For a moment, pain shone in his eyes. "It's been fifteen years. Elise and I were never close."

And where her mother was concerned he ignored the question. As usual.

But she wouldn't let him off this time. "What about my mother?"

"We don't talk about the past, Aimee."

She steeled her nerves, aware this was painful for him, too. "It's time we do. I want to know if my mother's alive. I want to know about my relatives."

"Not now, Aimee. Leave it alone. Trust me on this."

"She's still family, Papa. A blood relation."

He glanced at his watch.

"Something come up all of a sudden?" she asked.

"You could say that. If I don't leave I'll miss my train."

"Train to where?"

He had packed an overnight bag, she saw.

"Alors, Gerhard called from Berlin."

Now Aimee remembered his contact there and the news bulletin on the radio. "Berlin? But the Wall's just come down. Why now? You think it's safe?"

"Safer than ever. I need to get hold of those Berlin files in person . . ."

Hadn't she transcribed his investigative notes on a German couple last week? "You mean the missing husband?"

"Exactement. Before the Stasi destroy all the records." He rubbed his forehead.

Elise would be back from the bathroom any moment. Aimee didn't want to let the woman get away without hearing what she had to say about Aimee's mother. On impulse she said, "Let me follow up on this Suzy. I read all about the case, Papa."

"Aren't you a first-year med student with exams coming up?"

Aimee pointed to the mink-collared coat draped over the back of the chair. "Didn't you say it's tight this month?"

His mouth pursed. "Not a good idea, Aimee."

Now he thought it wasn't a good idea for her to help-now that it was something interesting. He'd been happy to ask her to organize his files and answer his phone messages. "A piece of cake, Papa. Not even an evening's work. You always tell me to follow my instinct. I can do this in my sleep."

She'd been raised by two police detectives, her father and her grandfather. She'd spent her childhood dozing in the backseat of the car while her papa was running surveillance, and her teen years keeping the pot warm on the stove for him when he was out on all-night stakeouts.

"Remember last year when I helped you track down that fille at the disco because you were too old to go in?"

An aristo's underage daughter who'd run off with a Corsican gangster.

"This is different, Aimee."

"How? You're just saying that. Look, it's a simple job of asking around at this club and giving Elise some closure, c'est tout." As she said it out loud, she wondered why the police hadn't just done the same thing-it sounded straightforward enough. "Did Morbier refer her because his hands are tied?"

"Something like that." He'd bent down to pick up his case and she couldn't see his expression. "Don't you have a lab write-up to do, Aimee?"

Changing the subject, as usual. "Not exactly," she said.

She felt like a six-year-old again-getting in trouble on the playground. How could she tell her father when he was running to catch a train? Face his disappointment?

Her papa cupped her chin in his warm hands. "What's up, ma princesse?"

Why did she always forget how well her father knew her? "My lab experiment was sabotaged, Papa. It's so cutthroat. I might get suspended even though I've done the work."

Her father snorted. "That's going to stop you? Nothing worth doing comes easy." He winked. "You'd let them intimidate you? Where's my fighter?"

That's all he could say? On top of it, her boyfriend was getting engaged. Her life had fallen apart.

"Don't disappoint me, Aimee," he said, his tone turned serious. "I want better things for you. To be a doctor-have a respected profession, meaningful work-that's so important."

Translation: It was important for him. He didn't want her to follow in his footsteps, and especially not those of her mother-an American free spirit who couldn't cope with being tied down to her family and who'd broken his heart. But Aimee's memories of her mother were warm and fuzzy-chocolat chaud and madeleines and stories at bedtime.

"How are we related to Elise and her family? Why didn't I know they existed?"

"We'll talk when I get back."

She let out a groan. "You mean I have to ask Grand-pere, is that it?"

Her father shrugged.

Not again. "You're still not speaking to him?"

Her father reached for his wool scarf. "He's not speaking to me. But he's the one to ask about that side of the family."

Fine. She would. "Well, we can solve Elise's mystery for her and put the check in the bank. We both know her father had an affair-cut and dried. I'll check out this Suzy this weekend and then write up a report."

Simple. Then back to the grind of the textbooks.

"For once listen to me. You've got an exam coming up," said her father. "That's the priority. Concentrate on studying, that's your job."

"Papa . . ."

"Not now, Aimee." His expression was full of sadness, misgiving, and urgency, all at once. "There are some things you should know. We'll talk when I get back."

She hadn't seen that look on his face since that day when she was eight years old and she'd come home after school to find a note on the door in her mother's handwriting: Stay with the neighbor. It was the last she'd ever heard of her mother.

"What's wrong, Papa?"

He was about to speak, but the door's buzzer sounded and he glanced at his brown leather watch. "That's the taxi."

He gave Aimee a hug, enveloping her in the scent of his wool overcoat and pine cologne. Kissed her cheeks, leaving a warm imprint.

"I'll call you from Berlin."

She wished she'd had enough time to drag it out of him, whatever it was.

Halfway down the winding stairs, he called up. "Don't forget what I said. Hands off. And reserve the van for the Place Vendome surveillance."

Elise returned from the bathroom, mascara and eyeliner carefully reapplied around her doe eyes.

"My father's left for Berlin," Aimee said. "He's sorry, he meant to say goodbye." She rushed on, "Elise, did you know my mother?"

Elise's eyes widened. "Yes, l'Americaine."

Aimee's pulse thumped.

"So you do remember her?"

"Yes, I think we have some photos."

Photos? Aimee didn't even have one-her father had burned them all. "I'd love to see them. Learn about my family."

The radiator sputtered.

"Of course. They're somewhere. I'll need to find them. Right now, I can't leave my mother. I'm afraid she'll hurt herself. She's talked of suicide, she hides her pills." Elise's mouth quivered. "My father's murder's taken over our life."

If Aimee found Suzy, distraught Elise would want to pay her back by finding those photos. Give and take, do a favor and get one in return-didn't it work that way?

"I'll find Suzy, Elise."

Elise took her coat, then Aimee's hand. Her wide-set, red-rimmed eyes welled again. "Merci for your offer. So sweet. Your father's honorable and I'm sure that's true of you, too. But I need his help."

Aimee's heart fell. She smiled through the sting of her disappointment. "We're family, Elise. In case you need anything, here's my card."

She kicked the radiator until it sputtered to life. Then again for good measure.

She looked at Sylvie's desk-she should get started on that. It would take her mind off her looming academic suspension.

Her hand hovered over the phone as she debated whether to call Florent and ask him about this weekend. Maybe she'd misunderstood.

Fat chance.

No doubt his horse-faced sister had enjoyed following her into the bathroom and dropping the bad news-putting Aimee in her place. Meanwhile, Florent was taking the coward's way out.

Forget calling Florent. She'd make him deal with her face to face at next Tuesday's lab class. In the meantime, screw him.

In two hours she'd finished logging and sorting the inbox, followed up on the outbox, filed dossiers, and typed her father's notes. If only her father had let her computerize their system, she could have accomplished it all in under half an hour.

She wished she had time to go back to that computer course she'd taken over the summer.

Her eye caught on Elise's folder, the generous check. Could she tie that up tonight?

Didn't her father always say you can't make a goal unless you kick the ball?

She rooted around in the file cabinet until she found her father's notes from a similar case to Elise's-a widow who had been investigating her late husband's illicit affair. Aimee studied them. Simple.

She'd make a list of key points from Elise Peltier's notes-that was always the way her father built an investigation. Then add details from the police report to create a brief profile.

Bruno Peltier, aged sixty-seven, of 34 rue Lavoisier, retired, discovered in the early hours of October 10 on the quai under the Pont des Invalides. Gunshot wound to the back of his head. He'd last been seen leaving his residence on foot at 8 p.m. for a dinner with old friends at Laurent, a posh restaurant off the Champs-elysees in the old Louis XIV hunting lodge.

When he hadn't returned home by 3 a.m., his wife called one of the friends he'd been dining with. The friend's name was not in the police report or in Elise's notes. Bruno Peltier had never shown up at the restaurant, the friend said to his wife: they'd figured he had the flu. The police were called to the quai after a fisherman found him at dawn with his wallet and ID.

Not much.

She called Suzy.

The number rang and rang.

"Oui?" said a man, breathing heavily as if he'd come up the stairs.

"Have I missed Suzy?"

"Who?"

Now what could she say? Think, she had to think. Come up with something plausible.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur, but Suzy gave me this number."

"Et alors?"

"I borrowed money from her on rue de Ponthieu a few weeks ago," said Aimee. "I want to return it."

"Ah, you mean . . ." Pause. "I see."

See what? "Is this a public phone?"

"What's that to you?"

Helpful, this man. "So where can I reach her?"

"Comes and goes. I don't monitor the tenants."

So Suzy rented. This was probably a public phone in the hallway. "What's her last name?"

"Don't you know it?"

She reached in the secretary's desk drawer for the petty cash box. She checked the amount-enough for a bribe? Her father would shoot her. She had no idea what he needed to pay his informers. Then again, she could replace the petty cash and then some with Elise's check.

She pulled a petty cash receipt off the pad and started filling it out. Eight hundred francs, more than a nice evening out with wine, should do the trick.