questions.
“Arnica does wonders,” Lulu whispered. “Reduces the swelling. Sleep sitting up. And once those stitches come out. . .”
Did Lulu assume since her face was swollen and she wore dark glasses that Aimee had just had plastic surgery?
“Josiane wanted to look young, to recapture her youth.” Lulu went on, apparently satisfied with her own explanation. “That’s my theory. You know, some of them put on clear plastic shoes with patterned socks, carry a doughnut-shape shoulder bag, and buy a new face. You’ve had some work done, too, eh?”
Aimee stayed silent. Chantal cleared her throat and pinched Aimee.
“Are you a reporter, too?” Lulu asked her. Chantal must have shaken her head since Lulu went on, “Well, Josiane was blonde. Me, well my hair’s red now. I should be safe.”
Was it widely known that the victims were all blondes? Aimee remembered Morbier saying that, but this fact had not been mentioned the one time she’d heard about the crimes on the
”Lulu, no one’s safe.”
“You’re right.” Lulu let out a big sigh. “We’re dancing between landmines here. Complacency’s dangerous. I’ll get the faubourg association to do something.”
Aimee doubted they could do much. If they hadn’t stopped the Beast of Bastille before, what could a neighborhood association do now?
“Lulu, he attacked me, too,” Aimee said, “But Josiane was his target.”
“He attacked both of you?”
“It was the jacket,” said Aimee. “I think he confused us. He went for me, thinking I was Josiane.
Aimee kept her head steady and focused her eyes in what she hoped was the right direction.
“But the man who attacked me wasn’t the serial killer. The
Aimee hadn’t known. Did green types go in for cosmetic surgery? That seemed to strike a false note. But on the other hand, why not?
Footsteps tramped in the door, then came rustling noises, then the slinging metallic sound of clothes hangers sliding along a rack.
“Madame . . . I’ll take this in medium. Here’s my card.”
Aimee heard clicks, a muttered curse. Lulu must have slid a credit card through the portable machine, then slammed it hard on the pink concrete counter. She’d done the same thing with Aimee’s card last week. Another loud thwack and Aimee jumped. Right against something that jiggled. The beaded jewelry display?
“Piece of garbage, this thing.” Lulu’s voice, in a low growl, came from Aimee’s right. “My clients wait, the charge doesn’t go through. I end up doing this twenty times a day! Look, we’ll have to talk later.”
Aimee felt an arm and Lulu’s frangipani-scented lip tint brushing by her cheek and realized she was being escorted out the door. “I’ll do what I can.”
* * *
ALL THE way back along the slippery pavement, clinging to Chantal’s arm, Aimee wanted to kick herself. She knew she must look awful. And the crowded, narrow streets and cars whizzing by terrified her. Noises jumped out from everywhere.
Something chirped and startled her. Birds . . . near the Bastille column?
“That traffic signal’s for us,” Chantal said. “You can let my arm loose, you know. I’ll need it later and you’ve nearly squeezed off my blood circulation.”
“Sorry,” Aimee said, feeling sheepish. She was adrift in the sea of sounds.
“You need protection, now,” said Chantal. “You’ll feel safer once you master simple cane skills.”
Chantal left her in the lobby and Aimee rode the elevator by herself. The numbers were announced automatically, and she felt proud when she got off at her floor until, once again, she sensed another presence. Someone stood in the hallway. Somewhere near her room. Her voice caught in her throat.
She took two steps. Grabbed for the railing and missed. Found it the next time and reached for her keys.
“Looking for someone?” she asked.
Silence.
Paralyzed, she waited.
Then the elevator whished open behind her. She turned, her keys pointed.
“Shopping, in your condition?” Rene asked behind her. “Find anything?”
“I found out more about Josiane Dolet. Now I’m certain she was the intended victim,” Aimee said. “Anyone else here?”
“Just us.”
“Could you look inside my room for me?”
She felt him take the door key that she held between her fingers, poised in the attack mode, and brush by her.
The door clicked as it was unlocked. “Coast seems clear,” Rene said a moment later.
Was she paranoid? Hadn’t someone been standing there when she got out of the elevator?
She told him about Sergeant Bellan’s questioning and Morbier’s comments about Vaduz.
The attacker had taken nothing from her. She figured he’d been in a hurry when he found out she wasn’t the right woman.
“Time to get to work, partner,” she said, feeling her way along the wall. After a big breath and three steps, she reached her bed and kicked her bag under it.
She located a bottle of water, twisted the top, and took a slug. Half of it went down her shirt. Cold and soaking wet.
“Here’s the screen access program I promised you,” said Rene. “Blind programmers say DOS screen readers go quicker than what we’re used to. They’re dealing with strings of text with no graphic interface to slow it down. I think 128 megs of RAM should be enough for you. Schematics, variable capacity and interfaces work off those. Remember, the way we designed the Populax firewall?”
She heard the machine power up, the echoing pings as the net connection was made.
“A double password protected firewall, as usual!” she said.
“Click on Internet, then open browser,” Rene said.
A silky robotic-tinged voice responded “Log-in completed, internet connection established.”
“You’re wonderful, Rene.” Simultaneously, a surge of power ran through her. “Now I can investigate what’s bothering me.”
“What’s that?”
“Why did Vincent tear up our contract?” she said. She nodded, her fingers finding the keys, nestling in the ridges. Enjoying the familiar little clicks, feeling at home. Her fingers racing over the keys and responding to voice commands. “What is he hiding?”
She positioned the laptop on her bed, crossed her legs, and opened an internet browser. A pleasant male voice, deep and with a slightly robotic accent, responded to her key commands.
“Sexy enough for you?” Rene asked.
“He’s no Aznavour, but he’ll do,” she said. “Rene, I need a favor. Please copy these numbers.” She thrust the paper with Josiane’s speed dial numbers at him and the phone itself.
“And then . . .” she paused. She didn’t want to ask him to do this. But one of them had to comb the hard drive as soon as possible. Rene had provided her with the software so she could, and right now he would be better at interviewing someone.
“Up to calling on these folks and getting information from them, Rene?” she asked.
“It says Leduc Detective on our door,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”
