Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

  Why couldn’t he understand? Face it, he didn’t want to understand.

  He kept talking. “We just settled our negotiations in Bordeaux,” said Vincent. “Those vintners take their time. I kept telling them, backing a business isn’t like aging wine. One has to move in a flash. Thank God for Martine. She’s saved the magazine.”

  Hadn’t Martine spoken with him?

  She took a deep breath. “After you stormed out of the resto, when I was en route to the Métro, someone attacked me. Or maybe you know all about that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sounded surprised.

  “Josiane, the woman who sat next to us was killed in the adjoining passage. I’m going to find out who attacked me and murdered her. I’ve got time, since the attacker blinded me.”

  The words had tumbled from her. She heard him gasp on the other end.

  “You? A murder?” His surprise sounded genuine.

  Aimée’s reply caught in her throat.

  And a terrible thought crossed her mind. She remembered Josiane sitting and smoking at the table adjoining theirs. And her glance their way. Had her look been aimed at Vincent?

  “You knew Josiane Dolet, didn’t you?”

  Silence.

  Was that planned . . . had there been some code between them? Or had she been about to speak with him, but thought better of it and agreed to meet him later?

  “You killed Josiane.”

  “You’re not making sense,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All these allegations about an affair and now . . .”

  “She investigated your ties to Incandescent. The money laundering for the gun-running . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with that,” he said, his voice low, filled with emotion. “Look, Aimée 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 Opéra advertising campaign were they?”

  “Russian e-mails?”

  “Why did you encrypt them?”

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

  “René 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 Aimée, as they got into the Citroen.

  “Vincent’s office.”

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

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

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

  “He’s scared, René,” 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 René.

  Aimée 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 René inhale. “So someone stole his password?”

  René 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 René.

  “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, Aimée 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 Métro passing below in the bowels of Bastille.

  René 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 René? Should she answer?

  “Who’s there?”

  “Madame Danoux?” asked a familiar voice.

  Surprised, Aimée 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. “Ça 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?

  “Except for how I feel about you.”

  Had he said what she thought she heard?

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re always getting into trouble,” he said.

  “Everyone needs a trademark.”

  But he didn’t laugh. She sensed him standing next to her. And all her consciousness settled on his hands enveloping hers.

  “You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His hands traveled up her arm, to the place where her shoulder met her neck. “I’m getting to like keeping you out of broom closets and safe from attackers.”

  Was this some rescue fantasy he had? His words didn’t feel as welcome as she thought they would. But his warmth and the faint scent of Vetiver did.

  From somewhere in the street came the muted clash of cymbals, the thunder of a kettle drum, and the clear peal of a tenor’s voice.

  “Opéra tonight,” he said. “Don Giovanni.”

  “Believe it or not,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight.”

  “You’re boasting.”

  Maybe she was. “Boastful or not, it’s the way my life’s played out. No one’s ever wanted to take care of me except my father.”

  Her hand brushed a stiff plastic rectangle of his badge, then the cold metal of his stethoscope.

  “On duty, Doctor?”

  “Just on call, until morning.”

  “So that means?”

  “I’m at the mercy of my beeper, but we can have dinner,” he said.

  “Hungry?” She felt for his warm hand.

  And she wanted to be close to him. Right now.

  “Famished.”

  “Feel like appetizers in my room?” she said, turning and pulling his stethoscope. “That’s if I can find it.”

  His footsteps stopped.

  What was wrong?

  “Attends,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

  “What do you mean?” She let go of the stethoscope.

  “I know about people in your condition,” he said. “You feel grateful but . . .”

  “I’m not people. I’m me.”

  Pause.

  “There’s the doctor and patient relationship to consider . . .” he said.

  “But you’re no longer my doctor,” she said. “You referred me to a retinologist. Remember?”

  Another pause.

  “Is that it? A quick jump under the duvet?” he said, his voice low.

  Was that anger in his voice?

  She sensed him moving away.

  Great. She wanted to curl up and disappear. What in the world had she done? Thrown herself at this man who smelled delicious, whose touch thrilled her?

  Merde! She deserved some kind of medal, ruining her chances with a man in record time. Talk about faux pas. Why had she done that? Acted so desperate with her doctor!

  Better salvage a scrap of dignity and see him to the door.

  “Bet you thought I meant it, didn’t you?” she said. “I was testing you.”

  “Liar.” His scent wafted in front of her. He pulled her close. “But you’re beautiful. Banged up knees, spikey hair, and all.”

  She didn’t expect that.

  “You’ve as much as said I’ll never see again.”

  “What does that matter?”

  “A lot.”

  “To you,” he said. “But you have to get over that hurdle. Move on. Try. You’ll be happier when you do.”

  Could she be happy without seeing?

  This felt all mixed up and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time a man refused to sleep with her. Time to take her wounded vanity and climb into a hole.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” he said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Before medicine, I studied literature,” he said. “Scribbled poetry. You make me think of Byron’s lines . . . ‘She walks in beauty like the night.’ ”

  Out in the night, a police siren wailed.

  “I wish I wasn’t so attracted to you,” he said.

  Now she was more confused than ever.

  And then suddenly he was kissing her like last time. Her leg wrapped around his and she held him tight. He pulled her down onto the horsehair sofa.

  His scent was in her hair, his lips brushing her neck. She gripped his back. And that’s when his pager went off, beeping near her elbow.

  “Merde!” he said.

  Non. Non, non, she almost shouted.

  “You couldn’t pretend you didn’t hear it, could you?” she asked, feeling his elbow and warm breath in between kisses on her arm.

  She heard clicking as he read his message. Felt his body stiffen. “Not when a three-year-old’s spilled acid base photograph developing emulsion and rubbed it in his eyes.” She felt him pulling away, his hands helping her up. “If I hurry I’ll get there when the ambulance does.”

  And in two minutes he was gone. Only his Vetiver scent lingered.

  SHE WOKE up to the rain spattering on the skylight above.

  And she felt safe, cocooned in the big warmth of the duvet.

  Her senses were heightened. Every part of her tingled remembering his kiss, the way he hadn’t stopped. . . .

  And then she heard the accordion strains of Nini le peau de chien . . .

  Again . . . like the background of the phone call on the stranger’s cell phone.

  She froze.

  Was the killer here? In the apartment?

  But how?

  Doubt invaded her. And for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten it all wrong. Made a mistake. The serial killer was alive and still . . . non, that made no sense.

  Yet her blood ran cold.

  She pulled the duvet off, crawled her way to the door. Listened.

  Madame Danoux’s voice joined the chorus of Nini on the record. Footsteps beat a pattern on the floor as if she were dancing. The old folkdance, la bourrée. So Madame Danoux danced by herself on Saturday nights.

  But Aimée couldn’t sleep any more. She felt for the bed, then sat down on the floor and combed her fingers through her short hair.

  She’d set the talking alarm clock to wake her up, but there was no reason to wait. She called Le Drugstore, followed the procedure, and within four minutes spoke to Martin.

  “It’s like this, ma petite mademoiselle,” said Martin, as if imparting a confirmation gift. “No news at all, nothing really.”

  She figured his usual police informants had clammed up. “But Martin, you of all people have impeccable connections.”

  “So some say,” he replied. She heard a pleased chuckle in his voice.

  “There’s a whisper. Something to do with Don Giovanni,” he said. “Know him?”

  “Not personally. It’s an opera.”

  “My source says a Romanian caught in the 11ième for selling Ecstasy died.”

  “Dragos Iliescu?”

  She heard Martin expel a deep breath. Tinged with smoke, no doubt. “Why do you need me? You know already.”

  “Was it bad dope?”

  “The BRIF got involved immediately.”

  That meant heavy duty. And Morbier was w
ith them.

  “If it’s not dope, Martin, what is it?”

  “Not known by my usual channels. A mystery, they say. Probably the Romanians had a sweet deal. But they got careless, were at the wrong place at the wrong time. People got burned.”

  Her excitement mounted. Where had she heard that before?

  “Burned?”

  “And I don’t mean figuratively.”

  FROM THE the hallway, she heard water running in Madame Danoux’s kitchen.

  She pushed the talking clock, which said 1:00 a.m., then pulled on the nearest things she could reach. Her leather skirt, the tight zip-up sweatshirt. She struggled into her ankle boots and felt her way into kitchen.

  “Madame Danoux, are you dressed?”

  “What a question! Of course, I haven’t even taken my makeup off yet . . .”

  “Bon,” she interrupted. “Be an angel.”

  “And do what?”

  “Come for a drink with me,” she said, reaching for Madame Danoux’s arm. “Let’s go down the street. To the corner.”

  IN THE bar-tabac on rue Moreau, a block away, Aimée’s hand trembled. She couldn’t lift the panache to her lips without spilling.

  “Why so nervous?” asked Madame Danoux, beside her at the counter, yawning. She sounded petulant. “You wanted to come here!”

  She gripped Madame Danoux’s warm hand. What if the killer was here tonight? But she hadn’t confided in her, she had to see if her hunch was right.

  “I need to talk with Clothilde, the owner, Mimi’s friend,” said Aimée.

  “Aaah, I know the one.”

  “Did you see her tonight?”

  “By the door,” she said. “The accordion player comes, she lets in those she likes. Then locks the door. Only a natural disaster will get you out before dawn.”

  “Please, can you ask her to join us,” she said.

  “Let me try and get her attention.”

  Around her, glasses tinkled, the milk steamer hissed and grumbled, and a woman’s shrill laughter came from somewhere farther down the counter. Aimée smelled the thick tang from a cigarette burning somewhere in an ashtray. Here she stood in a smoke-filled café and didn’t have one.

  She turned toward a conversation. The barman?

  “Sorry to interrupt, a pack of Gauloise light please.”

  “Too bright in here for you?”

  “I wish.” She’d worn dark glasses, a pair Martine had sent.