Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

  Not so different from many of the cyclists René passed. At least two people wore that type of gymsuit.

  “Can you tell in which direction he’s headed?”

  “Turned onto rue Gobert,” said Yann. “He’s either headed down Boulevard Voltaire or . . .”

  “I’m on Boulevard Voltaire,” interrupted René. “Does he have a ponytail like Dragos?”

  “Non, short black hair,” he said. “There’s a funny straw basket on the front with plastic flowers.”

  And there he was, in the bike lane. Leafy trees canopied the wide boulevard, casting dappled shadows on cars and pedestrians.

  “Got him,” René said. “He’s ahead of me, Yann. Call me if you see Dragos again. Merci.”

  René slipped the phone in his pocket and edged the Citroën closer. The man, pedaling hard, wiped a brow glistening with sweat. He appeared intent on the busy traffic, turned right on rue Charenton and weaved his bicycle through the crowded one way street to Avenue Ledru Rollin.

  René kept pace, glad he was behind the wheel. The only other time he’d followed anyone had been with Aimée in Belleville. At least he didn’t have to run this time.

  After crossing Avenue Daumesnil, right behind l’hôpital Quinze-Vingts, the bicyclist turned into a small street leading to the pedestrian bridge crossing the Bastille’s canal. Moored on both sides of the canal were upscale boats and several péniches, remodeled barges.

  René pulled over, stuck on a one-way street. He jumped out of his car, ready to pursue. But he saw the man pedal the bike across the bridge, then coast down to the long dock lining the basin of the canal that fed into the Seine.

  The man propped the bike against the pitted stone wall, Henri II’s fortifications surrounding the former fourteenth century moat. The bike was below a niche in the old, worn wall. Weeds wormed their way in its crevices. He hopped onto the narrow gangplank and disappeared.

  René pulled out the cell phone and called Aimée, determined to keep his tone light.

  “Aimée, I followed one of Dragos’s friends to a péniche moored here in the Bastille basin.”

  “Dragos?”

  “Yann got the name wrong,” René said.

  The churning water lapped the quai below René, as a péniche with bright red geraniums, lace curtains, and a child playing with a dog on deck, chugged by.

  “What’s he doing?”

  René told her. “It’s a waiting game now. Until he comes out. But I have to meet Serge at the morgue when he gets off work.”

  “So tell me René, if this Romanian, Dragos, thought I was Josiane . . . why did he want to kill her?”

  “How about this?” he said. “She wrote an exposé of Mirador’s illegal evictions. He tried to stop her.”

  “That fits. But why make it look like an attack by the Beast of Bastille?”

  “A good cover.” He wished for the thousandth time Aimée had never picked up Josiane’s phone and answered it.

  “Somehow, I doubt it,” she said. “It’s not the immigrant thugs’ style. Bold as they are, they’d have to know a lot more about the serial killer to plan it. Who knows how much French they understand? Besides, they’d speak with an accent.”

  She made sense.

  “Whoever called on that phone knew Josiane, and was trying to lure her into the passage. He got me instead. The Romanians’ trademark isn’t subtlety.”

  “So that leaves us . . . ?”

  “With more questions.”

  Below on the quai, the man René had followed emerged.

  “He’s come out,” said René. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Alors, be careful.”

  The man strode at a rapid pace, mounted his bike, and was down the quai before René reached his car. By the time René arrived at the Place de la Bastille roundabout, circling the Bastille column surmounted by the gold-winged figure of the genius of Liberty, the bike had disappeared. He could have gone in any of the 11 different directions radiating from the column.

  What to do now?

  Only one thing. He drove on and parked along the Boulevard de la Bastille.

  Fear flickered over him as he crossed the bridge on foot. The man had seemed to be in good shape and Dragos, or others like him, might be on the boat. His confidence ebbed despite his martial art practices and black belt from the taekwondo dojo.

  René took a deep breath and walked up the gangplank.

  Friday

  A HUNDRED THINGS WEIGHED on Loïc Bellan’s mind, which was webbed by a dull receding hangover, the least of which was the mec from a derelict building rave party allegedly selling Ecstasy. Bellan also had several cases on his desk. On top of it all, the little doubt about Aimée’s attacker being the Beast of Bastille still nagged him.

  But the duty detective leaving his double shift had dumped everything on Bellan’s desk and rubbing his tired eyes, said, “Welcome back, we’re short staffed. Your date’s in lockup four.”

  Bellan considered himself lucky to have grabbed a bed in a building used for out of town flics on temporary assignment. At least by working late he’d avoid facing the dormitory-style bunkhouse with its bare walls that would drive him to finish the flask of scotch malt whiskey in his pocket.

  And he’d avoid Marie’s silent accusing face that woke him up at night, slicing through his dreams. And the small bundle in the Vannes hôpital, his son Guillaume, who’d lapsed into renal failure and was fighting for his life.

  Bellan opened the thick metal door and stood in front of the wire cages in the Commissariat where they kept the prisoners. Like animal pens, he’d always thought. He stared at a sullen young man sitting on the narrow bench, a sheen of perspiration on his face.

  “Iliescu, D.” said Bellan, consulting the file. “Come with me.”

  Iliescu wore a skinny T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. He lurched toward the grille. He kept rubbing his nose and looked flushed and feverish. Shakes like a junkie, Bellan thought. But more buff than the usual twitching skin-and-bone types.

  They went back to an office.

  “Looks like you had some bad shit, eh?”

  “I don’t do drugs,” Iliescu said, with a thick Romanian accent. He heaved, then covered his mouth with his hand as if about to throw up. “Never, I work out.”

  All through the short interrogation, Bellan noticed Iliescu fighting waves of nausea.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Budapest.”

  One of his palms had numbers written in ink on it. Numbers with odd curlicues on them.

  “What’s that?”

  “I write notes to myself,” Iliescu said, breathing faster. “If I don’t write down the time, I’m late for work. Listen, I’ve got a job.”

  “We’ll have to search your domicile,” Bellan said, cutting it short. “I’ve applied for a search warrant.”

  Iliescu’s eyes rolled up in his head. He gagged and fell back in his chair. Alarmed, Bellan pulled on some latex gloves, from a box kept handy on the desk. He grabbed the wastebasket almost in time for Iliescu to spew inside it.

  And then Bellan saw the blackened skin under the man’s arms. Big charred places, some cracked and bleeding. Cigarette burns? He looked closer. Bigger. He’d never seen anything like this.

  “Get the on-call medico here. Right away,” he shouted into the hallway.

  The sounds of scuffling and the banging of metal drawers came from the hallway.

  “Nobody answers,” said a duty sergeant. “Will a paramedic do?”

  “Anybody, quick!”

  A short man with a graying beard wearing lab coat rushed in.

  “What’s up?”

  “Look at his arm.”

  “Spanish Inquisition time eh, Bellan?” said the paramedic. “Burning your victims these days?”

  “They’re not new burns,” Bellan said.

  “But recent. Notice the blackened skin.” He pointed.

  Iliescu’s eyes fluttered. His skin appeared clammy and moist, but he was stil
l coherent. “They’ll fire me if I don’t show up at work,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “You mean you’ll lose your drug connections,” Bellan said.

  Iliescu tried to sit up as the paramedic brought in another man to help him.

  “No drugs,” said Iliescue. “Never.”

  “Take him to Hôtel Dieu,” Bellan said. Hôtel Dieu, on Île de la Cité, one of the oldest charity hospitals in Paris, treated prisoners and the indigent.

  “No! I’ll lose my job!”

  “Where do you work?”

  “The loading bay at the Opéra,” said Iliescu.

  Something clicked. Vaduz, the serial killer, had worked there, too. “Do you know Patrick Vaduz?”

  Bellan saw recognition in Iliescu’s fevered eyes.

  “That pervert!” said Iliescu. “He made everyone’s skin crawl. We avoided him.”

  After wheeling Iliescu out, the paramedic looked back at Bellan from the door,

  “It’s odd, but it’s as if he has a major case of sunburn. A megadose.”

  Bellan stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “But no one gets sunburned in just one spot, do they?” said the paramedic, tugging his beard.

  Friday

  RENÉ CLUTCHED THE ROPE railing as the gangplank swayed. He wished he could suppress the churning of his stomach. A porthole snapped shut on a boat down the quai.

  The bright glare from the water and greasy oilslick danced in front of him. Seasick had been one of his middle names growing up. Le petit was the other.

  The slim dark blue péniche, moored in the Port de Plaisance, swayed in the wake of a tugboat. The barge’s hold had been converted to a covered living space. STARLA was lettered in white across the hull.

  “Allô? Anyone there?” called René. His words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what he’d say if the door opened.

  No answer.

  He knocked on the door. Again and again.

  The lapping of water against the wooden hull was the only response.

  He looked around then turned the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Weathered wrought-iron chairs and a glass table took up the deck space. On the other side, by some piled deck chairs, he saw a round porthole. And another larger one, circled by rusted bronze. Unlocked. If he opened it wide enough, he just might squeeze through.

  Should he?

  He saw no sign of life on the next boat.

  Breaking and entering was more Aimée’s métier. Yet, if he continued to stand here, he’d learn nothing.

  Alors, he might as well try. He pulled the deck chairs over as a shield, opened the porthole wider, and shimmied inside, landing on a slick pine floor. Newspapers were strewn across the counter. René looked. The mastheads read Romania-Libera.

  He pulled on the latex gloves that he’d taken from his pocket, as he’d seen Aimée do countless times. Then rolled up his jacket sleeves and got to work, hoping to find something that dealt with Mirador. He’d have to find it soon and get out.

  In a drawer, he saw names, hours, and what looked like break-times, listed on a sheet. A work roster for different shifts? He glanced down . . . Iliescu, Dragos.

  His excitement mounted. He’d found Dragos. At least where he’d been known. And he’d found it all by himself.

  Footsteps pounded on the wooden gangplank.

  Merde . . . he was coming back!

  René looked for somewhere to hide.

  Where?

  The doorknob turned. Locked.

  René dodged under the table that was bolted to the floor. Against the bulkhead were the built-in knee-high cabinets. He heard footsteps circling the boat like he had, someone trying the windows. Out of options, René opened a latched cabinet and backed himself inside a musty damp space big enough for a trunk. A man with longer legs would never have fit inside.

  He prayed that he wouldn’t sneeze. His hand fell on a dirty beige canvas bag. Slants of custard-hued light came through the space where the cushioned seat missed meeting the wall.

  In the cramped, hot space, René’s hip throbbed. On his right were glass cylinders. Long, fat, test tube-like, poking out from a bag.

  But his gaze caught on the bag’s dirty canvas flap that bore the initials DI . . . Dragos Iliescu! He wished whoever was tramping about outside would leave so he could exit with Iliescu’s bag.

  In his dreams.

  He tried concentrating on the rays of light, not the swaying of the boat. Or his claustrophobia. He heard the barge ropes strain against the hull.

  And then his cell phone trilled in his pocket. Merde . . . why hadn’t he put it on vibrate? How dumb!

  A shadow blocked the light. He couldn’t answer it. After three rings, he shut the phone off. And prayed.

  He heard the windows jiggled from outside. He held his breath. Finally, the footsteps clomped back up the gangplank.

  René used his elbows and scooted out. But not before he’d slipped the sling of the canvas bag around his shoulders.

  Friday Afternoon

  BELLAN CROSSED THE HOTEL courtyard, whose dark stone walls were covered by ivy and climbing roses, to find the room listed as Iliescu’s residence. He followed the hotel clerk, a short squat woman who walked with a cane. If Iliescu sold bad Ecstasy, Bellan wanted to find the drug before anyone else did. And confiscate it.

  Lemon trees in old washtubs tilted on the cobbles. Bellan’s interest grew as the woman, who leaned heavily on her cane, climbed the winding metal back staircase. There was a certain rundown charm about the place. Reaching the third floor, the woman turned the room key and a door creaked open.

  “Iliescu’s room,” she said, stepping inside. She looked around, then beckoned Bellan to enter.

  Bellan’s nose crinkled at the room’s stale smell. It had been closed up for a long time. The only personal touch was the pile of dirty sweatsuits on the floor.

  “My uncle rented rooms by the month on this floor until the sixties, the rest were . . .” she cleared her throat, “on a more temporary basis.”

  A brothel before they’d been outlawed in 1948? Now a rent-by-the-hour prostitute’s hotel? No questions asked, Bellan figured. So it would feel safe and convenient for a dope dealer like Iliescu.

  The tall, half-shuttered windows faced south to the narrow street. A maze of alleys really. Shafts of sunlight slanted across the wooden floor, dust motes dancing in their light.

  In the afternoon sun, it was apparent that the march of time had dulled the glint of period wall sconces. The pre-war floral wallpaper was smudged and worn; the heavy-legged writing desk and the metal runged bed hadn’t been changed since the forties, Bellan figured. He felt as if he’d stepped into a time warp.

  The hotel clerk’s eyes narrowed. “My tante Cecile lived here until last spring,” she said. She buttoned her mohair sweater vest, worn despite the heat, and wiped her nose with a tissue. “Tante slipped on the icy street during an early thaw. God took her in her eighty-third year. She managed the hotel until the day she died.”

  No wonder it had an old lady smell. Hard to get rid of after all those years.

  “Sorry to hear that, but I need to look around,” he said, flashing his badge.

  The woman shook her head. “What’s the quartier coming to these days? Full of crime and overpriced boutiques! My grandfather moved here because it was cheap; he carted his own charcoal and drew water from the well. They’ve cemented it over now.”

  “When did Iliescu rent the room, madame?”

  “Yesterday, but he left almost at once.”

  She seemed awfully knowledgeable. Most non-star hotels made a point of not knowing their tenants’ movements or whereabouts.

  “How do you know that, madame?”

  She stood back, her hands on her ample hips. “I was cleaning the filth out, wasn’t I?” she jerked her cane toward the room across the hall. Halfway ajar, the door showed a scene of upside-down chairs and general upheaval. “A pigsty. Must be wh
at they’re used to where they come from, some Slavic way of living. Not in Paris, I told them, and kicked them out.”

  “Did Iliescu have any visitors?”

  She nodded. “Nobody I saw.”

  Loud buzzing came from the courtyard.

  “That’s the Reception buzzer. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hotel to run,” she said, heading out the door. “Lowlifes, all of them.”

  Disappointed, Bellan searched the room.

  All he found were several bodybuilder-type magazines. He searched the desk, cracks in the wall, the floors for any loose floorboards. In the back of the armoire, he found a yellowed and tattered old programme from the Balajo, the club on rue du Lappe. It bore a photo of Edith Piaf and Jo Privat, the well-known accordionist.

  But no drugs.

  He raised the window sash. From across the way, a piano étude trilled, the notes rising and falling over the passage.

  What was he missing?

  And then he saw it.

  “21, Port de Plaisance, 16:00” written in pen on the window’s wooden frame. He recognized the odd curlicues of the numbers. Like Iliescu’s writing on his palm.

  The same funny curlicues.

  Bellan copied the address. Wasn’t that the dock where pleasure boats moored in the Bastille?

  Friday Afternoon

  RENÉ HEADED TOWARD PLACE MAZAS to meet Serge at the morgue. A gray metal Métro bridge spanned the Seine, looping just behind the morgue’s back gate. René wondered if Métro passengers on high realized what they viewed, in close proximity, for a brief few seconds.

  The nineteenth century redbrick building, bordered by the expressway to Metz, looked more like a school than the Insti-tut médico-légal, the central morgue. Built on the Seine to receive bodies sent downriver, it proved a macabre curiosity stop for fin-de-siècle Parisians eager to view cadavers. In 1909, a handcuffed Houdini had jumped off the morgue gates into the Seine, emerging long minutes later with freed hands, waving.

  René parked his car by the wide, massive gate. He saw a van drive through. Within, men in white labcoats hosed down the courtyard and two men sprayed their short white boots.