Within seconds he'd switched on the power, pulled out the antenna, hit a button, and got a dial tone.

Martine kissed Rene again. "You're brilliant, Rene."

Martine made the first call on the new device-her coiffeur for an appointment. "How did we ever live without these? Your turn, Aimee." She took Rene's hand and danced away.

"Love Shack" blared. Not again. Poor Miles Davis whimpered at the pounding beat. She wrapped her silk scarf around his ears, took refuge in a red lacquered room behind the golden Buddha, and consulted her now behaving pager. A number she didn't recognize. She punched it into Martine's phone.

"Allo?"

Aimee recognized Elise's voice. The connection crackled. "You sound far away."

"Comment?"

"Hold on." Aimee stood and walked around fiddling with the antenna until finally, at a teak-framed window, she got better reception. "Elise, we need to speak fast. I might lose the connection."

"You found Suzy?"

Aimee took a breath. "My report's ready."

Elise's voice rose in fear. "You tracked her down by yourself?"

"Yes, and spoke with her at length. She met up with your father the night he was-"

A gasp. "Suzy killed him?"

"Non, Elise. I need to go over the report with you. I'll explain." And learn what you know about my mother.

"Does she know who killed him?"

Fuzzing and clicks. Merde, this connection could cut out anytime.

"Listen, last night the police discovered the body of a man floating at the quai-murdered like your father. Was he your father's friend? Is that why you left the apartment?"

Pause.

"Elise, what's wrong? Why are you afraid?"

In the background a door shut. "I can't talk."

Couldn't or wouldn't?

"Elise, tell me the other men's names."

"Other men?"

"The men your father ate dinner with at Laurent every month," she said, exasperated. "I think this man . . . Can you hear me, Elise? They could be next."

"I'm counting on you to find Papa's killer."

This wasn't going how she'd planned. Hardly professional.

"Technically you hired us to find Suzy, Elise. I did."

"But you said Suzy met him. She knows," Elise panted. "You promised to find out."

She hadn't really agreed to find Bruno Peltier's killer. Shouldn't the flics have seen the pattern by now? Besides, Elise had wanted her father's help, not Aimee's. What would he say if Aimee pursued this? Did she really care right now, since he'd lied to her? One lie deserved another.

"How can I if you won't help me?" she tried again. "I need to know-was last night's murder victim one of your father's friends?"

She heard what sounded like a hand covering the receiver, a muffled a conversation. Couldn't make out the words.

"I've got an appointment," Elise said finally. "Talk to you later."

The phone had clicked off.

Elise was holding back. What was she afraid of?

Lost in thought, Aimee stared at the chipped gold paint on the Buddha's back. Madonna's "Material Girl" was playing now. Rene was dancing with one of Martine's sisters, the one who was an editor at ELLE. Aimee pulled the report from her bag, opened it. Read through Elise's statement again. No useful names.

Elise seemed to want to blame Suzy for Bruno Peltier's murder, but Aimee knew that didn't make sense. She was also sure Elise was hiding something. Before Aimee could do anything else, she had to find out the second victim's identity, verify her suspicions. She needed to find out if these other men were in danger, or if one of them was the killer.

If she could get the victim's name, she could cross-reference the photos she'd taken of the Laurent reservation page. The photos had all come out blurry except one, and that one was cropped, only half a page of names. Better than nothing. She'd start there. But first she needed to know who she was looking for.

No name had been released by the flics. But she did know a flic. Her godfather, her tonton, Commissaire Morbier.

Time to give him a call on Martine's latest accessoire.

Not in his office. After five minutes of wheedling and little white lies, she found out he was at the rue d'Anjou commissariat. According to her plan de Paris, which she kept in her bag at all times, that was a short bike ride.

She waved to Rene, who was dancing with Martine's sister. Dumped the cell phone by the Saint-Honore cake and blew a kiss to Martine.

Outside, the wet streets glistened under the lamplight. She made good time on her bike with Miles Davis in the basket. The narrow rue, named for the Duc d'Anjou, whose brother became Henri III, formed an eighteenth-century melange of small and grand hotels particuliers.

In the courtyard, she chained her bike by the ancient blue police lantern and trudged up the stairs to the old-fashioned commissariat. An anomaly, lodged in a bourgeois apartment with wood banisters, stained-glass windows, and a parlor. According to the historical pamphlet sitting on the reception desk, Juliette Recamier, after whom the sofa was named, lived here, and the Marquis de Lafayette next door. The place was permeated with the smell of sweat and fear she recognized from every police station she'd been in.

She asked the policewoman at reception if she could see Morbier.

"You have an appointment?"

She tried for an engaging smile. "I'm his goddaughter."

That and five francs fifty would get her a cafe noir, by the officer's no-nonsense expression.

The frosted-glass door of a nearby conference room opened, emitting tobacco smoke and laughter-and Morbier's unmistakable low voice.

"I'll just pop in," she said.

"Wait, you can't go in there," said the policewoman.

"Only take a minute." Aimee slid past before the policewoman could stop her. She recognized a few police hands from her father's days on the force. His old card-playing cronies: smiling Thomas Dussollier, whose daughter had sometimes played with Aimee when they were small; Lefevre with his red-veined nose, who was stouter than she remembered. Lefevre was a proud Orleanais, and it looked to Aimee like he'd been enjoying quite a bit of his favorite Orleanais beer, La Johannique, which was flavored with local honey. He always brought it with him when he came over to play cards; it was the first beer Aimee had ever been allowed to sip.

And there was Morbier, his brown basset-hound eyes registering his surprise. His jowls sagged and his thick lips turned down in disapproval. An expression she'd met often as a teenager.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Bonjour to you, too, Tonton." she said. "Class is over, by the way."

Dussollier kissed her on both cheeks. "Long time, Aimee. Before you start curing the rest of the world, I wish you'd start on my arthritis."

She grinned. "Grand-pere says the same thing."

"Bon, I'll get in line." Dussollier and Lefevre paused at the door. "Best to your papa."

She nodded, grateful. Not many men on the force would acknowledge him these days.

Morbier shook his head. Aimee noticed his thick, dark hair was silvering at the temples. He closed the dossier and nodded to the policewoman. "It's all right, Morgane," he said.

"You're Jean-Claude's daughter?" The policewoman cocked an eyebrow. "But I remember you doing your homework after school, when I was a rookie."

Aimee grinned in recognition, noticed her stripes. "That's right. Made sergeant, eh?"

The phone rang. Morgane winked. "Say hello to your father."

"Merci, Morgane."

Aimee noticed a big blackboard with Gucci heist written on it. Names-a few celebrities she recognized. "Big case, eh?"

He shrugged. "I'm assuming school's going well and you're studying for exams?"

As if she'd tell him otherwise.

"Fine. Could you do me a favor?"

"Favor? It's not a good time, Aimee. This isn't even my turf-Robbery pulled us over here and I'm stretched thin."

He ran all over the place. Always had.

"The Eighth is rampant high-end crime."

Who knew?

"Rolex watches nabbed, a Gucci heist off the Champs-elysees, boutiques and jewelry stores robbed in broad daylight. A highly organized gang."

"I'll be quick," she said. "Can you take a look at the report from last night's homicide-the body recovered under Pont des Invalides? I need to know the ID of the victim."

"Eh?" She heard surprise in his voice. A rarity.

"Only take a second, Tonton." She smiled.

"That's classified information, Aimee. What's it to you?"

"Didn't you refer Elise Peltier to Papa? This is for her case."

"Attends, Aimee. How does this go together?"

"Doesn't it? Or you think there's a random serial killer shooting old men execution-style on the quai?"

Cellophane crinkled as he opened a new pack of Gauloises. He scratched a match on the table edge, lit up. Took a long inhale. "Let me talk with your father."

Treating her as if she were still five years old!

"Papa's in Berlin. He asked me to follow up with you and find the man's identity," she lied. She remembered the joy of stealing his Gauloises when she was younger.

"Quoi? Don't you have exams?"

Couldn't he talk about anything else?

"Bien sr, and Papa's got rent to pay. I'm helping out."

"Tell your father that information's under wraps, pending family notification." Morbier flicked ash. "He'll understand."

Fat lot of good that did her.

"Aimee, did you run this by your father?"

What her father didn't know wouldn't bother him. Plus he'd lied to her.

She nodded. "You referred Elise to us, Morbier. But we can't help her if we don't know the second victim's name."

They stared at each other. Blue smoke spiraled in a coil up to the high ceiling.

"How about just saying oui or non to some names, that work?"

"What in the world's gotten into you . . . ?" Pause. "Since when do med students have time for side gigs?"

"When it involves family," said Aimee. "Elise is my cousin." Another half-lie. She took out the list of names she'd pulled from the Laurent reservations book after ruling out one- and two-person parties. "Mondini, Guerbois, Pribault? Anything strike a bell?"

"What are we playing, Questions pour un Champion?"

The tele game show.

"More like a game where you tell me if you recognize the victim's name."

"And I'd do that why?"

"To assist Papa's inquiries and identify the next potential victim. That work for you?"

His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. "And your father wants this information? Sounds like you do."