"His body?" she said. "How could they tell?"

"A matching pinkie ring."

Paris * November 14, 1989 * Tuesday.

Jean-Claude Leduc stepped from the second-class car onto the platform at Gare de l'Est, lugging his valise. He hadn't told Aimee when he'd be arriving. He'd page her to call-the only secure way he could avoid their wiretapped phone.

Damn the secret security branch who monitored him. A decade had passed but the nastiness continued.

After finishing today's job, he was meeting the Ministry contact. Washing his hands. Blowing the whistle.

Passengers milled on the platforms under the dirty, grey glass roof; a loudspeaker announced train departures in a nasal voice amidst the usual clatter and bustle.

By the time Aimee rang him back in the phone booth, he'd snagged an espresso and several gougeres, cheese puff pastries. Starving. That German food, so heavy, didn't agree with him.

Two rings. He picked up in the cabin.

"Aimee?"

"You're in Paris, Papa, I can tell by the number. At the station?"

"And no time to talk. The border's so crazy, the train was five hours late."

He heard her take a breath. That little intake he so loved. "What is it, Aimee?"

"Did you find her files?"

He sighed. Weary. So weary of lying.

"I found her."

Pause. A baby cried on the platform, pigeons pecked at the gougeres crumbs near his feet.

A gasp. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

"We've got things to discuss." He glanced at the station clock. "Merde, I'm late. You did reserve the van?"

"It's in your name at the garage by Gare du Nord."

The same garage he always used.

"Pick me up at the corner on rue du Louvre, Papa."

"Don't you have class?"

"I'm coming with you. Papa, I have so much to tell you. But first you're going to tell me-"

"No time, Aimee. The surveillance got moved up. I don't know why. I need to get the van in place."

"Papa, I'm dropping out of medical school."

"What?" Nice bombshell to drop on him. But when did she do what he expected of her? Or listen to him? Mon Dieu, but he had a level-three surveillance in Place Vendome, and he had no time to spare. Doing the dirty for the last time, and then he was out of it.

"Not now, Aimee. We'll talk when I get home."

"But Papa, I'll meet you there."

"Listen to me for once. Just once."

But she'd hung up.

Aimee ran to the courtyard and found her bike tires flat. Her pump was nowhere to be found. Merde. She jumped on the Metro at Pont Marie and got off at the Tuileries. She hurried, turned up rue de Castiglione, and ran under the arcades. Past the designer boutiques, gypsies hovering near tourists-running faster, her scarf flying behind her.

So much to tell Papa-so much for him to tell her.

She crossed rue Saint Honore, her heart racing. Bien sr, he'd be mad at first, but he'd understand why she couldn't go to medical school, she'd convince him. They'd work together, she'd earn a real PI license. And her mother . . . that flicker of hope burned into a flame.

He'd found her.

She was alive. Blood pounded in Aimee's every vein.

Alive. Her mother was alive. He'd found her.

That had to mean she was coming back.

Lungs bursting, she reached the Place Vendome-the Ritz, the Chanel boutique, the jewelry stores all surrounding the cobbled square and the iron pillar built by Napoleon commemorating his victories, melted from the battle cannons.

Her Papa's van-she saw it, parked near the column-white, anonymous like a service vehicle. He'd be inside, using the long-range camera for surveillance, recording the cars, the stream of people. Waiting for his target.

Like so many times before. The usual.

As she was about to step off the pavement, a blinding flash erupted into a white-yellow fireball of light. The explosion shook the soles of her feet, ran up her legs, her whole body. A pressure wave sucked and then released her with a hot blast, singeing her eyebrows.

She stumbled back, then felt as though she'd been lifted off her feet. She was flying. When she came to-seconds or minutes later, she didn't know-she was a few meters away from where she'd been standing. Her back had hit a stone bollard; a sharp pain coursed up her spine.

And she saw billowing smoke, people running, their mouths open as if they were screaming. But she couldn't hear a thing. All she knew was her mouth was dry, her throat burned from the smoke. Coughing, she pulled herself up. Smelled burned flesh.

Non, non. Somehow she ran. She was screaming "Papa, Papa!" but she couldn't hear herself.

The van's door handle came off in her hands. Searing heat. The lenses of her father's glasses lay shattered on the cobblestones. His foot, still in his shoe, beside it. A howling wail came up from inside her. She was crying and reaching for his-his-but people were pulling her back. Firemen were hosing the cobbles down. And then she knew no more.

Acknowledgments.

Many thanks to Dot, Max, Barbara, Heather and Susanna. For all the wonderful help from Bill Whetstone, jeweler and gemstone expert magnifique, cat maman Jean Satzer; Marc Weber, the founding curator, Internet History Museum; the patient and generous techmeister Allan Schiffman. Merci's in Paris go to: Guy Pradines, Police Judiciare 8th arrondissement; Stephane Pervieux of the Brigade de Repression du Proxenetisme; incredibly generous Arnaud Baleste; JC Mules, former Brigade Criminelle; Thierry Boulouque; Dr. Christian de Brier; Ancien secretaire general et cofondateur de la Compagnie nationale des Experts de Justice en Criminalistique. Toujours Anne-Francoise Delbegue, Dr. Philippe Bray, Carla Bach, Berdj Achdjian, Jean Abou, Christophe, Martine, Mary Kay Bosshart, Celia Canning, and dear Julie McDonald. To Andi and Isabelle who took me to "Chambly" and Colette and the late Jacques Gerbault, who shared his story. Always to James N. Frey, wonderful Katherine Fausset, Bronwen, Rachel, Rudy, Amara, Abby, Paul-the whole Soho family, and Juliet Grames, editor extraordinaire. Jun and my son, Tate, without whom nothing happens.

Also by the Author.

Murder in the Marais.

Murder in Belleville Murder in the Sentier.

Murder in the Bastille.

Murder in Clichy Murder in Montmartre.

Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis.

Murder in the Rue de Paradis.

Murder in the Latin Quarter Murder in the Palais Royal Murder in Passy.

Murder at the Lanterne Rouge Murder Below Montparnasse.

Murder in Pigalle Murder on the Champ de Mars.

Again, for the ghosts.