“So you didn’t see Barzac, the drug dealer?”
“Like I said, I watched the video. Only a one-night rental, you know.”
“Let’s go, Aimee,” said Rene.
But she didn’t want to let it go without one more try.
“Are you sure, Monsieur Piot, you didn’t see Vaduz?”
“Well, I’ve had an archbishop, but never a serial killer. I thought they only had those in
“He’s called the Beast of Bastille.”
“Aaaah,” he said. “The only transaction that night was for a black Peugeot,” said Piot. “Man with bad teeth. He sat in here a while.”
Stopping in her tracks, Aimee pulled Rene back. “Tell us about him, monsieur.”
“He used my bathroom. Acted funny after that.”
“Did he buy drugs from Barzac?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. He said he didn’t like the types in the cafe, so he wanted to wait here while I worked. I don’t mind company when I’m grinding the key. Makes the time go faster. And Brutus, well, no one tries anything funny with him here.”
“Did you write the man’s license plate number down?”
Certainly. It’s required,” the man said. A bout of coughing
She felt Rene nudge her.
“Can you repeat that Monsieur, please?”
He did.
“It matches the report of the stolen black Peugeot,” said Rene.
“So you made this man,” said Aimee, “a key for a stolen car?”
Why would Vaduz get a key made? If he was planning on a long trip it would be easier with keys!
“Did I know that?” Irritation sounded in Piot’s voice. “People lose keys all the time. Most of the time they run into the
“Please tell me how long he was in here,” she said.
“Let’s see, the first fit didn’t work,” he said. “Then I had to refit the shank, since those older Peugeots have a different ignition system . . .”
Aimee tried to keep her booted feet from tapping . . . why couldn’t he hurry up?
“Looks like, aaah, now I remember,” he said. “After I tried that I watched the rest of
“What time, Monsieur Piot?” asked Rene.
“Until midnight, I’d say. Then he drove off.”
ALL THE way back in Rene’s car, she sat hunched over, trying to imagine the streets and people. Flashes of light blinked every so often in the gray haze before her eyes, and she realized it must be the globes from the streetlights.
Was this progress? Shades of light and dark? Hope sputtered in her. What if her sight returned? She pushed that aside. No time to think about that now.
At least they had proof Vaduz was in Porte la Chapelle at midnight. Even if he U-turned and went to Bastille, it would have taken him a while to cross the eastern part of Paris. No matter what Barzac might say, the
But she knew that something stared her in the face and she couldn’t see it. Literally or figuratively.
“We’re missing something, Rene,” she said. “Like Piot said, it’s right there but we don’t see it.”
AIMEE SAT IN THE clinic in l’hopital Quinze-Vingts hugging her bag. The rustle of magazine pages amid frequent calling of patient names from the reception indicated efficiency. To her it also said impersonality.
She fingered the hem of her leather miniskirt, tugged it down, and felt for the zipper. Good, it was on the side, where it should be. She couldn’t stand the waiting, the doing nothing. And the darkness.
After last night, everything made her edgy. She figured the attacker would strike again to get Josiane’s phone and finish the job. He’d be stupid not to.
The
“Leduc, Aimee,” said a loud voice over the scratchy speaker. She was gripped by the elbow.
“Come this way,” said a young woman.
Blasts of dry heat hit her legs as they walked down a corridor echoing with footsteps, conversations, and doors whooshing open and closing.
“I’m Dr. Reyaud, the retinologist,” a man said.
“But I thought Dr. Lambert . . .”
“Let’s see what we have here,” said Dr Reyaud, guiding her to what felt like a smooth plastic chair. “He referred you to me.”
Without telling her?
“But he hasn’t .
“Have a seat,” he said.
She felt a glowing heat on her eyelid.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t worry, mademoiselle, this won’t hurt.”
His patronizing tone bothered her.
“Did you see the MRI results, Doctor?” she asked.
“Machines show us some details, but not everything,” he said. “Deciphering the brain’s architecture takes time.”
“Does that mean my retina’s involved?”
“Like I said, we see the damage but not necessarily the immune defenses and healing process battling it.”
No, he hadn’t said. But he wasn’t saying much.
“Dr. Lambert wants to run more tests . . .”
“I’ve taken over your case,” said Dr. Reyaud, “He has transferred your file to me.”
A sinking feeling came over her.
She’d made a fool of herself the other night with Dr. Lambert. Guy, as he’d wanted her to call him. Must have drank more than she’d realized. But he’d seemed amenable. More than amenable when he’d kissed her.
Dumb. She’d scared him off. Or had he scared himself off, wary of obligation?
He’d tried to be nice, that’s it. Got carried away and realized on his way home
“Doctor, my vision came back,” she said. “Not very clearly or for long. Last night I saw light and dark. But I did recognize things.”
“That’s quite common with trauma to the optic nerve,” he said. “Does your vision flicker in and out?”
She nodded. All the blinking sparks and pepper-like fog must mean bad news. “Doctor, will things get worse. . .can the inflammation affect other parts of my brain?”
She heard metal scratch. His stethoscope against his name badge. She felt him take her hand in his. They were large and warm.
“Mademoiselle, you’re young, healthy and strong-willed, according to your chart and from what I hear from Dr. Lambert,” he said. “There’s so much going for you. No one can predict the future. But let’s try a new anti-
