Murder in the Bastille

MURDER

in the BASTILLE

Cara Black

Dedicated to all the ghosts, past

and present.

Thanks to so many generous people who shared their knowledge and themselves: savvy Kathleen Knox and her seeing-eye dog Thai; Ron Hideshima, invaluable Access Technology Instructor, of the Living Skills Center for the Visually Impaired; Bill Simpson, Donna and the caring staff at Rose Resnick Lighthouse; the Tuesday group; Steven Platzman; Grace Loh, her insight, Jean Satzer, above and beyond, Dot Edwards who lived it and shared, toujours James N. Frey, Ron Huberman, San Francisco DA’s office, Dr. Eddie Tamura, his expertise, Mike Hakershaw, soul soeur Marion Nowak, Dr. Terri Haddix, and all bookseller amies.

In Paris: mercis to Anne-Francoise Delbegue, her wit, warmth and Bastille guidance; the Residence St. Louis, Carla, Kathleen and Marcus Haddock et Sarah, Martine, Gilles, Lesley, Gala; Brentano’s on Avenue de l’Opera; Isabelle et Andi; officer Cathy Etile and Commandant Michel Bruno of the Commissariat Central du 12eme arrondissement who answer toutes and more.

Linda Allen for her support; deep thanks to Laura Hruska who encourages risks . . . big ones; Shuchan, my son, and Jun who puts up with it all.

You are not alive unless you know you are living

—graffiti on a Paris wall

In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king

—Desiderius Erasmus, Adagia

  

PARIS

OCTOBER, 1994

Monday Evening

AIMEE LEDUC FELT THE air shift, the floating candles waver, as a woman murmuring into a cell phone, wearing a black silk Chinese jacket identical to Aimee’s, sat down on the restaurant banquette next to her.

Great. Just Aimee’s luck someone showed up in her jacket tonight. For a moment Aimee made eye contact with the woman. Blunt blonde shocks of hair framed her face. She favored Aimee with an intense stare. The vein in her temple stood out in her otherwise perfectly made-up face.

“Wouldn’t you know it!” Aimee said to her.

“Things could get worse.” The woman shrugged, as if wearing the same outfit as her neighbor were the least of her worries. Aimee noticed the frightened look in her eyes before she averted her face.

Around them, illuminated by red glass Etruscan-style sconces, Parisiens drank, dined, and smoked. This upscale resto, formerly a meat market, with its exposed beams and rusted meathooks, was booked weeks ahead. But her client, Vincent Csarda, head of Populax, an agence de publicite, never had trouble getting a table.

Tinkling glasses and the waiters’ shouts made it difficult for Aimee to hear Vincent’s words. Vincent, the brains behind his advertising agency, who was sitting across from her, stabbed his slithering ziti con vongole as he spoke.

“But I’m just the mec stuck in the middle. My agency subcontracted this Incandescent campaign only two weeks ago,” he said. His short coifed hair and red bow tie were out of place in this fashionably dressed late evening dinner crowd. He was not quite Aimee’s height. Vincent, who was in his mid- thirties, was a nervous type. She figured he was gaunt from overwork and espresso. She wished it worked that way for her.

Aimee knew she should be home preparing her apartment for the construction crew and packing her bags. She was torn between bolting for a taxi or listening to more of Vincent’s excuses as he sat across from her.

“Tiens,” Vincent said, “was it my fault Incandescent was a front and laundered money for gun runners?”

“Vincent, the courts see it differently,” Aimee said, wishing he would accept the facts. But Vincent demanded control. Total control. Didn’t they all? “E-mail and downloaded documents constitute judicial evidence. We have to turn over your Opera marketing campaign file for the domestic and Russian tour.”

“But my Opera marketing campaign doesn’t relate to them. I refuse to let this investigation tarnish my firm’s