Murder in the Bastille

“I didn’t learn much about the MRI,” she said. “But I enjoyed myself. Merci.”

“That’s the point,” he said. “Chantal and the others frequent the bar we went to. The owner was a madame way back when, a ‘character,’ as people say.”

“A colleague of Mimi’s?”

He laughed. “That’s the rumor. People watch out for each other here. The quartier takes care of the non-sighted.”

Her heart chilled. “Not well enough. I was attacked in the passage and Josiane was killed.”

“But the serial killer’s . . .”

“It wasn’t him. It was someone who knew Josiane.”

“Let’s concentrate on the present,” he said.

And then she felt his fingers on her lips. Then his lips on hers. Warm and searching.

And she was 16 again . . . late kisses in a hallway at night, stolen and wonderful. Something mysterious revealed for the first time.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he said.

What did he see in her?

The door opened. “Dr. Lambert . . . is that you?” Madame Danoux’s distinctive contralto filled the hall.

By the time Aimee got to bed, her tiredness had evaporated, leaving a brittle restlessness. Didn’t patients fall for their doctors all the time? What a cliche.

Again, she wondered what had appealed to him? She was blind. Had it been pity . . . a mercy gesture?

Yet, he hadn’t said he was married or involved. She hadn’t felt a ring on any of his fingers.

And what good would she be to a man? How could it go anywhere? Did she want it to go anywhere?

Stop.

But he knew how to kiss. If she didn’t quit this, she’d be fantasizing about him all night. Forget counting sheep. She had to switch gears, distract herself, but she couldn’t call Rene, it was too late.

She felt for the laptop, trying to ignore the mustiness and mothball scent emanating from the corner armoire, wishing Miles Davis, her puppy, was curled at her feet. As usual.

But thank God, he was with Rene’s neighbor in Les Halles. He needed care and she couldn’t provide it. Maybe they could enroll in the guide dog course together.

After booting up the laptop, she created a file, titled it Chanson and typed in what bothered her. A big list in no particular order. And as she typed, the voice repeated the words. After five minutes she played the list back.

Over and over.

Then she arranged them in order of importance. Blindness, Vincent’s obstinate refusal to furnish the hard drive, and Mirador with Draz, the scum, rated as the top three.

And Rene. She worried about his health, what he’d found out, and what he might miss. She often missed things, only to notice them later. Or details might hit her as she walked away or in the middle of the night.

Like now.

This was the kind of thought process she’d learned from her father and grandfather, growing up in a household of policemen. Not to mention the smoky Pelote nights with half the Commissariat playing cards around the kitchen table. The talk. The nuances, the glances, the tipoffs. The way they treated their indicateurs. Every flic nourished informers. Had to. By osmosis, she’d absorbed what to be aware of, what to suspect, and how to tell when something was being withheld.

Fat lot of good that did her now. She wasn’t in the field. She had to depend on Rene. And part of her worried about people’s cruelty to him because of his stature.

She wanted to tear her short, spiky hair out, but not seeing the result would ruin the pleasure. All she could do, besides stew, would be to put her fingers to work. She felt around, made sure the modem wires hooked into the phone line.

She couldn’t do much about her blindness. But she could find out if Mirador had a website and garner info from it. Rene would get the scoop from Josiane’s editor, but in case it might help . . . she’d call in the morning and butter up whoever hired the casual labor . . . assuming she got that far.

“Bienvenue a Mirador,” came a slick media-trained voice at the website. She found the fiscal and corporate structure, how they complied with building codes governing construction.

She hoped Rene had reached everyone on Josiane’s speed dial. . . . Had the killer’s number been listed? Was that why he wanted the phone? Or did he think the last call could be traced? That thought jarred her.

Of course, if she planned to murder someone she wouldn‘t be that stupid. And she didn’t think he was. But the attack on her, the similarity to the Beast of the Bastille’s method bothered her. In its very similarity, it seemed too planned to resemble the serial killer.

Disturbing. This was someone with access to inside knowledge. Fear danced up her spine.

Draz, the Romanian, might have prior convictions. A long shot. She didn’t even know his last name. Or if he was in the country legally. But checking on the off chance that he had a prior record would save a lot of time if he did. Her father always said “follow your nose.”

What he left out, but adhered to faithfully, was procedure. She’d grown up intimately acquainted with investigative procedure, having done her homework, and lost several baby teeth, on the Commissariat marble floor. Following procedure, if nothing else, eliminated unnecessary legwork—now at a premium, since there was only so much Rene could do on his own.

She found the cell phone, hit the number of Le Drugstore . . . once the sole all night pharmacy and cafe in Paris. The worn 70s decor, pricey service, and the location on the Champs-Elysees deterred her visiting. Not to mention the suburban backwash attracted by the seedy glitter.

“Martin, please.”

“You are . . .?

“Aimee Leduc, Jean-Claude’s daughter.”

Pause. He must be checking.

“Call back in three minutes.”

“D’accord, merci.”

Standard operating procedure for contacting Martin, her father’s old informant. At least he was still alive and he seemed to be in operation.

After one A.M., despite rain, sickness, or citywide strikes, Martin held court at a back table. He sat near the rear exit, where he could easily slip away.

The phone cabinet, down the tiled stairs branching left from the restrooms, functioned as his communication center. No cell phone, but he brokered information, traded it like a commodities broker. If he didn’t know, he’d find out. Not always a lot, but quality. And worth every franc.

He owed Aimee’s father for saving his skin at least twice. And being of the old school, that counted. Certain ethics prevailed and debts transferred, like a legacy, to offspring. Aimee knew she could count on Martin for something.

She counted to 180 then called the number for the phone cabinet.

“Bonsoir, Martin.”

“Aaah, ma petite mademoiselle!” his voice boomed, gritty like gravel on an unpaved road. ”Such a long time. Ca va?”

She imagined his oversized tortoiseshell glasses, his gray wavy hair combed back, prominent nose, and dancing eyes. A charmer in his own roguish way. Her father always said Martin could have been a first class ship’s cruise director if he’d only trod the straight and narrow.

The last time she’d seen Martin was the day before the bombing in Place Vendome that had killed her father. He’d furnished information about a gang in the eighth arrondisse-ment. Unrelated. But countless nights, when she’d woken up, she’d wondered if it really was.

The department hadn’t sent flowers when her father died, but Martin had. A bouquet of yellow jonquils. And a donation to the war widows, her father’s favorite charity. Crime created strange partnerships.

“And your dog, smarter than ever?”

The pang of missing Miles Davis hit her.