Murder in the Bastille

“Remodeling a kitchen and bathrooms takes forever. And fixing the electric wiring will take until the next century. Rene’s neighbor’s taking care of Miles Davis now . . .”

“Won the Lotto, have you?”

Why did she always forget how quick Morbier was?

“You could say that,” she said, wondering whether to tell him how she’d justified finally updating her apartment’s electric wiring and plumbing.

“Non,” he said. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She visualized his thick hands held up, as she’d often seen them if she teased him.

“Tell me, Morbier, did this latest victim match the profile?”

Silence. What she wouldn’t give to see the expression crossing Morbier’s face right now!

“So I take it she didn’t,” Aimee said. “Or the fit isn’t close.”

“This victim was in her early forties. Like one of the others. Close enough,” he said, his voice tired. “Vaduz was released Monday afternoon on a technicality. Let’s give a big round of thanks to his salope of a supposed socialist lawyer! One of those gauche- caviar elite who give socialism a bad name. So Vaduz suffered a hurry-up urge to kill after his mother’s funeral. Maybe the woman reminded him of his mother. Or maybe you did.”

So Vaduz was still out of jail.

“The woman in the resto had long Purple Vamp nails, thick blonde hair.” She hoped Morbier would finish for her.

He didn’t.

“Black Chinese silk jacket . . . it’s her, isn’t it? said Aimee. “Tell me, Morbier. I’m stuck in a hospital bed.”

And she couldn’t say it . . . blind and scared.

“Alors, Leduc, the victim lived above Marche d’Aligre. Next of kin haven’t even been notified, so I can’t give her name out. You know the rules. Like I said, I’m en route elsewhere.”

A chair scraped on the linoleum; Morbier must have stood in his odd-sized shoes.

“However, Vaduz was seen in the Bastille area,” he said. “So there’s location and the window of time. Let’s say he knows the victim, phones her, but gets you. It shows malice, forethought.”

No matter how he added it up, she knew it didn’t compute.

“What happened to the cell phone he rang?” he said. “We could trace the call.”

“Gone,” she said.

“The victim fits the type Vaduz chose: Close enough in looks, the right location, and method of murder.”

It couldn’t be.

“But the man on the telephone insisted she ‘forget her pride and meet him.’ He knew her, Morbier.”

“Vaduz knew some of his victims. And when he was released, he said he was going to visit his dentist in the Bastille. He had a mouthful of rotten teeth.”

“The file would show if they were acquainted,” she said.

“It’s not my case,” he said. “Right now, it’s a botched-up job from when they let Vaduz out. A real petard.”

Of course, releasing a serial killer to kill again wouldn’t restore public confidence in the police.

“This sexual predator is supposed to have killed several women in the Bastille area. How come no one connected them until last year?” Aimee asked.

“Not you, too,” Morbier said. “You sound like the parents. The one this morning harangued me for an hour; why didn’t we do DNA testing, compare samples?”

“Good question,” she said. “But that would be hard, since you have no DNA repository to check it against, much less . . .”

“No funding from the Police Judiciare,” he interrupted.

“You know how that is . . . half of Brigade Criminelle don’t even have computers at their desks.”

He let out a big sigh.

“That’s why they called me in,” he said. “Last minute.”

Damage control. He’d been doing more and more of that recently.

“Like I said, it’s not my case,” said Morbier. “Bellan’s in charge. I’m supposed to be en route to Creteil.”

“Creteil?”

“‘Law enforcement in the new millennium’ seminar,” he said, expelling a loud breath. “Spare me. But that’s up in the air now.”

“Why?”

Silence. She hated it when he dribbled out bits of information then clamped shut.

“Talk to me, Morbier,” she said.

“They don’t have enough staff to handle the explosives scare,” he said. “The ministry’s pulling Commissaires and men from the arrondissements.”

She took a last lick of the lollipop and wound the damp stick around her finger.

“An explosives scare? Sounds big.”

“Huge, Leduc,” he said, a tone of finality in his voice. “You’re out of commission. So stay out of this. Don’t think about asking any more.”

Bigger than huge. Gigantic, if Morbier talked like this.

“I’m interested in Vaduz’s teeth,” she said.

“Not a pretty sight. Seems Vaduz opened his mouth, pointed to his rotting fillings,” Morbier said, “moaned about needing the dentist’s drill.”

“What about the jealous husband angle?”

“She wasn’t married,” he said. “The Prefet keeps reminding me he’s got another five days to retirement,” Morbier said. “After a stellar twenty-five year career, the Prefet wants to depart with full honors from the Mayor. So he’d like the blame for the Vaduz mess to rest elsewhere. Too bad he can’t think of where else to put it. Right now, the Gendarmerie looks like the next candidate.”

“Why?” she said. “They’re not responsible.”

“Tell that to the public,” he said. “All us uniforms look alike, and we’re all to blame. The victims’ families want justice or vengeance.”

Morbier’s pager beeped and she heard him fumble in his pockets.

“May I borrow your hospital phone, Leduc?”

She nodded. Then her aching neck protested in response.

From the brusque tone of Morbier’s conversation, she knew something had gone wrong. He hung up.

“What happened?”

She heard Morbier’s long sigh.

“Some problem in the Place du Trone,” he said, using the old name, the King’s throne, for Place de la Nation. Aimee found it ironic, since he was a dyed-in-the-wool socialist.

“But Morbier, the caller who spoke to me knew the woman he was phoning. He sounded intimate with her.”

“You told me. I’ve got to go,” he said. “The Prefet wants the case closed, clean and neat. Let’s agree on this, Leduc. Vaduz thought you were the victim. He was scared off when passers- by came down the passage. Lots of nightlife in the Bastille quartier. He’d been stalking the other woman before he encountered you. Then he found her.”

Morbier continued. “This isn’t my turf, Leduc.” He let out a tired sigh. “The powers that be are trying to nail Vaduz. He’s brutally killed five women. And they’re salivating now, talking about the ‘special accomodation’ they’ve prepared for him at the Quai des Orfevres—a wire and iron cage for his interrogation.” Another tired sigh. “The victims’ parents are angry and tired. And five bodies later, they’re demanding blood. Vaduz’s blood, and strong police action. So unless you’ve got something concrete, Leduc, I’ll recommend they tie this up with a nice bow.”

She leaned back against the large pillows. What Morbier said was likely true. But the man who had attacked her wasn’t Vaduz.

“Look, you know my hunches are good,” she said. “Papa trained me. I don’t agree. No serial stalker like