"She pushed a battered paperback in my face," Jean-Claude told Soli. "Kerouac's On the Road."

"C'est quoi ca, On the Road?" Soli asked, leaning forward. "A socialist manifesto?"

Jean-Claude shrugged. "Like some beatnik bible. She said, 'Read this, it's good for your soul. Then you'll understand our politics.'"

Their politics? He'd felt like a fool, yet he hadn't been able to move his eyes away from her. "I don't care much for politics."

The others laughed and hooted at him.

"But you should," she said.

Earnest, this one. Exquisite.

"I just do my job. Keep order, keep my quartier safe."

"You all have agendas, filthy flics," shouted the sweating, shirtless mec next to her. "You do the government's dirty work, repress free thinking!"

"Alors, why am I standing here letting you spout off and defending your right to do so?"

She grinned. Those intense eyes pulled him to her like a magnet. How could anyone have bigger eyes than Juliette Greco?

Shouts echoed off the boulevard, the whine of a siren. A piercing whistle signaled him to round them up and move toward the truck.

"Why did you become a policeman?" she asked him.

"I fell into it, followed my old man."

"Where's your passion?" She tilted her head. "Don't you want to change things-stop injustice, protect people's freedom?"

"Blanket statements you people make." He shook his head. "What about those who have no time for lofty ideals, politics? Who struggle every day, eh? We're their only way to get justice, their line of defense. That's why I stay. If there's crime, I solve it. Like the shoemaker on that corner, who got robbed last week. I get redress, or try to prevent-"

"See, you do have passion," she interrupted.

Passion? He'd never looked at it that way. The girl fascinated him.

"So you're an artist?" he said, noting the sketchbook poking out of her bag. "That's not political."

"Art is political. Everything's political."

"And making love's political?"

She laughed. A clear, silver-toned laugh. "Only a Parisian flic would say that."

The chief's whistle blew again. "Get out of here," he said. "Take your book with you or I'll throw you in the wagon."

"Hey, that's not fair," someone shouted.

"Only if you meet me later." She pointed to the Cafe de Flore. "Tonight. I'll change your mind. Change your life."

She smiled with her eyes. And he was lost.

The clacking train wheels brought him back to the dark countryside flying by, and to Soli's long, myopic look. Soli nodded and handed him a card. "Don't forget our arrangement. Sunday I'll expect a call. My Berlin contact's very good."

Jean-Claude took it. "Merci. Mine's very good, too."

If he wasn't careful, he'd drift more, relive that day yet again-that day, and the incredible week that followed, that turned into a lifelong obsession and a child they'd made together.

Non, don't get pulled down that hole again. Maintain self-control, responsibility for Aimee. Try to let her not get hurt. Again.

If he found Sidonie this time, Aimee would never know.

Paris * Friday, 8 P.M.

"Suzy?" The tank of a doorman had tattoos up his arm and plenty of attitude. "You're too early, mon enfant. Club doesn't get going until after midnight."

Mon enfant!

"Like I don't know that?" she said, putting her hands on her hips. "She lives in my building. Sap that I am, I told her roommate I'd drop off something she forgot at home . . ."

He waved her off, bored. "She's eating dinner with the rest."

"But where?"

"Leave it with me."

"It's personal," Aimee said. "You know, a necessary female item."

The bouncer shrugged. Stared at her, then pointed across the street. "Are you blind?"

She felt like an idiot-what was she missing?

"Don't you see her over there?"

A group of women were passing by on the opposite sidewalk.

Which one?

"Suzy?" she shouted, hoping one would react.

A head turned. Aimee waved and was rewarded with a blank stare from a woman with short black hair. She turned away and kept going.

Great.

"She's your friend?" the bouncer said.

"I've changed my hair. New color."

And with that Aimee ran across rue de Ponthieu, dodging a taxi who honked at her. She caught up with the group of women mid-block.

"Suzy, your roommate's sick . . ."

Suzy turned. "Romy looked fine an hour ago."

Think fast. Come up with something. "There's been an accident."

"Quoi?"

Why couldn't Suzy cooperate and stand still?

"Not on the street." Aimee gestured to the cafe tabac ahead.

"What's happened?" she said suspiciously. "Look, I don't have much time . . ."

"Two minutes."

In the cafe, Suzy stood at the counter and nodded to the waiter. "Joel, un express."

"Moi, aussi." Aimee said, realizing Suzy was a regular. Impatient, Suzy drummed her tomato-red lacquered nails on the zinc counter, then set down a pack of Gitanes. She wore leopard-print leggings, an oversized black sweater that slipped off her shoulder, revealing her bra strap, and minimal makeup. Give her a wig, go back several years, and she'd win a Flashdance look-alike contest. As kids, Aimee and Martine had snuck into the matinee three times to see it. She loved that movie.

"An accident, you said, involving Romy?"

"Romy's doing a facial, she's fine." Aimee slid fifty francs over the moisture-ringed counter under the cigarettes. She hoped that was enough. "I need information. I'll keep your answers quiet. At Le Gogo you gave an elder gentleman in his late sixties your number. Remember him?"

"You're joking, right?" Suzy's brown eyes narrowed. But she slipped the fifty in her bag. Aimee guessed she was in her thirties. Her makeup kit poked out of her bag. She definitely could use mascara for those thin lashes.

Their espressos arrived. Joel lingered, wiping the table, until Aimee handed him ten francs. "That's fine, Joel."

She turned to Suzy. "How long were you seeing Bruno?"

Suzy grinned. Unwrapped the sugar cube. "You're a kid, probably at the Sorbonne. What, nineteen or twenty?"

Damn, she wished she'd changed from her Sorbonne attire of boots, denim skirt, and black turtleneck. As if that would have helped. "Does that matter?"

"Too young for an undercover flic. I know all of them anyway."

"I can help you in a way they can't." Aimee set her bag on the zinc counter.

"How's that?" Suzy said, interested now.

Aimee pulled out her wallet; from behind her carte d'etudiant, took out the faux PI license she'd had made. She'd only used it on one occasion before. She also slid the camera behind her bag by the sugar bowl. "I freelance."

Sort of true. Now she'd go with the scenario her father used. "First we establish what you know about Bruno. The last time you saw him."

"Desolee." Suzy dunked the sugar cubes, stirred. Looked out the window.

Aimee used that moment, with the camera behind her bag shielded by her hand, to snap a photo of Suzy. She cleared her throat to cover the click.

"I don't see how we can help each other. I'm an escort, not a hooker."

"Do I care? More to the point, do I look like vice, Suzy?"

"Cherie, I think you're late for class." Suzy laughed and gathered her bag. She stopped to make eyes at the little furry head poking out of the Dior bag of the woman next to her. "C'est adorable. What's its name?"

The woman told her.

"J'adore bichon frises."

Aimee had to get Suzy's attention back. So far she'd squandered a chunk of her budget and she had nothing.

"Suzy, please, think back about a month ago, a client at Le Gogo. Bruno, an older man, late sixties."

"A silver fox? Not too many when I worked at Le Gogo."

Aimee opened the matchbook, showing Suzy her name and number. "Didn't you give this to Bruno?"

Suzy glanced at it. Shrugged.

Aimee took out Elise's photo of Bruno Peltier: white-haired, wrinkles around smiling eyes, wide like his daughter's. He was trim in a jogging suit, on the short side. She slid it under Suzy's demitasse saucer.

Recognition showed in the escort's eyes. She gave Aimee a calculating look. "Et alors, how can you help me?"

Before Aimee could answer, the club bouncer stepped into the cafe and took Suzy's arm. "You're due at the club, Suzy."

The next moment, Suzy had gone. But Aimee had seen a flash of fear in her eyes. Suzy had been about to tell her something. Merde.

"Didn't even touch her espresso," said Joel.

"I'll drink it." Like Aimee needed another espresso. "He always like that? Rude, so protective of her?"

The cafe light reflected on Joel's rimless glasses. Aimee wished she could see his eyes. Always a good barometer, her father said.

"Depends."

"Why would our talking bother him?"

"The club keeps a tight rein on the girls," said Joel. "Maybe he thought you were recruiting her for another club."

"Moi?" She shook her head. Came up with a story. "My boss thinks Suzy witnessed an old man being assaulted, that's all. I wish I could have asked her a few more questions."

Joel lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Suzy works an after-after club, too."

Aimee nodded. These after-afters ran from 2 until 5 a.m. for the die-hards. Sounded like she might be pulling an all-nighter. Maybe she did need this espresso after all.