Aimee stood in front of the board, reknotting her silk scarf, knowing she'd got it right the first time. She hated lying to flics, especially Morbier.

Maybe she should convince Morbier she was thinking of converting to Judaism instead of telling him the truth about an old Nazi hunter who had made her fifty thousand francs richer, hiring her to deliver half a photo to a dead woman. Then hiring her to find her killer.

Madame Noiret pushed sliding glasses up her nose and pointed inside.

"Go ahead, Aimee, Inspecteur Morbier will see you."

She walked into the seventeen-foot-high-ceilinged room of the homicide division. Few desks were occupied. Morbier's was littered with a stack of well-thumbed files. A demitasse of espresso sat next to his flashing computer screen. His pudgy fifty-nine-year-old body leaned back in a dangerously tilted chair. He cradled the phone against his shoulder while one hand scratched his salt-and-pepper head and the other held a cigarette conspiratorially between his thumb and forefinger. As he hung up, she watched his nicotine-stained fingers with their short splayed nails, rifling in the cellophane-crumpled pack of Gauloises for another cigarette. High above the desks, a TV tuned to France 2 displayed continuous car wrecks, tanker accidents on the high seas, and train fatalities.

He lit the cigarette, cupping it as if there were a gale wind blowing through Homicide. He'd known her father since they'd been on the force together-but after the accident he'd kept his distance.

He gazed at her meaningfully as he gestured towards a chipped metal chair. "You know I had to put on a show, especially for the Brigade."