"Eh? He's an actor." He shook his head and ash drifted to the floor. He rubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. "Like a lot of actors-at ease everywhere, at home nowhere."

A philosopher, this electrician. But she could learn something.

"You mean kind of lost?"

He lifted his tool kit. "Except of course when he's on stage. He's a real bte de scene, a born actor."

That and ten francs would get her an Orangina. So far, her trip here had been a waste.

In the red-velvet-wallpapered side foyer, she scanned the glass displays of former productions: a maquette of the theater used in the 1890s for seating, old programs, photos. An illustrious history boasting the plays of Camus, Baudelaire, Beckett . . . on and on. Bored, she searched the photos, spotting Renaud in different roles-a cavalier, a pirate. In one production, as part of an ensemble piece, he wore sabots, the wooden clogs worn in the countryside. Her grand-mere had a pair.

It wasn't a coincidence-the actor Rene thought looked like Mayor Gaubert must have been Renaud de Bretteville. Renaud, who appeared to be in his forties or fifties, looked very much like the executed mayor had in the old photo. She searched in her bag for a comparison, then remembered she'd stuck the photo on the butcher-paper outline.

Her arms tingled. Eerie. How could that be?

What were the chances-a Parisian actor with an aristocratic name and a mayor murdered in a village during the war?

She had to find out.

A few blocks down narrow rue des Mathurins, Aimee's pager vibrated-Elise? She retraced her steps to the corner cafe, ordered an Orangina, and hopped downstairs to the phone cabin.

But it was a hoarse, cigarette-infused voice she recognized as Suzy's, asking to meet. Why Suzy? Why now?

She bounded up the stairs, almost plowing into a waiter bearing a tray of Ricard, threw ten francs on the counter and left, her Orangina untouched.

She took a shortcut through Passage Puteaux, a sleepy, glass-roofed passage with a bar vin, lines of flowerpots, and a forgotten feel. Two short blocks later, she walked into the old Marche de la Madeleine, the vaulted stone entrance partially obscured by the starred hotel next door. What had once been a covered local fruit, produce, and flower market now was a characterless courtyard, home to a few lunch spots, mostly Asian, for office workers in the modern buildings behind. She found Suzy smoking.

"About time, kid," said Suzy, smiling. "I'm in a hurry and doing you a favor."

In a hurry for what, Aimee wondered.

"Because you liked the Chanel No. 5 sample, Suzy? Or because you're afraid?"

Suzy's grin faded. She wore a faux fur bolero jacket with shoulder pads, a leather pencil skirt, and dark glasses. "Just listen. Then make of it what you will. You never heard this from me."

Aimee took out her notebook and uncapped her kohl eye pencil. "I'm all ears, Suzy."

"Rue de Ponthieu's protected by the Corsican gang. Everyone knows this. Grandmothers and even the flics."

Her mind went back to Morbier's chalkboard diagram in the commissariat-the high-end robberies.

"But the Corsicans got upset because there's a gypsy taxi that's been playing out of bounds."

Aimee shivered. The same driver who'd attacked her twice, no doubt. "Playing out of bounds-you mean not paying protection money?"

Suzy took a puff, exhaled. "Among other things, but it's pas de respect. This gypsy taxi driver's causing problems on the gang's turf."

"Et alors?"

"The Corsicans want the gypsy taxi."

"What's that to you, Suzy?"

"Do you know who I work for?" Suzy looked around. "Listen, kid. The Corsicans feel if one gets away with it, others will follow."

"You work for the Corsicans, Suzy?"

"Not officially and I'll deny it. Everyone who works on rue de Ponthieu has to butter their bread, if you know what I mean."

Aimee tried to digest that.

Suzy exhaled a plume of smoke.

"Attendez, you said gypsy taxi on their turf," she said, thinking back to the other night. "So you're saying the Corsicans suspect the gypsy taxi driver of . . . what?"

Suzy shrugged. "The old geezer, Bruno-the one you asked me about. The driver might have used his cab to kidnap and kill him. Maybe some others, too." Tossed her cigarette, stubbed it out with her toe. "That's the rumor."

"Do they know the driver's identity?"

"Like they tell me, cherie?"

"Did you lure Bruno to Laurent the night he died? Are you involved with the taxi driver?"

"Bruno invited me, remember? But I split. Good thing, too."

And Aimee believed her. Suzy was afraid of the Corsicans.

"Still, I don't get it, Suzy." She did but wanted Suzy to spell it out.

Suzy pulled out the Chanel No. 5 sample Aimee had given her, spritzed it on her wrist. "Before the Corsicans launch into a full turf war, I'm whispering in your ear, asking if you have any leads on the old men's murderer. My job's to provide tips, compris? They'd like to make an example of whoever did this."

And leave the flics out of it?

Disappointed, Aimee shook her head. "I need leads myself. I got shot at last night and . . ."

"That was you?"

"You heard?"

Suzy gave a little nod. Took out a compact, checked her lipstick in the mirror. "A warning, kid. If you find him first, turn him over to the Corsicans. That's how it's done."

"How it's done?" Aimee's mouth went dry.

"Welcome to the real world." Suzy snapped her compact shut. "Make the call. My neck's on the line here. My boss wants information." She handed Aimee a card from the club.

Bile rose in her stomach. "Suzy, get the hell out of this. Leave that club. You're smart, you don't have to . . ."

"I'm smart so I'm alive, tu comprends?" Suzy's bravado didn't match the quiver in her voice. "Like it or not, you've joined the big league. Wise up."

"Wrong. I'm employed by the victim's daughter."

"Look at it anyway you like, kid. Just make the call."

And then Suzy had gone in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

A sudden burst of rain pelted the old glass market roof. Thrumming like her nerves. She was caught in a web. Whichever way she turned, it twisted tight around her.

The Corsican gang controlling the quartier wanted to catch the murderer to keep street cred, enforce their turf. Anything with Corsicans meant bad news, her papa always said. So, in theory, catching the murderer would stick her between a rock and a hard place: Turn him over to the flics, who'd done little and would claim credit? Or to the Corsicans, to be made an example of?

Who were they to pressure her?

Cross that bridge if and when you come to it, she could hear her father say. Still, her stomach cramped in fear. What the hell had she gotten into?

She needed to stay out of the gypsy taxi driver's crosshairs long enough to find him.

Back at home, rivulets of rain streaked the kitchen window overlooking the pewter Seine. Miles Davis snuggled on her toes, warming them. His tail, the color of bleached cotton, squiggled like a question mark.

Questions, questions, that's all she had looking at her butcher-paper chart. She read through the printouts Rene had given her. Bank structure, shareholders, numbers-all eye-glazingly boring. How could she convince Elise that Nazi gold had funded her family apartment, her schooling in Canada? Who knew what else?

Then again, as Rene pointed out, Elise could either be in danger or behind all this. She struggled with the idea of Elise hiring her if she'd murdered her own father. Yet from the get-go Elise had fixated on Suzy, and had proved unhelpful at every step, avoiding Aimee's phone calls, missing their Chambly-sur-Cher rendezvous, burning the diary. Would she have paid a sham retainer to hide her tracks?

The back-up floppy and bookstore paperwork raised questions. Huge sums earmarked for an account-Rene had flagged these with a red pencil. Did Elise have a partner to help her-maybe her fiance, Renaud? Or gone in cahoots with the bean counter, Pinel?

Her father said, if you can't convince someone of your way of thinking, or prove your point with fact, the best thing to do is to raise doubt. Doubt slivers friendships, erodes trust between couples-it's corrosive and powerful. She'd raise doubt.

Her nerves jangled at the ringing phone piercing her thoughts. Miles Davis's ears perked up. Could it be his owner, calling the number on the announcements she'd persuaded her grand-pere to post on the quai?

"Oui?"

Loud static, a buzz, then a clinking sound, like a coin dropping in a pay-phone slot. "Aimee?" her father's unmistakable voice.

"Papa, you've worried me." Relief washed through her. Then she remembered he'd lied to her. That she was mad at him.

But she wanted to tell him what had happened, how she'd messed everything up, gotten in over her head. Rushed headlong and hit a wall. Should she admit how incompetent she'd been?

"I got what I needed, Aimee."

Her heart stopped. "You found her files? Maman's files?"

"How did . . . ?" Clicks, more static. "Say nothing."

"But Papa . . . "

"I'm hanging up."

He used to joke, if I ever hang up on you, it's because the phone has ears.

Their line was tapped. The clicks. The static.

Buzzz. The line went dead.

Fear hit her. Her big mouth again. Yet how was she to know? Why hadn't he told her the truth in the first place?

I got what I needed.

Was her mother in danger? Or dead?

From the hallway came the sound of a lock turning. Her grand-pere's cough, shoes scraping on the creaking hardwood floor. Miles Davis barked, leaped off the duvet and scampered to the hall.

Pulling her father's cashmere cardigan around her, she slipped into wool socks and ran to greet him. He stood with his raincoat glistening, a large, square brown-papered package in his arms.

"Another painting? Where will this one go?"

"C'est magnifique, Aimee."

He always said that.

He unwrapped it. A black-and-white sketch of a figure leaning over a ballet barre. "Masterful strokes. Unsigned but probably an early Degas study. A steal at Drouot, so I had to."

She sighed.

Another find at the auction house. He had a whole library full of them. Even in their cavernous seventeenth-century flat, there was no more room left for new acquisitions.

"We're going to Giverny . . . the gardens."

"In the rain?"

"You know she paints the garden chaque saison. Arguments don't work with her."

His mistress.

"Take care of your cough," said Aimee.

"Only if you let me bring Meels Daveez. He needs exercise."

"He's not ours. You shouldn't get attached."

A snort. "No one's ever called, eh? Face it, he's ours." He leaned down and ruffled Miles Davis's fur. "On y va. She's waiting in the car."

"Now?" Aimee had so much to run by him. She wanted to get his take on the suspects whose names she'd written on the butcher paper. A horn honked.

"We'll stay at the auberge tonight. Don't worry, I'll bring the pooch back tomorrow." Her grand-pere grinned. As if reading her thoughts, he took her hand. Squeezed it. "You're thinking, at my age? But life's only worth living if you live, ma puce."

He pulled her close, hugged her, his scratchy mustache on her cheek.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she said.

He set the drawing on the hall escritoire, grabbed Miles Davis's leash and another scarf from the rack. Winked.