoed with her footsteps. Posted on a wooden door was a typewritten notice: "Free Videos: Learn the Real History!"
    The smell of fresh paint and disinfectant hit her as she knocked loudly. The door was opened by a thin woman in a black jumpsuit who scowled at her. One of the woman's gray eyes wandered. The other looked Aimee up and down.
    "You're late!" she said.
    Disconcerted, Aimee sucked in her breath and half smiled. The phrase about joining Les Blancs Nationaux evaporated on her lips.
    "Don't just stand there," the woman snapped. "Entrez."
    She followed the woman into the office, minimally furnished with steel desks and chairs.
    "Traffic. You were expecting. . .," Aimee said.
    "Your arrival twenty minutes ago," the woman barked. She sat down and appeared calmer. Her wandering eye wobbled less as her fingers thumped expectantly on the metal reception desk. "Where are they?"
    Aimee slid her purple-black fingernails into her tight jeans pockets. She shrugged, then scratched her head.
    "Don't even start," the woman said. She looked angry enough to spit.
    Aimee jumped. "Look, I. . ."
    "Last time was enough!" the woman interrupted.
    There definitely was a bee in this skinny, funny-eyed woman's bonnet.
    Aimee heard noises from the hallway.
    An expression of alarm crossed the woman's face. She was scared, Aimee knew that much. The woman bolted from her chair.
    "You explain