Murder in the Bastille

“Next time call me when you see him, Yann. Anytime.”

“But his friend’s still here, sniffing around.”

Rene froze.

“Which friend?”

“One of the gang who evicted old people. Tracksuit, big shoulders.”

“I’m on my way. Try and keep him there,” Rene said, grabbing his keys.

“How can I do that?”

Rene heard the panic in Yann’s voice. But if he’d got up the courage to call him, there was hope.

“You’ll think of something Yann. Call me on my cell phone if he leaves. 06 78 54 39 09.”

RENE GUNNED his Citroen down rue du Louvre. He thanked God he’d filled the tank earlier as he crossed three arrondissements. He’d passed through the Marais and lower Bastille in record time when his cell phone rang.

“He’s getting on his bicycle, this mec,” said Yann.

The cell phone reception buzzed and wavered.

“Can you speak up, Yann. What’s he wearing?”

“Navy blue tracksuit with those stripes down the side; he’s on an old battered bike,” said Yann, his voice brimming with excitement.

Not so different from many of the cyclists Rene passed. At least two people wore that type of gymsuit.

“Can you tell in which direction he’s headed?”

“Turned onto rue Gobert,” said Yann. “He’s either headed down Boulevard Voltaire or . . .”

“I’m on Boulevard Voltaire,” interrupted Rene. “Does he have a ponytail like Dragos?”

“Non, short black hair,” he said. “There’s a funny straw basket on the front with plastic flowers.”

And there he was, in the bike lane. Leafy trees canopied the wide boulevard, casting dappled shadows on cars and pedestrians.

“Got him,” Rene said. “He’s ahead of me, Yann. Call me if you see Dragos again. Merci.”

Rene slipped the phone in his pocket and edged the Citroen closer. The man, pedaling hard, wiped a brow glistening with sweat. He appeared intent on the busy traffic, turned right on rue Charenton and weaved his bicycle through the crowded one way street to Avenue Ledru Rollin.

Rene kept pace, glad he was behind the wheel. The only other time he’d followed anyone had been with Aimee in Belleville. At least he didn’t have to run this time.

After crossing Avenue Daumesnil, right behind l’hopital Quinze-Vingts, the bicyclist turned into a small street leading to the pedestrian bridge crossing the Bastille’s canal. Moored on both sides of the canal were upscale boats and several peniches, remodeled barges.

Rene pulled over, stuck on a one-way street. He jumped out of his car, ready to pursue. But he saw the man pedal the bike across the bridge, then coast down to the long dock lining the basin of the canal that fed into the Seine.

The man propped the bike against the pitted stone wall, Henri II’s fortifications surrounding the former fourteenth century moat. The bike was below a niche in the old, worn wall. Weeds wormed their way in its crevices. He hopped onto the narrow gangplank and disappeared.

Rene pulled out the cell phone and called Aimee, determined to keep his tone light.

“Aimee, I followed one of Dragos’s friends to a peniche moored here in the Bastille basin.”

“Dragos?”

“Yann got the name wrong,” Rene said.

The churning water lapped the quai below Rene, as a peniche with bright red geraniums, lace curtains, and a child playing with a dog on deck, chugged by.

“What’s he doing?”

Rene told her. “It’s a waiting game now. Until he comes out. But I have to meet Serge at the morgue when he gets off work.”

“So tell me Rene, if this Romanian, Dragos, thought I was Josiane . . . why did he want to kill her?”

“How about this?” he said. “She wrote an expose of Mirador’s illegal evictions. He tried to stop her.”

“That fits. But why make it look like an attack by the Beast of Bastille?”

“A good cover.” He wished for the thousandth time Aimee had never picked up Josiane’s phone and answered it.

“Somehow, I doubt it,” she said. “It’s not the immigrant thugs’ style. Bold as they are, they’d have to know a lot more about the serial killer to plan it. Who knows how much French they understand? Besides, they’d speak with an accent.”

She made sense.

“Whoever called on that phone knew Josiane, and was trying to lure her into the passage. He got me instead. The Romanians’ trademark isn’t subtlety.”

“So that leaves us . . . ?”

“With more questions.”

Below on the quai, the man Rene had followed emerged.

“He’s come out,” said Rene. “I’ve got to go.”

“Alors, be careful.”

The man strode at a rapid pace, mounted his bike, and was down the quai before Rene reached his car. By the time Rene arrived at the Place de la Bastille roundabout, circling the Bastille column surmounted by the gold- winged figure of the genius of Liberty, the bike had disappeared. He could have gone in any of the 11 different directions radiating from the column.

What to do now?

Only one thing. He drove on and parked along the Boulevard de la Bastille.

Fear flickered over him as he crossed the bridge on foot. The man had seemed to be in good shape and Dragos, or others like him, might be on the boat. His confidence ebbed despite his martial art practices and black belt from the taekwondo dojo.

Rene took a deep breath and walked up the gangplank.

Friday

A HUNDRED THINGS WEIGHED on Loic Bellan’s mind, which was webbed by a dull receding hangover, the least of which was the mec from a derelict building rave party allegedly selling Ecstasy. Bellan also had several cases on his desk. On top of it all, the little doubt about Aimee’s attacker being the Beast of Bastille still nagged him.

But the duty detective leaving his double shift had dumped everything on Bellan’s desk and rubbing his tired eyes, said, “Welcome back, we’re short staffed. Your date’s in lockup four.”

Bellan considered himself lucky to have grabbed a bed in a building used for out of town flics on temporary assignment. At least by working late he’d avoid facing the dormitory- style bunkhouse with its bare walls that would drive him to finish the flask of scotch malt whiskey in his pocket.

And he’d avoid Marie’s silent accusing face that woke him up at night, slicing through his dreams. And the small bundle in the Vannes hopital, his son Guillaume, who’d lapsed into renal failure and was fighting for his life.

Bellan opened the thick metal door and stood in front of the wire cages in the Commissariat where they kept the prisoners. Like animal pens, he’d always thought. He stared at a sullen young man sitting on the narrow bench, a sheen of perspiration on his face.

“Iliescu, D.” said Bellan, consulting the file. “Come with me.”