"Leave Rene out of it."

"Why should I?"

"You want to use me. No one in the Marais will talk to your flics."

She knew that ever since uniformed French police had rounded up Jews for the Nazis during the Occupation, no Jew trusted them. Morbier must have figured that if the Temple employed her they trusted her, even though she wasn't Jewish.

"Leduc, trust me."

She paused. Maybe she could trust him, maybe not. But didn't they say if you knew your enemy you were at least one step ahead?

"I'll agree to share information. Deal?"

He nodded. "D'accord."

"Give me the forensics?"

He snorted. "You did notice the ligature mark under her ears?"

"Of course. I am my father's daughter." She wanted to add, "And more."

Morbier winced at the mention of her father.

"That wasn't all I noticed, Morbier," she said grimly. "What about the lack of blood?"

"You wouldn't be suggesting that the homicide took place elsewhere and the victim was dragged?" he said.

"Since the swastika was carved after strangulation, not to mention her stockings were rolled down, her fingernails broken and her palm full of splinters, it would follow."

"That thought had occurred to me." He flicked his cigarette into the espresso cup. It sizzled and went thupt. Typical Gallic response, she thought. She noticed his mismatched socks: one blue, the other gray.

"The technicians have been combing the courtyard," he said. "If there's something there, they will find it."

"Time of death?" She riffled her hair, creating more spiky tufts.

He ignored her scarred hand as he usually did. "Say between three and seven last night. The autopsy may pinpoint the time closer."

She stood.

"Beyond sharing information, I'd appreciate your help in my investigation."

Now Morbier sounded like her father. He had actually asked for her help. Nicely. She almost sat back down.