Murder Without Pity by Steve Haberman Page B

around their necks, and the strollers stooped like laborers after a hard day in the field. Move now, he told himself. Passersby of that number may not come along again. Head bowed against the curious, he limped up the stone steps, wincing as he hurried to join them.
    They strolled as a group across Pont Royal, Spanish tourists, giving up for the night their search for beauty. Near the midpoint he glanced back and scanned the few pedestrians behind, feeling foolish at his maneuver. What did a pursuer look like? And would anyone dare harm him, a state functionary? But the next moment he recalled his captivity, the police escorts given to him and other threatened criminal investigators, and Leclair’s whispered warning. He looked off to his right, toward the Ile de la Cité and its Palace of Justice. Would any attacker take orders from there? How would he react if hit? He didn’t know.
    The Spaniards reached the other side, crossed Quai des Tuileries, going in his direction. They passed through the Place du Carrousel, paused to admire the Louvre off to their right, then proceeded across Rue de Rivoli and into an arcade.
    Two drifted into a McDonald’s. Further on, three paused to browse at figurines in a boutique’s window. Others dipped into a café, bright as a torch. He was now alone and exposed. “ Light can kill, ” Leclair had warned. Stanislas searched for refuge in a darkened side street.
    “Postcards, monsieur?”
    He jumped. A man to his left with teeth missing shot out from behind an arcade’s column.
    “A selection of the best,” and his voice rose in hope. “Paris at the beginning of the last century?”
    Stanislas winced as he jerked his bad leg forward faster.
    “Just a few euros for eight of them.” Even as he dropped back, he threw out a loud whine. “Monsieur, I’ve a family to feed.”
    Several more steps, Stanislas thought. There. He ducked into a side rue. The long passage cupped a thin fog between the street and the buildings’ walls. The night became quiet with just the slosh of spillage along the gutter and his clumsy footsteps as he plodded down the street.
    As he passed a church, a rattle echoed at the distant end. A motorcycle sputtered around the corner. Its yellowish light hit him. His eyes flinched from the glare. He shot a hand out, caught the rider veer at him at the last moment, and jumped onto the narrow pavement. The motorcyclist sped past, throwing mist against him. At the corner he paused, turned his helmeted head, visor snapped down, back to Stanislas, and held him in his gaze. He thrummed the motor, then clattered off into the night.
    Had his captors sent a tough to warn him off because he was closing on something dangerous? he wondered. Through the wetness, the sonorous downbeat of a church bell droned, and he thought of sanctuary. He stayed on the sidewalk the rest of the way.
    The van emerged from the fog. Stanislas climbed in as it speeded up toward a boulevard. Officer Henri Leclair tapped a finger against his lips until he had switched on a radio station that pumped out rap. “Welcome to the Arctic on wheels. Sorry the heater doesn’t work. I borrowed this old dog from my brother-in-law. He thinks I’m helping a friend move.” Thick mist drifted in waves over the windshield. He dimmed his headlights and probed his way in a northerly direction. “Some night, yes?”
    Stanislas noticed his hands trembled. He wanted answers. “Why this melodrama?”
    “You know how some of my police buddies are: Hide the mike, seek out the conversation. My wife thinks you’ve assigned me one too many surveillance jobs.” He looked across to Stanislas. “Who knows? Maybe Yvette’s right. Maybe I have grown paranoid.” He turned his attention back to driving. “In our business, a healthy dose of that can keep you alive. I think this Renault’s more secure than your office or mine. I assume you weren’t followed?”
    Stanislas peered out into the darkness. Random bursts of life