volunteered.
“Leaud’s checking the unusual results,” he said. “Et voila, then the report will be yours.”
“Unusual results, doctor—can you explain?” Aimee asked.
The organ scale’s chain creaked with the spleen’s weight as the student weighed it. Aimee pulled her coat tighter in the frosty room.
“We found traces of Duplo plastique ,” he said. “Embedded in part of a leg.”
“Duplo plastique ?”
“Duplo’s an English cousin of the cheaper Czech Semtex,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for the report.”
Puzzled, she stepped out into the hallway.
Out by the dark stairwell, she ran into a figure who rounded the corner at the same time.
“Merde!” he murmured, flicking away a cigarette.
“You’re a hard criminologist to find,” she said, staring into the bearded face of Serge Leaud.
“And I like to keep it that way, Aimee,” he said with a half smile. “I’m doing two jobs and filling in for someone on leave.”
“Which you thrive on,” she grinned. She looked down. “Smoking in the lab?”
“Ever since I published the Luminol paper about that fifty-year-old blood, I’ve had no peace,” he said. His full face, pinkish and scrubbed shiny, was framed by the beard flowing from his curly hair. “I’ve started smoking again. Tiens, my wife won’t let me near the twins when she smells smoke on me.”
“Sometimes the gods punish us by giving us what we want, as Oscar Wilde pointed out,” Aimee said. “In your case, making police bulletins around the world.”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re after me?”
“But I am,” she said, tugging his sleeve and pulling him toward a slitlike basement window. “Just as a bad centime you throw away keeps coming back. Tell me about Duplo plastique.”
Serge’s pager beeped.
“I’m late,” he said, glancing down and reading the message. “What’s your interest in it?”
“The victim got blown up in front of me,” she said. “I’ve been hired to find who did it.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Serge said, shaking his head. “You know I can’t say anything.”
“Don’t speak,” she said. “Just let me see the report when you’re finished.”
“I’m due at quai des Orfevres,” he said, rolling his eyes. “There’s another inquest in an hour, and I promised my mother-in-law I’d pick her dog up from the groomers’.”
“I think we can work something out,” Aimee said, taking his arm. “What’s your mother-in-law’s address?”
Tuesday Late Afternoon
B ERNARD STUDIED M USTAFA H AMID . He marked Hamid’s large black eyes, sallow complexion, and the dried lace of spittle on his beard. Took in his hollow-cheeked profile and bone-thin arms.
The cold and damp called for Bernard’s lined winter coat, not the skimpy suit jacket he wore. He wondered at Hamid’s simple white cotton knee-length shirt and his smocked leggings. He wore a Chechia, a white crocheted cap, and a prayer shawl covered his shoulders.
The old familiarity gnawed at Bernard, intrusive and intimate. Memories of what he’d tried to forget came back to him. The wild-eyed holy man proclaiming doom in the deserted streets of Algiers. How a sniper’s bullet silenced him at Bernard’s mother’s feet in the long lines snaking to the port of Algiers.
Bernard watched Hamid’s hands trace worry beads as he sat on a thin mattress. With a deft movement Hamid touched Bernard’s hand then his own heart.
“Salaam aleikum, Directeur Berge,” Hamid said, addressing him formally, his voice deep. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you.”
“Aleikum es-salaam,” Bernard replied. That much of the Arabic greeting Bernard remembered. “Monsieur Hamid, I appreciate your time and hope we can arrive at fruitful negotiations.”
“Please excuse my appearance,” Hamid said. He gestured toward a tray laden with a teapot and mint sprigs in thin gold-rimmed glasses. “You are my guest. May I offer you tea?”
Bernard nodded. “Monsieur
“Leaud’s checking the unusual results,” he said. “Et voila, then the report will be yours.”
“Unusual results, doctor—can you explain?” Aimee asked.
The organ scale’s chain creaked with the spleen’s weight as the student weighed it. Aimee pulled her coat tighter in the frosty room.
“We found traces of Duplo plastique ,” he said. “Embedded in part of a leg.”
“Duplo plastique ?”
“Duplo’s an English cousin of the cheaper Czech Semtex,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for the report.”
Puzzled, she stepped out into the hallway.
Out by the dark stairwell, she ran into a figure who rounded the corner at the same time.
“Merde!” he murmured, flicking away a cigarette.
“You’re a hard criminologist to find,” she said, staring into the bearded face of Serge Leaud.
“And I like to keep it that way, Aimee,” he said with a half smile. “I’m doing two jobs and filling in for someone on leave.”
“Which you thrive on,” she grinned. She looked down. “Smoking in the lab?”
“Ever since I published the Luminol paper about that fifty-year-old blood, I’ve had no peace,” he said. His full face, pinkish and scrubbed shiny, was framed by the beard flowing from his curly hair. “I’ve started smoking again. Tiens, my wife won’t let me near the twins when she smells smoke on me.”
“Sometimes the gods punish us by giving us what we want, as Oscar Wilde pointed out,” Aimee said. “In your case, making police bulletins around the world.”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re after me?”
“But I am,” she said, tugging his sleeve and pulling him toward a slitlike basement window. “Just as a bad centime you throw away keeps coming back. Tell me about Duplo plastique.”
Serge’s pager beeped.
“I’m late,” he said, glancing down and reading the message. “What’s your interest in it?”
“The victim got blown up in front of me,” she said. “I’ve been hired to find who did it.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Serge said, shaking his head. “You know I can’t say anything.”
“Don’t speak,” she said. “Just let me see the report when you’re finished.”
“I’m due at quai des Orfevres,” he said, rolling his eyes. “There’s another inquest in an hour, and I promised my mother-in-law I’d pick her dog up from the groomers’.”
“I think we can work something out,” Aimee said, taking his arm. “What’s your mother-in-law’s address?”
Tuesday Late Afternoon
B ERNARD STUDIED M USTAFA H AMID . He marked Hamid’s large black eyes, sallow complexion, and the dried lace of spittle on his beard. Took in his hollow-cheeked profile and bone-thin arms.
The cold and damp called for Bernard’s lined winter coat, not the skimpy suit jacket he wore. He wondered at Hamid’s simple white cotton knee-length shirt and his smocked leggings. He wore a Chechia, a white crocheted cap, and a prayer shawl covered his shoulders.
The old familiarity gnawed at Bernard, intrusive and intimate. Memories of what he’d tried to forget came back to him. The wild-eyed holy man proclaiming doom in the deserted streets of Algiers. How a sniper’s bullet silenced him at Bernard’s mother’s feet in the long lines snaking to the port of Algiers.
Bernard watched Hamid’s hands trace worry beads as he sat on a thin mattress. With a deft movement Hamid touched Bernard’s hand then his own heart.
“Salaam aleikum, Directeur Berge,” Hamid said, addressing him formally, his voice deep. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you.”
“Aleikum es-salaam,” Bernard replied. That much of the Arabic greeting Bernard remembered. “Monsieur Hamid, I appreciate your time and hope we can arrive at fruitful negotiations.”
“Please excuse my appearance,” Hamid said. He gestured toward a tray laden with a teapot and mint sprigs in thin gold-rimmed glasses. “You are my guest. May I offer you tea?”
Bernard nodded. “Monsieur
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