Meet Aimée Leduc, the smart, stylish Parisian private investigator, in her bestselling first investigation Aimée Leduc has always sworn she would stick to tech investigation—no criminal cases for her. Especially since her father, the late police detective, was killed in the line of duty. But when an elderly Jewish man approaches Aimée with a top-secret decoding job on behalf of a woman in his synagogue, Aimée unwittingly takes on more than she is expecting. She drops off her findings at her client’s house in the Marais, Paris’s historic Jewish quarter, and finds the woman strangled, a swastika carved on her forehead. With the help of her partner, René, Aimée sets out to solve this horrendous murder, but finds herself in an increasingly dangerous web of ancient secrets and buried war crimes. Praise for the Aimée Leduc series "Forever young, forever stylish, forever in love with Paris—forever Aimée." — New York Times Book Review "A tightly spun web worthy of a classic spy thriller . . . Leduc's City of Light is a stylish, dangerous place." — Washington Post Book World "No contemporary writer of noir mysteries evokes the spirit of Paris more than Cara Black in her atmospheric series starring P.I. Aimée Leduc . . . The fearless, risk-taking Aimée is constantly running, hiding, fighting and risking her life—all while dressed in vintage Chanel and Dior and Louboutin heels." — USA Today "The charm of this series comes from the character and a vividly rendered setting. Aimée rides her pink scooter through the streets of Paris, roller skates through the Louvre after closing time, and tears through dark tunnels under the Palais Royal wearing peep-toe shoes or vintage Valentino boots, her eyes ringed with kohl, trying to figure out who is out to get her . . . Zut alors! It's quite a ride." — The Boston Globe "Stylish and sexy." —George Pelecanos Cara Black is the author of sixteen book in the New York Times  bestselling Aimée Leduc series, all of which are available from Soho Crime. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and son and visits Paris frequently. Aimée Leduc felt his presence before she saw him. As if ghosts floated in his wake in the once elegant hall. She paused, pulling her black leather jacket closer against the Parisian winter morning slicing through her building, and reached for her keys. The man emerged from the shadows by her frosted paned office door. A baby’s cry wafted up from the floor below, then the concierge’s door slammed.      “Mademoiselle, I need your help,” he said. Leathery, freckled skin stretched over his skull and his ears pointed out at right angles. He wore a crumpled navy blue suit and leaned crookedly on a malacca cane.     “No missing persons, Monsieur,” she said. As winter settled, the days gray and the memories vivid, old survivors revived hopes of lost ones. She slid her tongue across her teeth to check for anything stuck, smoothed her short brown hair and smiled. She stuffed the chocolate croissant back in the bag. “I don’t find lost relatives. My field is corporate security.” Thirty-four years old, Aimée, at five feet eight inches, loomed above him. “ Je suis désolée, Monsieur, but computer forensics are my speciality.”     “That’s what I want.” He straightened his posture slowly, his large eyes fearful. “My name is Soli Hecht. I must talk with you.”     Behind his fear she saw sadness tinged by keen perception. She tried to be polite. Walk-in clients were rare. Most came through corporate connections or by word of mouth. “It’s not that I don’t want your business, but we’re carrying a full caseload. I can refer you to someone very good.”     “I knew your father, an honorable man. He told me to come to you if I needed help.”     Startled, she dropped her keys and looked away. “But my father was killed five years ago.”     “As always, he is in my prayers.” Hecht bowed his head. When he looked up, his eyes bored into hers. “Your father and I met when he was in Le Commissariat.”     She knew she had to hear him out. Still she hesitated. The cold seeped from the floorboards but it wasn’t the only thing making her shiver.     “Please come inside.”     She unlocked the door that read Leduc Detective that led to the office she’d taken over after her father’s death, flipped on the lights, and draped her jacket over her armchair. Nineteenth-century sepia prints of Egyptian excavations hung on the walls above digitally enhanced Parisian sewer maps.     Hecht moved his cadaverous frame across the parquet floor. Something about him struck her as familiar. As he lifted his arm onto her desk, she saw faint blue numbers tattooed on his forearm peeking out from his jacket sleeve. Did he want her to find Nazi loot in numbered Swiss bank accounts? She scooped ground coffee into the filter, poured water, and switched on the espresso machine, which grumbled to life.     “Specifically, Monsieur Hecht, what is the job?”     “Computer penetration is your field.” His