Murder in the Bastille

Iliescu wore a skinny T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. He lurched toward the grille. He kept rubbing his nose and looked flushed and feverish. Shakes like a junkie, Bellan thought. But more buff than the usual twitching skin-and-bone types.

They went back to an office.

“Looks like you had some bad shit, eh?”

“I don’t do drugs,” Iliescu said, with a thick Romanian accent. He heaved, then covered his mouth with his hand as if about to throw up. “Never, I work out.”

All through the short interrogation, Bellan noticed Iliescu fighting waves of nausea.

“Where do you come from?”

“Budapest.”

One of his palms had numbers written in ink on it. Numbers with odd curlicues on them.

“What’s that?”

“I write notes to myself,” Iliescu said, breathing faster. “If I don’t write down the time, I’m late for work. Listen, I’ve got a job.”

“We’ll have to search your domicile,” Bellan said, cutting it short. “I’ve applied for a search warrant.”

Iliescu’s eyes rolled up in his head. He gagged and fell back in his chair. Alarmed, Bellan pulled on some latex gloves, from a box kept handy on the desk. He grabbed the wastebasket almost in time for Iliescu to spew inside it.

And then Bellan saw the blackened skin under the man’s arms. Big charred places, some cracked and bleeding. Cigarette burns? He looked closer. Bigger. He’d never seen anything like this.

“Get the on-call medico here. Right away,” he shouted into the hallway.

The sounds of scuffling and the banging of metal drawers came from the hallway.

“Nobody answers,” said a duty sergeant. “Will a paramedic do?”

“Anybody, quick!”

A short man with a graying beard wearing lab coat rushed in.

“What’s up?”

“Look at his arm.”

“Spanish Inquisition time eh, Bellan?” said the paramedic. “Burning your victims these days?”

“They’re not new burns,” Bellan said.

“But recent. Notice the blackened skin.” He pointed.

Iliescu’s eyes fluttered. His skin appeared clammy and moist, but he was still coherent. “They’ll fire me if I don’t show up at work,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You mean you’ll lose your drug connections,” Bellan said.

Iliescu tried to sit up as the paramedic brought in another man to help him.

“No drugs,” said Iliescue. “Never.”

“Take him to Hotel Dieu,” Bellan said. Hotel Dieu, on Ile de la Cite, one of the oldest charity hospitals in Paris, treated prisoners and the indigent.

“No! I’ll lose my job!”

“Where do you work?”

“The loading bay at the Opera,” said Iliescu.

Something clicked. Vaduz, the serial killer, had worked there, too. “Do you know Patrick Vaduz?”

Bellan saw recognition in Iliescu’s fevered eyes.

“That pervert!” said Iliescu. “He made everyone’s skin crawl. We avoided him.”

After wheeling Iliescu out, the paramedic looked back at Bellan from the door,

“It’s odd, but it’s as if he has a major case of sunburn. A megadose.”

Bellan stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

“But no one gets sunburned in just one spot, do they?” said the paramedic, tugging his beard.

Friday

RENE CLUTCHED THE ROPE railing as the gangplank swayed. He wished he could suppress the churning of his stomach. A porthole snapped shut on a boat down the quai.

The bright glare from the water and greasy oilslick danced in front of him. Seasick had been one of his middle names growing up. Le petit was the other.

The slim dark blue peniche, moored in the Port de Plaisance, swayed in the wake of a tugboat. The barge’s hold had been converted to a covered living space. STARLA was lettered in white across the hull.

“Allo? Anyone there?” called Rene. His words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what he’d say if the door opened.

No answer.

He knocked on the door. Again and again.

The lapping of water against the wooden hull was the only response.

He looked around then turned the doorknob.

Locked.

Weathered wrought-iron chairs and a glass table took up the deck space. On the other side, by some piled deck chairs, he saw a round porthole. And another larger one, circled by rusted bronze. Unlocked. If he opened it wide enough, he just might squeeze through.

Should he?

He saw no sign of life on the next boat.

Breaking and entering was more Aimee’s metier. Yet, if he continued to stand here, he’d learn nothing.

Alors, he might as well try. He pulled the deck chairs over as a shield, opened the porthole wider, and shimmied inside, landing on a slick pine floor. Newspapers were strewn across the counter. Rene looked. The mastheads read Romania-Libera.

He pulled on the latex gloves that he’d taken from his pocket, as he’d seen Aimee do countless times. Then rolled up his jacket sleeves and got to work, hoping to find something that dealt with Mirador. He’d have to find it soon and get out.

In a drawer, he saw names, hours, and what looked like break-times, listed on a sheet. A work roster for different shifts? He glanced down . . . Iliescu, Dragos.

His excitement mounted. He’d found Dragos. At least where he’d been known. And he’d found it all by himself.

Footsteps pounded on the wooden gangplank.

Merde . . . he was coming back!

Rene looked for somewhere to hide.

Where?

The doorknob turned. Locked.

Rene dodged under the table that was bolted to the floor. Against the bulkhead were the built-in knee-high cabinets. He heard footsteps circling the boat like he had, someone trying the windows. Out of options, Rene opened a latched cabinet and backed himself inside a musty damp space big enough for a trunk. A man with longer legs would never have fit inside.

He prayed that he wouldn’t sneeze. His hand fell on a dirty beige canvas bag. Slants of custard-hued light came through the space where the cushioned seat missed meeting the wall.

In the cramped, hot space, Rene’s hip throbbed. On his right were glass cylinders. Long, fat, test tube-like, poking out from a bag.

But his gaze caught on the bag’s dirty canvas flap that bore the initials DI . . . Dragos Iliescu! He wished whoever was tramping about outside would leave so he could exit with Iliescu’s bag.

In his dreams.