Murder Without Pity by Steve Haberman

out.”
    “I wanted to make sure you could make it.”
    “You’ve lived up to your reputation. You’re thorough.”
    “Oh my. What else have you heard?”
    “You fuss over your cases like they’re your children. You call them your Little Miseries. And rarely call in sick.”
    “That’s me, getting old before my time.”
    “A little reckless, according to some. Pushy, according to others.”
    He had expected flattery and received a bluntness that annoyed him. He turned to her as they walked. “Your source is impeccable?”
    “My source is Jules. I trust him implicitly. We go back a long way. He’s the only one of his family who survived the World War II death camps. He’s very shrewd at gauging people. It’s a question of image, you see. We must be sure friends are really friends. We don’t need scandal that might dry up contributions or volunteers for the Center.”
    He stopped abruptly. “I assume Jules told you about my grandfather?” He stiffened for her accusations about the man’s betrayals. Better to discover her real motive. He wouldn’t tolerate humiliation now or in the restaurant.
    “Monsieur Marcel Cassel,” she said. “Founder of the journal Phalanx that boasted during the Occupation it listed more names of supposed traitors than any other magazine. Wrote Why Not Hitler ? Jules said he discussed the so-called Jewish-Bolshevik conspiracy many times in its chapters. Tried for intelligence with the enemy after the war. Convicted. Hauled off to prison. Yes, I know something about him.”
    He glared across. The nerve of her to throw this much of that past at him. He’d push away anyone who’d dare tie him to that pariah. He’d match anger with anger, he thought, until he realized there was sympathy in her voice, that of a Jew of all people, and he was momentarily silent. Then: “For one of the few times in my life, I’m almost without words.”
    “Let me tell you something else. It might help. ‘A criminal investigator without an agenda.’ That’s what Jules basically heard from those he checked with. You sound apolitical. I disagree with that stance, but that’s your right. At least we know you’re clean. Look, you appear tired. I am tired. This lunch will do us both good.” She laughed, and her face brightened into girlish sweetness. “Now can we please, please get to Chez François ? I’m famished. We can talk about serious matters later, if you want.”
    She glanced behind her. They must have missed the street that led to the restaurant, she said. The fog had thickened like dense smoke.
    He, too, felt disoriented and squinted for anything solid to grasp for a guide. Only white ghosts of structures loomed out, and they had to feel their way forward like the blind until at last they reached the restaurant. Two police vans with revolving blue lights were just pulling away. He held the door open for her, glancing back, not glimpsing, yet knowing his body guards were somewhere not far behind.
    In front of them, a stocky man in a blazer wiped blood from his lips with his kerchief. Another with a similar build and jacket swept a pile of glass into a corner. From the counter a Siamese cat sprang down and over to Anna. She ignored it and the two men and stared at the large-screen TV ahead, mounted behind the bar. Three customers in the middle of the bar ignored their drinks, Stanislas saw, while they also remained gripped to the chaotic images, like the bartender, drying a tumbler.
    A brilliance flashed on a Renault’s hood.
    A necklace of fire flamed around the car’s middle.
    The car exploded.
    A policeman wrestled a youth to the ground, while he fumbled to cuff.
    Mist swirled around them as in a surreal ballet.
    Whistles shrilled from a riot controller.
    Spectators shouted about a stop-and-search turned bloody.
    The montage fuzzed white and darkened. The studio camera swung into view a moderator in turtleneck sweater, jacket, and dark-framed glasses, the look of a woman journalist