Murder in the Bastille

“So where is he?”

“After a rampage outside Porte de la Chapelle, he crashed the car he stole. We’re not supposed to reveal this yet, especially to the media, but whatever they found was sent to the morgue.”

“You mean . . . Vaduz is dead. . . . When?” Why hadn’t Morbier told her?

“No announcements. No details released to our unit, anyway. So please keep it to yourself.”

“I want to, but if Vaduz died before I was attacked in the residence, that’s important.”

“How?”

“It could mean that someone else attacked me in the passage and killed Josiane, the same one who later came to the residence. That’s why I have to talk to Morbier.”

“Sergeant Bellan‘s handling the case. Everything goes through him. Of course, you’ll mention Josiane Dolet’s phone and reveal its whereabouts when I pass on the message to call you, won’t you?”

She nodded. “So they said I was trouble?”

“I made that up,” he said, “but looks like I got it right.”

Thursday Late Afternoon

RENE PRESSED THE SECOND number he’d copied from the list on Josiane Dolet’s speed dial.

“Architecture Brault,” said a middle-aged male voice.

“I’m calling concerning Josiane Dolet,” he said.

A pause. “Who’s this?”

“I’m with Leduc Detective,” he said, glancing up from the courtyard at the gleaming limestone buildings on the steam-washed cobblestoned alley. One could eat off the pristine stonework facades. A decade earlier, many would have avoided the area. It had been a district of weed-filled cours and small dilapidated porcelain and bronze fixture factories. These stood next to former seventeenth century nunneries that had once held an army of nuns in cloistered convents, seats of wealth and power that had rivaled the king’s. “Please spare me a few moments,” said Rene. “I’m downstairs.”

A head appeared at a window. All Rene could see was a halo of copper hair.

“I’ve got a backlog of clients . . .”

“We should talk in person,” Rene said. “Your number was on Mademoiselle Dolet’s speed dial.”

“My firm deals with many people.”

“This concerns Josiane Dolet’s murder. I just thought we should have a chat before I talk with the flics.” Rene let the silence hang.

“Ten minutes. Between clients,” he said. “The code’s 43A6, second floor, first door on the right.”

Rene took off his jacket, undid his right cufflink, rolled up the sleeve of his pink tinged custom-made shirt, got on his tiptoes, and just managed to hit the digicode.

The door buzzed. He pushed it open and reassembled himself in the glassed-in foyer, which melded two old factories. An ingenious arched portico opened up to an azure glass-roofed courtyard. Ochre-stained pots of bamboo bordered a minimalist bleached-wood desk. The reception area lay empty.

Rene took the lift. The wet weather kicked his arthritis into an aching winter mode early. He’d cut back his martial arts practices at the dojo. Not details he would share with Aimee in her condition. Or ever.

A man with thinning copper hair, small black-framed glasses, and a pale complexion stood as Rene entered. Surprise painted his face for a moment. Rene was used to that, and to the customary downward glance at his long torso and short legs.

“Rene Friant, of Leduc Detective.”

“Brault, of Brault Architecture,” the man said, extending his hand. Rene saw no welcome in the pale, guarded face.

Rene approached the side of the desk and shook hands. His arms wouldn’t have reached across the desk.

“You understand, I have a few minutes only,” Brault said, his thin mouth working in his long face. Expensive mechanical pencil tops showed in the pocket of his shirt. He wore tailored black denim jeans, a charcoal gray shirt and jacket, blue socks, and black hiking boots. All Gaultier by their look.

“Please sit down,” Brault said. “I’m concerned, but I don’t know how it involves me.”

After one glance at the tall, olive Philippe Starck-designed chair, Rene preferred to stand. “Non, merci,” Rene said. “I’ll get to the point.”

Instead, Rene headed to the window, shaking his head. He stood silently, figuring his next move, hoping to throw Brault off guard. The office window opened onto the coppered roof connected to the glass skylight. Vestiges of a bas-relief on the wall and verdigris-patinaed rain spouts stood out against the gable walls. Beyond, he saw a niche with a worn stone figure where the building roof overhung the street. Probably St. Anne, the patron saint of carpenters, Rene figured.

“What’s this about?” Brault said, breaking the silence.

“Josiane was protecting you, wasn’t she?” Rene asked, taking a stab in the dark.

A pencil lead cracked.

“Go ahead, talk to me. I’m not a flic,” Rene said. “What you tell me . . .”

“Goes to your boss, right?” Brault interrupted. “That salope of an editor who wants corroboration from two sources before he prints a fanny-licking article that makes it to France- Soir by nightfall.”

Rene struggled to keep the surprise from his face. “We don’t have to play it like that,” Rene said.

“Josiane was a good journalist. I don’t know why she associated with the likes of you.”

“Me?” Rene wielded his short arms in mock defense. What the hell was going on here? Brault had jumped from coolness to white-heat without a warm-up. He wished Aimee were here. He needed clues on how to proceed. And his hip ached.

“She had to pay rent like the rest of us,” he said.

“Josiane?”

Merde . . . had she been wealthy . . . had he blown it?

“There’s a lot you didn’t know about her,” Rene said, hoping he could bluff this out. He regretted it immediately. How lame it sounded! Why couldn’t he have a script or a computer program to guide him?

“Look, I won’t involve the flics,” said Rene, “if you tell me what you and Josiane were working on.”

Brault’s stainless steel intercom buzzed. “Planning commission’s assembled and waiting in the conference room, Monsieur Brault.”

“Tell me or I turn over my info,” Rene said. “I’m waiting.”

“What guarantee do I have you’ll conceal the fact that my number was on Josiane’s speed dial?”

Behind the small designer glasses, Brault’s eyes glared.

“We’re not the Brigade Criminelle,” Rene said, and winked. “One source works for me.” If that didn’t confuse Brault even more, he didn’t know what would. “There’s no benefit for me in involving the flics. I’ll erase your number.”

“Your boss knows, doesn’t he?” Brault glared.

Knows what? But Rene returned the glare in silence. And waited.

Brault snapped the mechanical pencil lead in and out, but it didn’t break. Just shot a little rain of pencil lead onto the Berber carpet.

“They hire flunkies to clear the tenants out,” Brault said. His tone was harsh and he spat the words out.

“Who does?”

“Mirador.”

“The big construction developer Mirador?”

Brault nodded.

“The Bastille Historic Preservation Society can’t compete with the palms greased by developers like Mirador. The Romanian spilled the beans one night after some 80 proof vodka. He plastered ceilings, did occasional jobs for us. There’s no reason to doubt him. The rue des Taillandiers project seems to be just the tip of the iceberg. That’s