Murder in the Bastille

Alors, it’s so hard to say this,” Serge stumbled. “Better plan for the worst.”

Rene’s head felt heavy from the weight of his words.

“But I can’t tell that to Aimee,” said Rene. “She needs hope.”

Serge smacked the car’s hood.

“That’s why I work with those who don’t need explanations any more.” Serge looked away, shaking his head. “This shouldn’t have happened. But I’m being honest, Rene.”

“Me, too,” he said lifting the parking brake and shifting into first.

Rene drove back to the quai and opened the racing pages. Serge had been busy. Inside lay photocopies of the daily intake and outtake log of the morgue since Monday. And it made his head spin.

“ALLO ? ” S A I D Aimee, sitting up in bed.

“Serge photocopied the morgue log,” said Rene. “I’m trying to figure it out. But the handwriting’s terrible.”

“Good job. Look at Tuesday, under white female, late thirties or early forties found in . . .

“Voila. Estimated time of death: eleven p.m.,” he said. “Of course Serge said as much. Don’t you remember . . . the astrologer Miou-Miou predicted Josiane’s time of death?”

“Rene, hurry up. Read the rest.”

“Further on, at five a.m., body parts of white male, early twenties deposited from a charred automobile. Vaduz!”

“Does it give any time for the accident?”

“Non.”

“Rene, look for an attached police report. Sometimes they submit it with the body. A blue sheet. The writing on the photocopy will be fainter.”

She heard Rene inhale, the rustle of paper as he thumbed the attached sheets.

“Most of these seem like copies of lab requisitions. . .wait a minute,” he said. “In the middle of the sheaf one’s labelled Commissariat de 11ieme arrondissement. It’s just legible.”

“Tiens, Serge’s a genius,” said Rene. “This report states that a black 1989 Peugeot was reported stolen at ten-thirty p.m. Monday night. A couple attending a film near the Republique Metro saw a man breaking into their car. He fit Vaduz’s description. They couldn’t catch him and he drove away. The same car was involved in an accident later.”

“Voila,” she said. “Vaduz didn’t attack me.”

“But he could have driven from Republique . . .”

“I left the resto at ten-thirty,” she interrupted. “Somewhere, I have my receipt with the time; I needed it, to bill Vincent. So Vaduz couldn’t have attacked me if he was stealing the car. It’s doubtful that he could have killed Josiane in the next courtyard.”

Aimee paused.

“I’m trying to add all this up. Make a timeline.”

“Go on,” said Rene.

“If we can make the connections, I’ll call Bellan and demand that he reopen the case.”

“And Vaduz certainly couldn’t have attacked you in the Residence,” said Rene, his voice mounting in excitement. “He died early on Tuesday!”

“Bon. So according to the police log,” she said, “Monday night Vaduz stole a car at the same time I was attacked in Passage de la Boule Blanche.”

“But Serge attached another police report,” said Rene. “It’s not blue either.”

“Which states . . . ?”

“A man resembling Vaduz, identifiable by those horrible teeth, driving the stolen Peugeot, hung out at a cafe near Porte la Chapelle. Then he took off with one of the local drug dealers named Barzac.”

“That’s not so good,” she said, worried. Dope dealers were notorious for bending their stories. Especially if the dealer was caught with dope. “The drug dealer probably cut a deal.”

“Meaning?” asked Rene.

“If the dealer’s mentioned in the report, the flics interviewed him. So his testimony can go either way,” she said, “depending on what he’s up for. And how the flics prefer he testify.”

“Then what does it matter?” said Rene. His voice sagged.

“Are you all right, Rene?” Was she being insensitive, pushing him too hard? She’d heard fatigue before in his voice.

She was obsessed, but she didn’t want to use him at the cost of his health.

“I’m fine,” he said. “What about the MRI . . . what did the doctor say, the one you went out with for a drink?”

Pause. Should she tell Rene the way he’d kissed . . . the little, growing fantasy of regaining her sight and cooking the doctor dinner after a long day in the hospital? Dinner? . . . She didn’t know how to cook.

“He likes watching sunrises.”

She heard the rustling of paper.

“Look, we’re banging up against a brick wall, Aimee. That’s what I mean. The flics want to pin the blame on Vaduz; satisfy the victims’ families’ thirst for justice, and ensure the Prefet’s smooth retirement. They’ll ignore this, non? It’s easier for them to place the blame on Vaduz and pretend you’re crazy.”

“We need to talk with the cafe owner, Rene,” she said. “Feel like a drive?”

AIMEE FELT the car shudder as Rene downshifted and parked. According to Morbier, Porte la Chapelle’s reputation as a cesspool had grown worse in the two years since she’d been there; it had high dope traffic and East European prostitutes had set up shop under the concrete Peripherique and along the rail lines shooting up from Gare du Nord.

“It’s called Cafe des Roses?” asked Rene.

Aimee nodded. Then she wished she hadn’t, as resulting fireworks flashed in her head.

“Nice name for a fixer-upper,” he said. “Broken shutters, cracked pavement, peeling paint. And that’s just the outside.”

“So, no stars in the Michelin guide,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”

“The cafe’s across from a serrurie, with a big green key for the locksmith sign. That’s the only other functioning business.”

“Handy,” she said. “All the times I’ve locked myself out, I wish a serrurie had been nearby.”

“Several young men wearing dark windbreakers are standing out front of the cafe,” he said, “and on the pavement. The rest of the buildings are old, Haussman-era, with windows bricked-up.”

Rundown and anonymous. Like much of the area had become.

She heard him turn the ignition off.

“Cars stop,” Rene reported. “These men go to the windows, hold brief conversations.”

“Then what, Rene?”

“One just drove off.”

“Drug dealers,” she said. “Let’s have an espresso.”

“ME , I worked the counter that night,” said the cafe owner, who had a northern, Lille accent.

A former truck driver, Aimee figured. Many bought cafes upon retirement or when their backs gave out from crisscrossing France in 18-hour shifts, 52 weeks a year.

“My wife came down with la grippe. White-faced and weak. I sent her upstairs. Busy. That’s all I remember. Worked my feet off all night. My corns still ache.”

Aimee’s hand circled the espresso cup. She knew her hesitant entrance, gripping Rene’s shoulder, had brought them immediate attention. She heard the skipped beat of conversations, felt the weight of eyes on them. Heard a few guffaws from the corner.