Murder in the Bastille

“This has nothing to do with that,” he said, his voice low, filled with emotion. “Look, Aimee I’ve been keeping this quiet. One of my friends had a relationship with her. But I’m shocked to learn she’s dead.”

“Your friend? If you knew her, why didn’t you speak to her?”

“But I didn’t know her, not to talk to anyway. There’s a lot more on my mind than a friend’s estranged lover.”

“Martine was in Bordeaux, didn’t you see her?”

Wouldn’t Martine have told Vincent about the attack on her?

“Tiens! I prepared the groundwork. Then I just missed her. Alain Ducasse had demanded a correction in the nouvelle cuisine review about to print. Another impending catastrophe. So she flew to Lyon, soothed him, and sweet-talked him out of it. She works miracles, does Martine.”

She knew Martine. And she believed him.

Metal clanged in the background and what sounded like knocking, then a door opening.

“I have to go,” said Vincent.

“Who killed Josiane?”

“Leave me alone,” said Vincent. His voice cracked.

“These Russian e-mails weren’t part of the Opera advertising campaign were they?”

“Russian e-mails?”

“Why did you encrypt them?”

“I don’t contact the Russian Opera or encrypt e-mails,” said Vincent. “Why would I?” But his voice slowed, as if weighing his words.

“Rene made backup tapes,” she said. “It’s all on there.”

“You’re folle! Out of your mind.”

And he hung up. One thing she could say for Vincent, he was consistent; tearing up contracts, walking out, and hanging up on her. But he’d sounded genuinely surprised hearing of the attack on her and of Josiane’s murder.

Then what was he hiding? And what friend’s affair had he been shielding?

“Where are we going?” asked Aimee, as they got into the Citroen.

“Vincent’s office.”

“You want to try to make him reconsider in person?”

“Can’t hurt,” said Rene. “His office is on rue Charenton. Close by.”

She heard Rene’s turn signals beat a pattern. From outside the window came the revving of cars shifting into first gear.

“He’s scared, Rene,” she said. “He says his friend was having an affair with Josiane.”

“Two ends of the spectrum, aren’t they?”

“These e-mails generated a lot of steam,” she said.

“But why would Vincent kill her?” asked Rene.

Aimee shook her head and regretted it. The sparks behind her eyelids moved.

“The Proc’s assistant will meet with us before the hearing on Monday if . . .”

“How will we explain the encrypted Russian e-mails?”

“Russian e-mails . . . is that what you were talking about?”

And she described what she’d discovered among Vincent’s deleted e-mails as the car sped along.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But when I confronted him now, he sounded surprised. Denied knowledge of them. And somehow, I believe him.”

She heard Rene inhale. “So someone stole his password?”

Rene had a good point. She hadn’t considered that.

“Or used his computer and logged on with their own. A secretary would know who had access to his office,” she said.

“But first, let’s talk with Vincent, make sure he’s being straight with us.”

But Vincent wasn’t in his office. His secretary said he hadn’t returned and didn’t know when he would.

“Who has access to Monsieur Csarda’s office?” asked Rene.

“Talk to Monsieur Csarda,” said the secretary, irritation evident in her voice. “Excuse me, but we’re closing now.”

BACK IN Madame Danoux’s apartment, Aimee got on her hands and knees and felt each armchair and cabinet until she found the old record player. Right where Madame Danoux had told her it would be. And Madame’s records. Her collection of old songs from the Bastille.

The floor grumbled. She clutched the nearest thing. The leg of a coarse horsehair upholstered divan. She had to calm down, remember it was only the Metro passing below in the bowels of Bastille.

Rene had gone to copy the morgue log and would leave it in an envelope for Bellan at the Commissariat. She didn’t want to get Serge in trouble, so they had to disguise her morgue source.

Right now she wanted to hear music. Find the old Bastille songs. The power button stuck out, like the one in her father’s old stereo set. Like on all the phonographs from that time. Her hands traveled over the plastic hood.

She pushed what felt like the turntable switch.

The record dropped onto the turntable. The needle joined it with a soft whisper. A slight crackle, then Jacques Brel’s voice soared with When one only has love to give to those whose only fight is to search for daylight. The guitar and Brel’s words, struck her. Moved her.

The French analyzed him. But it was his own Belgians who knew the gray streets of Brussels that he evoked, the wistfulness of old lovers who meet again.

Too much like the way she felt. She ran her fingers over record jackets, so many, dusty and peeling. In the end she put on the next one that smelled old. She put her index finger on the hole and after trial and error, the disk slipped down the tall, thin record holder.

“Nini peau le chien of the Bastille,” Aristide Bruant’s turn-ofthe-century chanson of a third-class streetwalker accompanied by accordions and a scratchy voice.

She froze. That was it . . . the song. The one her grandmother used to play, the song she had heard in the background over the cell phone. The funny title, skin of the dog . . . as a little girl she’d wondered if it meant Nini’s complexion or her cheap “fur” wrap.

Her mind raced. The same music was in the background . . . Nini le peau chien . . . just like that night.

The doorbell rang. Was it Rene? Should she answer?

“Who’s there?”

“Madame Danoux?” asked a familiar voice.

Surprised, Aimee stood, took small steps, then bumped into the door. She felt for the lock, turned the deadbolt, pulled the door ajar with the chain still on it. Cold, stale air came in from the hallway.

“It’s me,” said Dr. Guy Lambert. “Can I come in?”

She slid the chain back and let him in.

A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “Ca va?”

“Never better,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a huge smile. “Madame Danoux’s not here.”

“But you’re the purpose of my visit,” he said, taking her hand. “We were talking about dinner, remember?”

She liked his hands; the warmth and the way his fingers tapered. Slender yet strong.

How could she have forgotten?

“Notice any changes in your vision?”

“More of the same: swirling dots and pebble patterns or a grayish net. Is this what it will be like?” she said. “It makes me dizzy like a whirlpool that never ends. Nauseous.”

“That could persist for a long time,” he said. “Nothing happens quickly, I’m afraid.”

His voice moved. Where was he?