Murder in the Marais Read Online Free PDF

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.
    Too bad she couldn't persuade Rene to join her. Heat helped ease the hip displacement common to dwarves. But, of course, he was self-concious about his appearance.
    The steamy shower stalls stood empty except for the mildewed tile and soapy aroma. She padded into the changing room, wrapping her old beach towel with ST . CROIX in faded letters around her chest. From her locker she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Rene's number. Then she stopped. He wouldn't be back yet from the martial-arts dojo where he practiced. She punched in the number again. This time she left a message. Her cell phone trilled and she answered eagerly.
    "Leduc, I checked that demonstration you mentioned passing in Les Halles," Morbier said. "The group's called Les Blancs Nationaux, infamous for harassment in the Marais."
    She cringed.
    "What if a member of Les Blancs Nationaux followed her home?" he said.
    Guilt caused her to hesitate. . .what if there was some link?
    "You still there?" he said.
    "What do you want me to do about it?" she snapped.
    "Jump-start your brain and help me. I need more than info sharing."
    There was no way to put him off. Besides, it would be a logical place for her to start.
    Abstractedly, she dressed and applied makeup. After she shuffled everything into her gym bag, she looked in the mirror. Her feet were rooted to the damp floor in fear. She realized her black wool trousers were inside out and the label hung outside her silk shirt. Mascara had run on her pale cheeks and given her panda eyes. Her thin lips were smudged with red.
    She looked like a scared clown. She didn't want to investigate neo-Nazi punks. Or this old woman's murder. She wanted to keep the hovering ghosts at bay.

Thursday Morning

    H ARTMUTH STARED AT THE fluorescent dial of his Tag Heuer watch—5:45 A.M. Place des Vosges, swathed in mist, lay below him. A lone starling twittered from his balcony ledge, lost when its flock headed south, Hartmuth imagined. He sipped his cafe au lait in the gray light. The aroma of buttery croissants filled his room.
    He felt overwhelmed by regrets–his guilt in loving Sarah and most of all for not saving her all those years ago. A knock on the adjoining door of his suite startled him. He pulled his flannel robe around himself, redirecting his thoughts.
    " Guten tag, Ilse." Hartmuth smiled as she entered.
    Ilse beamed, eyeing the work pile on the desk. With her snowy white hair and scrubbed cheeks, a gaggle of grandchildren should be trailing behind her begging for freshly baked mandelgebäck . Instead, she stood alone, her stout figure encased in a boxlike brown suit with matching support hose, pressing her palms together.
    Almost as if in prayer, he thought.
    "A milestone for our cause!" she said, her voice low with emotion. "I am proud, mein Herr, to be allowed to assist you."
    Hartmuth averted his eyes. She bustled over to close the balcony doors.
    "Has the diplomatic courier pouch arrived yet, Ilse?"
    " Ja, mein Herr, and you have an early meeting." She held out a sheaf of faxes. "These came earlier."
    "Thank you, Ilse, but"—he raised his arm to ward off the faxes—"coffee first."
    Ilse did a double take. "What's that on your hand?"
    Startled, Hartmuth looked at the rusty crescents of dried blood in his palm. The fluffy white duvet cover on his bed was streaked with brown stains, too. He knew he clenched his fists to combat his stutter. Had he done this in his sleep?
    Ilse's eyes narrowed. She hesitated, as if making a decision, then thrust the blue leatherette pouch at him. "Diplomatic courier pouch, sir."
    " Ja, call me before the meeting,