By Cara Black
Meet Aimée Leduc, the shrewdpermanent, trendy Parisian inner most investigator, in her bestselling first investigation
Aimée Leduc has continually sworn she might keep on with tech investigation—no legal instances for her. in particular on account that her father, the past due police detective, used to be killed within the line of responsibility. but if an aged Jewish guy techniques Aimée with a top-secret interpreting activity on behalf of a girl in his synagogue, Aimée unwittingly takes on greater than she is looking ahead to. She drops off her findings at her client’s apartment within the Marais, Paris’s historical Jewish sector, and unearths the girl strangled, a swastika carved on her brow. With assistance from her accomplice, René, Aimée units out to unravel this horrendous homicide, yet unearths herself in an more and more harmful internet of historic secrets and techniques and buried struggle crimes.
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Extra resources for Murder in the Marais
She hated lying to flics, especially Morbier. Maybe she should convince Morbier she was thinking of converting to Judaism instead of telling him the truth about an old Nazi hunter who had made her fifty thousand francs richer, hiring her to deliver half a photo to a dead woman. Then hiring her to find her killer. Madame Noiret pushed sliding glasses up her nose and pointed inside. " She walked into the seventeen-foot-high-ceilinged room of the homicide division. Few desks were occupied. Morbier's was littered with a stack of well-thumbed files.
There was the cold marble floor of his office where she'd done homework as a little girl when he worked late, later helping him clean out his desk when he joined Grandfather at Leduc Detective, then collecting his posthumous medal from the Commissaire. Aimee's American mother had disappeared from her life one evening in 1968. She'd never returned from the Herald Tribune, where she worked as a stringer on the news desk. Her father had sent Aimee to boarding school during the week and on weekends he took her to the Luxembourg Gardens.
She shrugged and smoothed down her shapeless dress. "Ja. " She stood at attention as much as an older woman in flesh-colored orthopedic hose could. "Danke schoen, Ilse. I appreciate it," he said, disturbed but determined to take it in stride. At the curb, she whisked Hartmuth into a black Mercedes. As they glided into Paris on Autoroute 1, flat streams of light hinted at the monotonous strips of housing projects along the highway. On the right after the interchange, the cathedral of Sacre Coeur emerged like an elliptical pearl bathed in lunar light.