Murder in the Bastille

coming issue. And their five pages of advertising.”

“Can’t Vincent go?”

“These types need the editor to hold their hand. I’ll come by as soon as I get back.”

ABLE TO use the phone now, Aimee felt more confident. It had only taken her three tries to reach Rene.

“Rene, any luck finding the software I need?”

“Not too bad,” he said, klaxons honking in the background. “I’m picking up cables near Montgallet Metro.”

He must be on rue Montgallet, a street lined with old storefronts that housed discount computer shops, Aimee thought. One of Rene’s favorite haunts. Many were run by families from Bangalore, the Silicon Valley of India.

“It’s a Diwali sale,” Rene said. A diesel truck shifted, the sound of gears scraping like the ragged cry of an animal in pain.

“Diwali? The Hindu festival of lights happens in November, Rene,” she said. “Nice try. It’s still October.”

“A pre-Diwali sale. Rajeev will give us a good price. He’s helping me with setup.”

She wondered if Rene, her partner, had thoughts about a future with Rajeev, who was a part-time programmer as well as a shop owner. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. She realized she had to help Rene with Vincent’s hard drive, even if it were the last job they did together. But she couldn’t worry about that now. Or she would give up and fall apart.

“Rene, did we do a shred analysis of Populax?”

“You mean a scan to see if deleted files were really gone?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Non.”

She detected interest in his voice.

“Exactement,” she said. “Vincent’s stubbornness bothers me. Let’s check the operating system. That should tell us if the file system was freed.”

She heard raised voices in the background. “Then we should see if the OS wrote a special one-character code to the beginning of the directory entry for any file,” Rene said. Aimee could hear his mounting excitement over the voices in the background. “It would mark any file as deleted. But unless it’s overwritten, the file info is still stored in the directory and the data still exists on the hard drive.”

“Even with our low-level software tools, we could read any deleted files,” she said.

She felt around for her leather backpack. Found it hanging on the hook and slipped the straps around her shoulders.

“And if we find something incriminating on Populax’s sys- tem, it’s better to know your enemy than be surprised, as they say,” she continued. “PR and marketing firms steal from each other all the time. And since the Judiciare’s not asking for anything else, just the hard drive info, suppose we found evidence of a nasty white collar crime? It would give us a bargaining chip with Vincent.”

“We could even get Vincent to pay us to delete it,” Rene said, admiration in his voice.

“But first we’ve got to find out what files exist,” she said. “And I don’t know how fast I’ll be using a voice- activated program,” she told him. “If you come to visit again, they moved me to the residence behind the hospital. Room 213.”

“By the way, I checked the databanks,” Rene said. “She bought her cell phone on rue Sainte Antoine.”

Aimee took a deep breath.

“And she was?”

“Josiane Dolet, lived at thirty-four, rue de Cotte.”

The initials J.D. . . . of course. Now that she knew her name she could find out more.

“Wonderful work, Rene!” On her right she heard the tap of a cane on linoleum. Closer and closer.

“I’ll come to see you as soon as . . .

“Take your time, Rene,” she said, reaching for Chantal’s elbow. “I’m going shopping.”

* * *

“THIS IS my friend, Chantal,” said Aimee, making the introduction to Lulu Mondriac, the owner of Blaspheme.

Chantal had accompanied her so she could navigate. Lavender oils and frangipani fragrance from the scent counter wafted across to Aimee as Lulu acknowledged the introduction.

“It’s funny, Lulu,” Aimee said. ”You told me it was an exclu- sive when I bought it. But I ran into this woman who was wearing the identical silk Tong jacket. Matter of fact, she was seated next to me in a resto.”

Aimee could visualize Lulu’s round blue glasses, the thick silver bracelets up her arm like armor, the red hennaed hair piled on her head and her uniform of black silk Chinese pajamas. “When I work, I stay comfortable,” Lulu had told her. Aimee had bought two pairs of the same silk pajamas.

“It was the sample. I’d kept it for myself, one for you and one for me. She begged for it,” said Lulu. “But the embroidery and mahjong buttons weren’t as nice as yours.”

If Lulu had any suspicions that Aimee couldn’t see, she kept them to herself. “A John Galliano top’s coming in this week,” she confided. “It’s brilliant. Got your name on it.”

An attempt at appeasement, Aimee thought.

Lulu’s racks often held surprises, an eclectic collection that might include a Christian Lacroix sweater confection with an embroidered and beaded flowered collar, a Kenzo sweater threaded with metallic Lurex, or a poem printed on an Italian microfiber scarf.

On rare occasions she’d splurge in the shop, to celebrate a new contract or when her bank balance looked healthy. When would she next have such a reason to splurge? She pushed those thoughts away.

“Was the customer who purchased the sample Josiane Dolet, a stick-thin blonde, with Violet Vamp nails?” Aimee asked.

Silence. Was Lulu nodding? Aimee visualized the small store’s layout, hoping she still faced Lulu.

“It was her, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve known Josiane for years. She’s one of my best clients. So I had to let her have it,” Lulu admitted. “Look, Josiane was having a midlife crisis,” said Lulu, “I’ve had one or two of those myself.”

“What did she do?”

“What’s this . . . twenty questions?”

Torn between telling Lulu her reason for asking or keeping it to herself, Aimee bit her lip. Lulu might have useful information. But Aimee didn’t like disclosing what had happened.

“Won’t you tell me about Josiane?”

“Any special reason?”

Besides being your client and dropping big money, Aimee almost said. “Keep this between us. Josiane was the woman killed in the passage.”

Aimee heard a long gasp. Then silence. What she wouldn’t give to watch Lulu digesting this news.

“The serial killer . . . but how. . . . They never release the victim’s names,” Lulu said, almost whispering.

“The victim was wearing a silk Tong jacket with Mahjong buttons.” Aimee was guessing.

“Mon dieu. . . . It must be her. Why hurt Josiane?” said Lulu, her voice shaking in shock.

“The flics will want to question you, Lulu.”

The shop door opened with a gust of wind.

“Delivery!”

“Ici. . . .”

The rest of Lulu’s words were lost in the wind, but she was moving. Disconcerted by her change in position, Aimee didn’t know which way to turn. Where had Lulu gone?

“What’s wrong with you?” Lulu’s voice came from behind her now.

Aimee was hesitant to admit she couldn’t see. That she was blind and vulnerable, dependent on another blind women to help her. She didn’t feel like a detective, more like an awkward victim who asked silly