said. “Looks like you’re new here. The staff’s run off their feet with patients, but I’m sure rehab will organize an orientation.”
“An orientation?”
“To help you navigate the ward on your own.”
Of course. But she really didn’t want one, or a white cane or a guide-dog. She wanted to
She pushed that out of her mind. Time enough to worry. Maybe she could find someone with a newspaper who’d read it to her.
She clapped her hands.
No answer. She stood. What sounded like the ding of an elevator came from behind her. She edged forward, bumped into a wall, and felt her way along it to what sounded like the nurse’s station. The smooth counter and rustling papers seemed familiar. She’d made some progress. Maybe she was getting better at this. A loud beeping came from near her.
“Excuse me, but can a nurse help me read a newspaper . . .”
“Doctor’s on rounds, mademoiselle,” said a brisk voice. “And two new admits must be processed. Can it wait?”
“Of course.” Now she was stuck.
“I’ll find the volunteer coordinator,” the nurse said, guiding Aimee to a hard plastic chair with sticky armrests. “Have a seat. It might take some time.”
“Where’s my room?”
“Second door on the left. But wait until we can show you, mademoiselle. We follow rules in this ward. It’s for your safety.”
Footsteps slapped over the linoleum.
No way would she wait, it could take hours. Might as well find her own way back.
She stood, felt her way along the smooth wood hall railing, guiding herself by the low drone of the TV from rooms and the muffled beep of machines.
Then she ran into something with ridges that crinkled like cellophane. She stepped on a soft foamlike substance that yielded. Something hard whacked her cheek. Clanging noises came from her feet and then they were cold and wet. She grabbed what felt like a pole. Her feet stung.
Great.
She’d walked smack into a mop, upsetting a pail of soapy ammonia by the stink and the burning of her toes. Or something worse. She’d stumbled into a broom closet.
A total liability! She couldn’t even find her room. Useless! She fought back tears welling in her useless eyes.
What was that other smell . . . familiar and jarring? And it came back. That awful odor as hands gripped her neck from behind, squeezing tighter and tighter. Her choking gasps for air. She trembled.
Tar.
“Found something interesting, mademoiselle?” asked a voice she recognized.
Why had he sneaked up on her?
“Dr. Lambert,” she said, taking a deep gulp, “what’s tar used for in the hospital?”
“Besides tarring the roof?” he said. “Who knows?”
“That wouldn’t be kept in a closet, would it?”
“Mademoiselle Leduc, I planned to run more tests on you,” he said, before she could ask more. “But now I need to finish my rounds.”
“Go ahead, Dr. Lambert.”
“First, you need help.”
Strong arms grasped and lifted her up. A stethoscope hit her arm. Her wet, bare feet dangled in the air. She felt frightened and disoriented.
“Look I can walk . . . put me down.
“Not if you’ve got a chemical burn.”
Her feet stung and a big lump wedged in her throat. Hugging her to his warm chest, the doctor carried her back to her room, sat her down, stuck her feet in a tub of water, and paged the nurse. “Do me a favor,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”
“
In the hospital bed, Aimee fumbled for the room phone. After two tries she got the operator. But Leduc Detective had the message machine on. She tried Rene’s apartment. No answer. Then she tried his cell phone, and got his voice mail.
“Please Rene, I’m sorry, but can you bring me clothes?” she said. “Makeup. My boots. Everything’s gone. Unless it’s scattered in the passage. And can you check on Miles Davis?”
She knew how to do two things well, smoke and park at an impossible angle. Now she could do only one. If only she could have a smoke!
What was she thinking? How could she apply makeup? And her apartment, she’d have to reach the contractor and put the work on hold.
All she got was their answering machine. She left a message to call her at the hospital. Would they have started the work?
She dialed the operator again and had him try Commissaire Morbier, her godfather, at the Prefecture.
“Groupe R,” said an unfamiliar voice.
“Commissaire Morbier, please.”
“What’s this regarding?”
“I’m his goddaughter, Aimee Leduc.”
“He’s working out of the Commissariat in Bastille. Hold on, I’ll transfer your call.”
For someone approaching retirement, she thought, Morbier moved around the force a lot. He’d cut back his hours to spend more time with his grandson Marc . . . or so he said. But she wondered if his back gave him more trouble than he let on.
“Commissariat Principal at Place Leon Blum,” he answered.
“Back on the beat, Morbier? Hitting the cobblestones again?”
She heard him suck in his breath. In her mind she saw him—his mismatched socks, suspenders, and shock of thick salt-and-pepper hair. She wondered if he’d kept off the weight he’d lost over the summer and if he still wore patches to help him stop smoking.
“They call it special detail, Leduc.”
That meant several things. Damage control was one of them. Since he was working out of the Bastille area, was he involved with the serial killer . . . had she found what she was looking for?
“Look Morbier, I need to know about the victims and anything else you feel like sharing about the Bastille serial murders.”
“Leduc, I’m busy.”
Maybe he didn’t know she’d been attacked.
“Something tells me you have the information I need.”
“What’s it to you if I do, Leduc?” he said. She heard a metallic ratcheting, as if he had turned in an unoiled swivel chair.
Something in his voice told her he knew.
“Leduc, I just got in,” he said. “I haven’t had time to read the update file. Or finish my espresso.”
She sensed another presence in her hospital room. Something she couldn’t explain. The hair stood on the back of her neck. Wariness overtook her; she covered the phone with her hand.
