The best.
Like the Prime Minister or President, they might be very “left” but they dined on caviar. On a regular basis.
They would launch
“Monsieur Csarda?”
Vincent spun around. A waiter, his long white apron brushing his ankles, towered over him.
“
No one crept up on him like that. Ever. He must focus, concentrate on the larger picture. Not become lost in minutiae.
“Pardon, monsieur, the organizer needs your approval for the orchids. A last minute change, only purple ones arrived.”
By the time he resolved the crisis with the orchids— Malraux, the Bastille Opera patron, detested purple—he realized Malraux was late. A no-show? Impossible . . . Malraux owed him. In more ways than he could repay.
DOWNSTAIRS AT THE COMMISSARIAT, in sunlight dappled Place Leon Blum, Sergeant Loic Bellan thumbed the fat Beast of Bastille dossier. As he had so many times. But this would be the final run-through. After this, he’d sign off on the compilation, then turn it over to the
Bellan hunched over the long wooden table in the deserted operations room. Outside in the square, named for the Socialist Prime Minister of France between world wars, early morning buses, taxis and bicycles passed the grilled windows.
Nearby, embedded in the pavement, were five stones which had once supported the wood scaffold of the guillotine. Lacenaire, the poet, had referred to them as the “flagstones of death.” Today they were part of the white-striped crosswalk pedestrians used daily.
Bellan knuckled down to what he did best, putting the perp under his own brand of microscope. Rereading and combing the information one more time, sifting the loose ends, arranging and rearranging items. Searching for loose threads and ways to knot them. Maybe then he could let go.
He pored over the notes made by the quai des Orfevres’ psychological profiler, the photos of the victims, details from the forensic lab reports, the few witnesses’ and neighbors’ accounts. Then he looked at the map of the Bastille
No question remained in his mind. Vaduz had committed the murders described in the dossier. But this last one, of Josiane Dolet, smelled off. Like an overripe Brie.
His conscience had to be clear . . . his nights were bad enough without Marie and his daughters. Whiskey deadened the pain for only so long. He’d wake in the middle of the night, thinking he had to get the girls up for school. But a yellow pool of light on the bare wooden floor was his only companion.
Jean-Claude Leduc’s aphorisms from Loic’s rookie year echoed in his head: “If you smell something, follow your nose. . . . When it pecks at your shoulder night and day, pay attention.”
What had he missed?
With the combination of his huge caseload, the few of hours of restless sleep, the endless espresso on prolonged stakeouts, and the flask of whiskey he’d taken to keeping in his vest pocket . . . he couldn’t be sure.
Something nagged at him. Was it the remark Aimee had made about the passage . . . its narrowness? Loic chewed the end of his pen. He stood back and surveyed the enlarged bus and Metro map on the wall.
Vaduz’s victims’ trails aligned themselves in the few blocks where the #86 and #91 bus routes merged. This corresponded with the Bastille, Ledru Rollin and Faidherbe Chaligny stops along the purple Metro line. Loic studied the detective’s notes verifying that the suspect and victims had taken the same bus to work; his customary bars, cafes, and laundromats in the
Bellan reread the file notes. Vaduz picked the same type, over and over again. All the women resembled his cousin: blonde, curvaceous, glamorous. The cousin had ignored the introverted Vaduz since childhood, refusing to introduce him to her friends. But he’d fixated on her, covered his walls with obsessive poems and drawings reflecting the fantasies he’d had about her. On weekends when he’d visited the family, she’d had boys with her in her room
But Josiane Dolet was rail-thin, stylish, and reserved in appearance. Wealthy and left-leaning, she’d followed her family’s tradition and joined the family newspaper. When the paper merged with
Josiane Dolet seemed an unusual choice of victim for Vaduz. She was the most intellectual of them all. Had that made her the most threatening? But when he attacked women, they had no time for discussion.
Yet, Bellan reasoned, his selection of victims showed premeditation and a pattern. Methodical, though sick, he’d taken his time. His victims either lived in a passage or walked through one to their apartments. But Josiane Dolet’s apartment overlooked the glass-roofed market in Place d’Aligre; she would walk through the open square to reach it.
The Prefet was breathing down his neck; the report had to be submitted by noon. How did Aimee figure in this? Loic couldn’t put his finger on it, but something troubled him.
“Bellan! Line 3,” shouted the sergeant from the front desk.
He picked up the wall phone.
“Loic,” Marie said, her voice faint. “Guillaume’s sick.”
And the world stopped. All he heard was a heavy silence on the other end, then the whine of a scooter by the window.
“What is it?”
“Strep throat,” she said.
Poor Marie, she must be overwhelmed to call him.
“Marie, the girls had that last year, it wasn’t so serious.”
“They’re worried about his kidneys.”
“Why?”
“For babies like him, it’s serious. We’re at the hospital in Vannes,” she said. “He’s in intensive care. As his father, I thought you should know.”
The phone went dead.
He couldn’t leave Marie to face this alone. Something caved inside him. And all he could think of were those little pink pearllike toes.
He closed the files, pulled on his jacket, and hailed a taxi for Gare Montparnasse.
MATHIEU FINGERED THE DRIED orange skin pocked with cloves, shrunken hard . . . wrinkled like a pecan. A Provencal custom, drying oranges to scent cupboards. The bittersweet remnant of the old Comte de Breuve. Mathieu’s mind went back to his last visit in early September when the Comte had summoned him to the chateau
