Murder in the Bastille

inflammatory medication, see if it reduces the swelling more effectively. Schedule your next appointment for Monday.”

By Monday she could be dead. And that wasn’t her depression speaking.

An older nurse guided her to pick up her prescription. By the time she’d made it back to Madame Danoux’s, she felt so tired and dispirited that she fell asleep.

She woke up to a chill in the room. It must be evening. Blind people must save a lot on their energy bill since they used so little electricity for light, she reflected.

Then, from outside the window, she heard a church bell strike twelve. Only noon.

What if the Romanian had an arrest record, but it was sitting on someone’s desk? Or had been filed with the morning reports, like so many of the backlog cases. Overworked flics got to them when they had desk time. She knew they always aimed to clear their desks by noon.

She had to do something until she could check with Martin. That wouldn’t be for hours. She called the Commissariat again, asked for the records department.

“Lieutenant Egerie? I’m Aimee Leduc. My father worked with you.”

Pause. She heard raised voices in the background, like an argument.

“So you’re Jean-Claude’s daughter!”

Egerie, whose name meant muse, suffered teasing because of it. He’d been the dispatcher on her father’s shift. A tall man, thin as a rail, he lived with his mother. He had a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed when he talked, which had fascinated her as a little girl. Sometimes, in the Commissariat, after school when the others were busy he’d bend his double-jointed fingers and do amazing tricks.

“I remember when you got those rollerskates, not like the ones they have today,” said Lieutenant Egerie. “The wheels came off . . .”

“And you were the only one who could fix them,” she said, “everyone else was helpless. Just like now.”

He laughed. “Still the same. But you’re not asking me for help now, are you?”

She told him about Dragos.

“Let me see,” he said, his voice tired, “we’re down four investigating officers due to flu. They’ve pulled staff for the explosives case. Everyone here’s doing double shifts.”

Funny, Morbier hadn’t told her that.

“Of course, just thought I’d ask,” she said. “What explosives?”

“Very hush-hush,” he said. “I haven’t heard much.”

And he usually did.

“I’ll sniff around for you on Dragos. No promises.”

She hung up. And for a moment, thoughts of Dr. Guy Lambert crossed her mind. She wondered if he’d watched the sunrise this morning. For half a franc, she’d call and ask him what colors had painted the dawn.

But he’d referred her to another doctor. And hadn’t even told her. Forget him.

A minute later she dialed his office.

“Dr. Lambert’s in a meeting,” the receptionist told her.

“Please have him call me . . .” she paused. This was about her health, not about some silly kiss after several drinks that he regretted. A delicious kiss. Of course, he’d done the classic French naval manuever . . . made for the target, then veered off and run. “This concerns my MRI results.”

And it struck her again . . . did his opinion matter? She feared the worst. The retinologist hadn’t even responded to her queries.

Chantal and Lucas led full, active lives, adapting and managing without sight. She could learn to live with the darkness. Even if she didn’t want to. Even if it wasn’t fair. Even if the man who caused it was still out there somewhere.

And she would.

She had to keep telling herself that.

She’d never saddle Rene with a whining, awkward burden. That’s if he would still want to work with her. She’d have to organize her life, adapt her apartment and the office, learn Braille, train Miles Davis to cope. And pay her bills.

But first she had to find out who was after her, before they came calling again. And deal with Vincent’s predicament, as she’d promised Rene.

She booted up her laptop and opened the Populax file one more time. Checked each entry pertaining to Incandescent, the gun-running firm Vincent had unwittingly represented. After two tiring hours of examining data via the robotic screen reader, she felt convinced Vincent had honored the marketing duties outlined in his standard short contract.

Why would he fear showing his clean laundry in public? Why had he torn up their contract?

Curious, she delved further, checking his e-mail. Then his deleted e-mail. Common thinking was if you deleted e-mail it was erased from the hard drive. But that was true only if you didn’t know where to find it. Once written or received, nothing left the hard drive.

After reading Vincent’s e-mails, she concluded that he was having an affair. A very hot one, almost worshipful in tone, with someone called Inca.

If it was exposure of these e-mails that bothered him, she’d ask Rene, see if he thought they could have a word with la Proc. Try and work out a deal citing the intimacy factor. They’d done it before and saved face for a few of their clients.

When she was about to end her search, the robotic voice said “Unable to read encrypted e-mail file.”

Startled, she sat back, alarms sounding in her brain.

Vincent had encrypted part of his e-mail! That bothered her. Why just some of it, not all?

She checked the date. A Friday. Rene picked up all client backup tapes on Friday mornings. A routine. And then it occurred to her that Inca . . . might be short for Incandescent . . . or someone who worked there.

Was Vincent having an affair with someone at Incandescent? Had he wanted to withhold the hard drive because of an affair with an employee . . . an employee in a company being investigated?

She wondered if Rene’s standard backup files would display the e-mail before it had been encrypted. A long shot, she figured, but worthy of scrutiny. Otherwise she’d ask Rene for software to crack the encryption. But depending on the code, and with her handicap, it would take time. Longer than they had.

She rummaged in the laptop carrying case, feeling for the velcro tabs holding the tapes, assuming they were where she hoped Rene kept them.

Sun beat down on her leg, warm and lush for October. A nice break from the rain. From somewhere in the apartment, a parakeet’s song trilled.

Below, a Frexpresse delivery man announced his arrival with a shout from the courtyard. “Delivery!”

What she wouldn’t do right now for an espresso and a cigarette! Yet she wasn’t up to navigating Madame Danoux’s kitchen, redolent of bay leaf, without any help. It would be as daunting as negotiating the Metro platform without a white cane.

Twenty minutes later, after much experimentation, she found the right Populax backup files. They had an extensive batch, since Vincent had been a client for several months. After another two tries, she found the tape.

The robotic voice enunciating the contents of Inca’s hot emails was almost funny. But something nagged her. Why hadn’t Vincent told her? Or had he been embarrassed because she would know the recipient?

She put that thought aside to follow up later.

After Inca’s torrid e-mail correspondence came a series of innocuous messages from Popstar. The subject read Marmalade tea. Then she deciphered:

Call 92 23 80 29 for a good time.

Why encrypt this sort of thing? Something smelled off. Way off.

She decided to check each detail; she reprogrammed the software. Now the robotic voice read each word of the email header. Her system had trace route capability, so she converted the e-mails’ IP address by using a DOS command line and pinging the name which came back as a number: 217.73.192.109.

This pinging, as it hopped on the IP’s traceroute, indicated how many servers the e-mail had gone through. She figured if she listened long enough, she’d hear a pinging symphony.