into the old artesian source from the Trogneux fountain across the street.
Late-night starlings twittered in the courtyard. The honeysuckle scent she remembered seemed stronger in the night air. By the time they reached the atelier’s glass door, she’d tripped several times on the worn stones.
She felt the glass. Tapped it lightly. “Mathieu?”
“Door’s open,” said Lucas.
She grabbed Lucas’s elbow, followed him. Followed the strong smells of paint thinner emanating from Mathieu’s atelier.
“Mathieu?”
No answer. From somewhere a Mozart sonata played, low and soothing. A tape, the radio?
She heard Lucas feeling around ahead of her. Wood scraped and was pushed aside. They hadn’t gone far. Then a loud
“Look, I don’t feel good prowling in his atelier. He’s probably upstairs asleep. We’re blind, so our sleep patterns are off. Night or day means nothing to us, but to the rest of the world it does.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She tapped with the cane, feeling her way ahead. Sensed the legs of work tables, rectangles of picture frames, hollow panels, the thick metal block of what must be the heater emitting sputtering bursts of warmth. Then the stone wall, thick and damp.
And she heard the gun fall on the floor, skidding over the wood. Her reflex was automatic. “Lucas! Duck and cover your head!”
She ducked down under a thick-legged work table. No shot.
“Lucas?”
No answer. Silence.
Then she heard the door close. The metallic ratchet fell as it locked.
“THIS CAME FOR YOU, Sergeant Bellan,” said the night duty desk officer. “And these messages.”
All from Aimee Leduc.
Bellan took them, with his espresso, and sat down at the desk. He’d closed the Beast of Bastille file, sent it to the
But he set Officer Nord’s report down to read first. Then he opened the thick envelope, scanned the morgue log, and read the note Aimee’s partner, Rene, had written.
He gulped the espresso.
“I need a driver, officer,” he said, stuffing the report in his case.
“No one left in the driving pool tonight, sir,” he was told. “We’re short on officers if you need a backup.”
“No problem, no backup. I’m on special detail. Get me a car.”
Loic Bellan sped over the pont Notre-Dame, the dark Seine illumined by pinpricks of blue light from the
He ran into Hotel Dieu, flashed his badge, and was pointed in a direction by the sleepy-eyed security guard. Several long hallways and wrong turns later, he found Intensive Care.
“Nurse, I need to speak with a patient in custody, Dragos Iliescu.”
From around the night desk came the beeping of machines, and the sound of a floor waxer in the cavernous hallway. The ancient stone had been sandblasted, giving it a butterscotch hue in the dim lighting.
“Let me check, I just came on shift,” she said, consulting a computer. He saw the other nurse in the station nudge her, point to a file. A dark blue folder.
“Too late, I’m afraid, Sergeant,” she said. “He passed away.”
Frustrated, Bellan wanted to kick himself. Why hadn’t he come earlier?
“What was the cause of death?”
“The doctors are doing a preliminary now, taking a toxicology screening to determine if it was drugs.”
“Here’s my card. My number’s there. Have the doctor call me the minute he knows.”
If he hadn’t been so stubborn . . . so rigid in the way he thought. Wasn’t that what Marie told him, “Loic listen to someone else sometime,
All the way in the car, he berated himself. There was only one other way. He parked on the curb of 22, boulevard de la Bastille. He turned off the ignition and sat in the car. The small shop was lighted. A minute later he got out.
“
“We’re just closing up,” smiled Monsieur Tulles. “Bidi! Guess you want to ask him more questions.”
No answer.
“I’m sorry, that boy with those headphones is . . . Bidi!”
Bellan looked down at his feet. Something about this place, Monsieur Tulles, and Bidi made him tongue-tied. He hesitated, swallowed hard.
“Actually, Monsieur Tulles, if you don’t mind, I need Bidi’s help.”
AIMEE SHUDDERED AND CALLED out, “Tell me . . . Lucas, are you all right.”
Mozart’s piano music trilled faintly in the atelier’s background.
Had Lucas been knocked out . . . by Mathieu?
“Mathieu . . . who’s that?”
A sound like a deadbolt slipping into place.
“Who’s there?” Her words caught in her throat.
What was going on?
She couldn’t wait to find out, she had to do something. Quickly.
She groped ahead of her along the floor. Felt a sheet of dense, smooth metal. Hard and thick. She figured it was lead.
Something rustled from the far corner.
Her breath caught. She reached her hands out. Felt a shoe . . . no the curved wooden heel of a clog. She kept on. Her fingers came back sticky and metallic smelling. Blood.
Mathieu.
Now she knew why his door was open but he didn’t answer. Her fingers brushed a smooth round dome. His head. Then she froze.
He was bald.
Why hadn’t she thought to ask before. He was
Too late. She’d been about to accuse him of attacking her, killing Josiane, but he couldn’t have. So dumb. Why hadn’t she realized? If she had, he might still be alive.
And it all fell into place. The tar smell, the burns on Dragos, the lead, and the odd thing she’d knocked over, then touched. She realized that Morbier had been on a wild goose chase looking all over Paris for the “explosives” when they were here.
Right here.
She felt around Mathieu’s body. Next to the sheet of lead were glass bulbs and beakers. Like the ones Rene had found. But these had raised letters on them. On the bottom.
