"Your motherboard's beyond repair," Rene said. "Kaput."

"We want a refund."

"Didn't you understand when I said no refunds for work done?"

"Talking like a professional?" The blond laughed. "More like a pint-sized amateur." He shoved Rene into the corner.

She didn't like the feral look in the blond's eyes, or the way he pushed Rene. Bullies. "Leave him alone," she said. Miles Davis growled.

"Stay out of this," said Rene, shooting her an irritated look. "I don't need your help." Perspiration dotted his forehead.

Jean jacket looked her up and down. "Don't you have fingernails to file?"

Her damn pager erupted in more shrieks.

Torn, she wondered what to do. She couldn't stand by and watch the bullies beat Rene up. Her knuckles whitened, clenching the chair's back.

"Cough up this time or else . . ." Jean jacket lifted his fist, aiming at Rene's head. Rene caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind him, and shoved it upward in one move. So quick she almost missed it.

"Act funny and I break your arm," said Rene.

Jean jacket winced in pain. Nodded. Rene let go, shoved him forward. "Out, both of you."

Miles Davis broke off his leash, shot like a bullet, and bit the jean jacket's leg. "Ae . . . merde!" Moaning, the bully tried to bat the dog away. "Pull that mutt off or I'll have animal control put him down!"

"Not before I put you down, comprends?" Rene grabbed the leash and pulled Miles Davis off. "Take this with you." He threw the bag with their motherboard after the two mecs.

When they had left, Rene said, "Why did you try to defend me?" His green eyes flashed. "Who do you think you are?"

Her cheeks reddened. She'd hurt his pride. Stupid.

"Two against one didn't seem fair," she said. Weak, it sounded so weak.

Not a scratch on him. "What you really mean is you didn't think a man of my stature could defend himself," he said. "I'm a black belt. Don't need some bourgeois Left Bank bobo like you to fight my battles."

"You proved that. Desolee." Abashed, she averted her eyes. She rummaged in her bag among mascara tubes, her lab notebook, ELLE magazine, and her keys and found a treat for Miles Davis. "You're impressive, Rene. Vraiment."

"So's your attack dog." Rene brushed dust from his shoulders.

"Him? He's a stray. I'm just looking after him for my grandfather."

Miles Davis's black button eyes were trained on Aimee.

"Could have fooled me."

"So how much to fix my pager?"

"I need a drink," he said. "Or two. Although I was going to go to the theater for the late matinee."

She checked her Tintin watch. Good God, Martine's party-she was late. The idea of going alone terrified her. A loser whose "boyfriend" was getting engaged to someone else this weekend.

"Drinks I can handle," she said. "Feel like a party? An exclusive one?"

His eyes widened. "Like a date?"

"Pushing it, aren't you?" Stupid-she needed his help. Grinned. "More lively than the theater."

He smiled for the first time. "Give me three minutes and your pager will be like new."

Now she had to put on a happy face for a party. She wished she could be spending her time tracking Elise down. Getting in touch with her father so she could tell him what had happened. Pursuing links to the second murder.

"Got any enemies?" Rene asked, studying her pager.

"No more than usual."

Rene snorted. "What does that mean?"

She pulled her compact from her bag and checked her makeup in the mirror. "I hand out my business card with the pager number like candy."

But her fingers shook as she freshened up her Chanel red lipstick. Everything crowded in on her at once, as if she were battling an ocean current, struggling to stay on the surface, to breathe-school, Florent, her father's lying about her mother and his secret trip to Berlin, the murdered man floating at the quai, the threatening pager message.

"I thought you were a student."

She nodded. "First-year med."

Hanging by her teeth.

"And you fix computers?" she asked.

"A sideline."

Miles Davis's tail wagged. She handed Rene her self-made Leduc Detective card. "Since taking a surveillance job last night, I've given out about ten of these." She thought about it; the clubs on rue de Ponthieu, Suzy, Marc, the bartender, the man working the cafe where she'd bought Suzy coffee, Elise's fiance.

"How does a med student have time to do surveillance?"

"Got to earn my allowance," she said. He thought she was a spoiled rich kid. "Leduc Detective's my father's firm."

Rene's eyes popped. "Do you have a gun?"

"Not with me." It was home in the spoon drawer-the gun was last year's Christmas present from her grandfather. Looked like it was time to get it out. Brush up her skills.

By the time Rene had done his magic-something he referred to as ReFLEX Telelocator Numerical Protocol-and reset her pager, Miles Davis needed to water the plants.

Glints of midafternoon sun broke through black-and-blue-tinged clouds, revealing patches of indigo sky. The wet zinc mansards gleamed. The afternoon wind whipped the damp leaves around Aimee's ankles as she walked her bike above the quai, Rene at her side. After the first few minutes of walking with him, she'd stopped feeling so awkward about towering over Rene. About four feet tall, she figured. He kept pace; once he tripped, caught himself, and she pretended not to notice.

Now her eyes were drawn along the khaki-colored Seine to the spot under Pont des Invalides. Caught on the yellow crime-scene tape flickering in the wind. The execution spot.

Here, just behind the Palais de la Decouverte.

Her mind returned to the night before: the blanketing mist, the police Zodiac's blue glow, the shouts, that piercing white light illuminating the dark red hole in the back of the man's head, the rag in his mouth.

Suddenly she had a powerful feeling that she had missed something. In the shock of discovery, something had eluded her-what was it?

"I've got to check something out."

Rene's brow shot up. "What about the party?"

"Only take a minute."

Ahead on the quai, wavelets buffeted the docked bateaux-mouches as a barge glided past. Passengers huddled in line, waiting to board.

"Don't tell me the party's on a boat? I get seasick."

She leaned down on the quai by the blocked-off area under the bridge's arch. The dark moisture-stained cobbles radiated a metallic damp.

"What are we doing here?"

"Anything here strike you as out of the ordinary?"

As an outsider he'd have fresh eyes. Not that there would be much left at the scene a whole day later.

Rene snorted. "Besides the crime-scene tape?"

Something flickered at the edge of her mind, but she couldn't quite capture it.

"Weird echoes down here," said Rene. He gave a shiver. "Spooky."

"You're right." She whistled, heard the echo bounce and play under the stone arch and over the curdling water. She studied the dim spot under the arch.

"Why did we come here?"

She'd pulled out the photo, consulted it. Tried not to focus on those dead eyes but instead on the shadows surrounding him on the quai.

"Alors, playing some game, Aimee? Either we go to the party or . . ." He paused. "I've got places to go."

If she didn't explain, he'd leave.

"Desolee. Last night I was standing right here when the police found this man. A waterlogged corpse."

Rene looked at the photo in her hand. Shivered. "Gruesome."

She nodded.

"If you wait here long enough, maybe you'll catch him," Rene said, finally. "The killer always revisits the scene of the crime."

She looked up in surprise. "And you know that how?"

"Agatha Christie."

Chambly-sur-Cher * December 1942.

The German motorcycles rumbled up the road. Nearer and nearer. Any moment now they'd swoop inside, discover the almost molten gold brick. Fear gripped Gaubert-what could he do?

Minou grabbed a hunting rifle from the wall; Alain leaned and pulled out his knife. Gaubert envisioned the carnage-the German reprisals against the village, against his Fanny and Gaby.

"Non, non," he said, gasping. "Put those down right now."

Alain's eyes slit like a wild dog's. "I'll take care of them."

"Stop him, or we're dead," said Gaubert.

Rooted in terror at the approaching sound of the motorcycles, no one moved. Alain was about to lunge.

Gaubert grabbed the nearest thing, red-hot tongs, and swung at Alain's ankles. Alain fell on the dirt, moaning in pain. Then Gaubert punched him in the head like he'd wanted to do for a long time. The idiot boy's eyes rolled back.

"Do what I say, everyone," shouted Gaubert. "Now!"

"Curfew, monsieur?" Gaubert hiccuped, his fist around Baret's wine bottle. "Mais oui, we're warm and toasty in here." Next to him on the floor an unconscious Alain, leaning against the bench; beside him Philbert, Bruno, and the heavy-lidded Minou. Baret, his back turned, was taking a leak against the back wall. They all reeked of the wine Gaubert had spilled down their shirts.

The SS man in black jackboots gestured to his patrol, a motley, windblown quartet with dripping leather jackets. Water puddled around their boots on the dirt floor.

"Die Franzoise, eh?" He mimed drinking with his hand. The soldiers grinned. "Ja wohl, you drink yes and we manage your country."

Gaubert grinned. "We French enjoy life, join us."

The SS chief took off his moisture-ringed cap, exposing short blond hair and a large forehead. The Aryan ideal, Gaubert thought, and offered him the bottle.

"Drink?"

The SS waved off the bottle with a sniff of his nose, muttered "filthy peasants"-one German phrase Gaubert knew. His eyes narrowed, taking in the mare munching hay, the closed metal doors of the burning furnace. "Was machen Sie hier?"

"Nights when I get my horse shod need good wine. S'il vous plat," Gaubert insisted again offering the bottle. Nearby at the water trough, the mare neighed. Hot, so hot. Sweat trickled down the back of Gaubert's neck.

The SS man flicked a finger at his corporal. "You're a farm boy. Check if he's lying."

"Ja wohl." The corporal hurried to the horse, paused, stroked the neck, patted each leg gently so the horse would lift its foot. "Newly shod, mein Gefreiter."

The SS man nodded. The death's head insignia glinting on his collar. "Gut. Show me what's inside."

"Comprends pas." Gaubert poked the unconscious Alain. "You understand him?"

"I said show me what's in there," the SS man shouted, pointing at the furnace. "Raus! Get up!"