Murder in the Bastille

Wednesday late afternoon

AIMÉE FIDDLED WITH THE bandages around her neck. The stiff awkward bulk bothered her. Her hair clumped in sticky strands from the gel she’d combed through it. Or thought she had. She never realized combing hair could be such an art. And how hard it was without sight.

She heard a familiar gait cross the linoleum: Morbier’s slight shuffle. His right foot was half a size larger than his left, so even though he wore an extra sock on it, one shoe flapped.

The breeze had stopped flowing through the window. He must be crossing on her left and have taken in her hospital gown and seen the chart at the foot of the bed.

“There’s food on your tie, Morbier,” she said, facing the window.

The footsteps stopped. “Can you see?”

“You always have food on your tie,” she said. “Grab a chair.”

“I spoke with the nurse. She didn’t say much,” he said. “How bad is it?”

Was that concern in his voice?

She let a big silence fill the space. Morbier, a master interrogator, knew how to wait.

So did she.

Trolley cart wheels wobbled and squeaked in the hallway. Lunch was over; maybe it was medication time.

“That bad?” he asked finally.

“You mean, can I see anything?”

“That’s a start,” he said.

He wasn’t one to deal well with emotion. If at all.

“Or will I ever see again?” She threw her leg over the bed, reached for what she thought was her comb on the tray. It clattered to the floor.

She heard him grunt as he bent down for the comb.

“The neurosurgeon’s procedure saved my life, but the lack of oxygen or the bleeding from the blows to my skull obscure where a weak vein ruptured.”

“Say it so I can understand, Leduc.”

“They call it complications of treatment.”

“Aha . . . clear as Seine mud.”

She agreed.

“Someone attacked me in the passage,” she said. “The force of the blow caused a weak vein wall in my brain to burst.”

“And the prognosis?”

She heard him rifling through his pocket, the crinkle of paper.

“The doctor’s becoming repetitive. ‘Just wait and see.’ ‘No pun intended,’ he says.”

She wished her relationship with Morbier was different. For a moment, she wanted Morbier to throw his big arms around her. Hold her. Tell her it would be all right and that he would make things better. Like he had once when she was little and her father was away on stakeout. After school, she’d tripped and split open her knee on the Commissariat’s marble step. He’d scooped her up, held her to his scratchy wool jacket, dried her tears with his sleeve and cleaned her knee while telling her stories about his old dog who loved strawberries and would fall asleep standing up.

She wasn’t a child anymore. And she might not ever be all right. What if the blindness didn’t go away?

“Got a cigarette, Morbier?”

“Didn’t you quit?”

“I’m always quitting,” she said. “There’s one in your pocket, isn’t there?”

“Why do you think the Beast of Bastille attacked you?”

“Did I say that?” She lay back and stared into the blankness, imagining what he looked like; the pouches under his alert brown eyes, his jowly cheeks, the socialist party pin worn in his lapel, a used handkerchief . . . she felt a thin stick wedged in her hand, then heard the sound of crinkling.

“Suck.”

“Morbier!” She smelled lemon. She aimed and hit her lip, then tasted a sour Malabar lollipop.

“Better than coffin nails,” he said. “So talk to me.”

“Sergeant Bellan questioned me already. I might feel like sharing, if I knew the murder victim’s name.”

“This case belongs to the special detail for the 11ième.” That’s what Bellan had said. But Morbier must know some- thing since he’d answered the phone there. However, as always, he’d make her pay for his information. “Not my fiefdom,” he said.

If only she could see his face!

She’d give him an edited version.

“Look Morbier, here’s what I know, maybe you can open your mouth after you listen to me,” she said. “In that trendy resto, Violette, I incurred the wrath of my big client, Vincent. Next to us sat a woman, wearing the same Chinese jacket I’d paid the moon for, talking on her phone.”

She told him the rest.

“Now tell me. Who was the woman killed on Monday night? Which passage was she found in?”

Morbier hesitated. “Like I said, this isn’t my case.”

“I heard the old woman who found her interviewed on the télé,” Aimée said. “The old woman gave out more details than you.”

She heard tapping on the linoleum.

“Keep this to yourself. The victim was found in the cour de Bel Air,” he said. “The courtyard next door to where you were attacked.”

“Those passages and courtyards all connect somehow, don’t they?”

“Nice theory,” he said. “But who knows?”

Since she couldn’t see his face or body language she had to listen more closely to his words. “They’ll find Vaduz. Don’t worry,” he said.

“What worries me, Morbier, is that it’s not him.”

“Leduc, he’s killed five women,” said Morbier. “This case and the attack on you both fit the victim profile.”

“Which is . . . ?“

He yawned. She heard a slight snapping. He broke toothpicks when he was nervous or deep in thought.

“Why not tell me, Morbier?” Frustrated, she twisted the sheets between her palms. “Early thirties, currently blond-streaked, single . . .”

“Wrong,” interrupted Morbier. “Single like you, but all living in the Bastille area. The victims were in their late twenties, thirties, and one was a woman in her forties. Dirty blonde, tall like you. Usually a party girl. Some hung out in the Spanish tapas places, the clubs. A certain type. Showy.”

She hesitated. “I planned on staying in Bastille, in Martine’s brother’s place, while he’s working in Shanghai.”

“Since when?”

“Remodeling a kitchen and bathrooms takes forever. And fixing the electric wiring will take until the next century. René’s neighbor’s taking care of Miles Davis now . . .”

“Won the Lotto, have you?”

Why did she always forget how quick Morbier was?

“You could say that,” she said, wondering whether to tell him how she’d justified finally updating her apartment’s electric wiring and plumbing.

“Non,” he said. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She visualized his thick hands held up, as she’d often seen them if she teased him.

“Tell me, Morbier, did this latest victim match the profile?”

Silence. What she wouldn’t give to see the expression crossing Morbier’s face right now!

“So I take it she didn’t,” Aimée said. “Or the fit isn’t close.”

“This victim was in her early forties. Like one of the others. Close enough,” he said, his voice tired. “Vaduz was released Monday afternoon on a technicality. Let’s give a big round of thanks to his salope of a supposed socialist lawyer! One of those gauche-caviar elite who give socialism a bad name. So Vaduz suffered a hurry-up urge to kill after his mother’s funeral. Maybe the woman reminded him of his mother. Or maybe you did.”

So Vaduz was still out of jail.

“The woman in the resto had long Purple Vamp nails, thick blonde hair.” She hoped Morbier would finish for her.

He didn’t.

“Black Chinese silk jacket . . . it’s her, isn’t it? said Aimée. “Tell me, Morbier. I’m stuck in a hospital bed.”

And she couldn’t say it . . . blind and scared.

“Alors, Leduc, the victim lived above Marché d’Aligre. Next of kin haven’t even been notified, so I can’t give her name out. You know the rules. Like I said, I’m en route elsewhere.”

A chair scraped on the linoleum; Morbier must have stood in his odd-sized shoes.

“However, Vaduz was seen in the Bastille area,” he said. “So there’s location and the window of time. Let’s say he knows the victim, phones her, but gets you. It shows malice, forethought.”

No matter how he added it up, she knew it didn’t compute.

“What happened to the cell phone he rang?” he said. “We could trace the call.”

“Gone,” she said.

“The victim fits the type Vaduz chose: Close enough in looks, the right location, and method of murder.”

It couldn’t be.

“But the man on the telephone insisted she ‘forget her pride and meet him.’ He knew her, Morbier.”

“Vaduz knew some of his victims. And when he was released, he said he was going to visit his dentist in the Bastille. He had a mouthful of rotten teeth.”

“The file would show if they were acquainted,” she said.

“It’s not my case,” he said. “Right now, it’s a botched-up job from when they let Vaduz out. A real pétard.”

Of course, releasing a serial killer to kill again wouldn’t restore public confidence in the police.

“This sexual predator is supposed to have killed several women in the Bastille area. How come no one connected them until last year?” Aimée asked.

“Not you, too,” Morbier said. “You sound like the parents. The one this morning harangued me for an hour; why didn’t we do DNA testing, compare samples?”

“Good question,” she said. “But that would be hard, since you have no DNA repository to check it against, much less . . .”

“No funding from the Police Judiciare,” he interrupted.

“You know how that is . . . half of Brigade Criminelle don’t even have computers at their desks.”

He let out a big sigh.

“That’s why they called me in,” he said. “Last minute.”

Damage control. He’d been doing more and more of that recently.

“Like I said, it’s not my case,” said Morbier. “Bellan’s in charge. I’m supposed to be en route to Créteil.”

“Créteil?”

“‘Law enforcement in the new millennium’ seminar,” he said, expelling a loud breath. “Spare me. But that’s up in the air now.”

“Why?”

Silence. She hated it when he dribbled out bits of information then clamped shut.

“Talk to me, Morbier,” she said.

“They don’t have enough staff to handle the explosives scare,” he said. “The ministry’s pulling Commissaires and men from the arrondissements.”

She took a last lick of the lollipop and wound the damp stick around her finger.

“An explosives scare? Sounds big.”

“Huge, Leduc,” he said, a tone of finality in his voice. “You’re out of commission. So stay out of this. Don’t think about asking any more.”

Bigger than huge. Gigantic, if Morbier talked like this.

“I’m interested in Vaduz’s teeth,” she said.

“Not a pretty sight. Seems Vaduz opened his mouth, pointed to his rotting fillings,” Morbier said, “moaned about needing the dentist’s drill.”

“What about the jealous husband angle?”

“She wasn’t married,” he said. “The Préfet keeps reminding me he’s got another five days to retirement,” Morbier said. “After a stellar twenty-five year career, the Préfet wants to depart with full honors from the Mayor. So he’d like the blame for the Vaduz mess to rest elsewhere. Too bad he can’t think of where else to put it. Right now, the Gendarmerie looks like the next candidate.”

“Why?” she said. “They’re not responsible.”

“Tell that to the public,” he said. “All us uniforms look alike, and we’re all to blame. The victims’ families want justice or vengeance.”

Morbier’s pager beeped and she heard him fumble in his pockets.

“May I borrow your hospital phone, Leduc?”

She nodded. Then her aching neck protested in response.

From the brusque tone of Morbier’s conversation, she knew something had gone wrong. He hung up.

“What happened?”

She heard Morbier’s long sigh.

“Some problem in the Place du Trône,” he said, using the old name, the King’s throne, for Place de la Nation. Aimée found it ironic, since he was a dyed-in-the-wool socialist.

“But Morbier, the caller who spoke to me knew the woman he was phoning. He sounded intimate with her.”

“You told me. I’ve got to go,” he said. “The Préfet wants the case closed, clean and neat. Let’s agree on this, Leduc. Vaduz thought you were the victim. He was scared off when passers- by came down the passage. Lots of nightlife in the Bastille quartier. He’d been stalking the other woman before he encountered you. Then he found her.”

Morbier continued. “This isn’t my turf, Leduc.” He let out a tired sigh. “The powers that be are trying to nail Vaduz. He’s brutally killed five women. And they’re salivating now, talking about the ‘special accomodation’ they’ve prepared for him at the Quai des Orfèvres—a wire and iron cage for his interrogation.” Another tired sigh. “The victims’ parents are angry and tired. And five bodies later, they’re demanding blood. Vaduz’s blood, and strong police action. So unless you’ve got something concrete, Leduc, I’ll recommend they tie this up with a nice bow.”

She leaned back against the large pillows. What Morbier said was likely true. But the man who had attacked her wasn’t Vaduz.

“Look, you know my hunches are good,” she said. “Papa trained me. I don’t agree. No serial stalker like Vaduz has such finesse. You said he has rotten teeth, right? But I don’t remember bad breath. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Heard of breath mints?” said Morbier. “Didn’t you suffer a concussion and black out?”

“Morbier, what aren’t you telling me?”

Silence.

“Spit it out, Morbier.”

“What your father would have told you,” said Morbier. “Get the hell out of what you’re doing and stick to computers.”

His remark made her angry.

“After dining with a client, I was attacked, blinded. But it sounds like you think I invited it,” she said. She wanted to throw the phone at him but she didn’t know where it was. “It wasn’t the Beast of Bastille, that much I know.”

A sob caught in her throat. But she stifled it.

“I just worry you’re not safe. Sorry . . . don’t do well . . . it’s this hospital. . . .” his voice broke. “Alors, I’ll keep my ears open.”

And with that Morbier was gone.

He’d never apologized to her or anyone in his life, that she knew of. What a first . . . a hollow victory.

The room felt chilly. Cold drafts licked her feet. She got in bed and pulled up the covers. She couldn’t count on Morbier. Or the flics. If any investigating were to take place, it was up to her.

She felt caught between a rock and a hard place . . . wasn’t that the saying? Until the police caught Vaduz, how could she prove he wasn’t the one who attacked her?

The nurse came in. “Time to draw some blood, won’t take a minute. Looks like you dropped a toothbrush.”

After the nurse left, Aimée lay back and put the brush to her cheek, rolled it, then held it in front of her eyes. But no matter how hard she tried, even though it was right there, she couldn’t see it. She’d probably never see it again.

Fatigue tugged at her. Concentrating on Morbier’s words— and on what he hadn’t said—exhausted her. Listening to him, she’d worked harder than if she’d had her sight and still she felt she’d missed something: a nuance, the way his stubby fingers worried his jacket sleeve or how he looked away when she brought up uncomfortable subjects. Like her American mother’s abandoning them when she was eight or her father’s flic record. All the little clues she’d learned unconsciously to depend on to read him, to decipher his meaning.

And what was all that about the explosives and pulling staff off . . . ? He’d never tell her now. She was out of the loop. Useless.

Most of the time, she could tell when he had more to say. Of course he knew, he had full access to the fat dossier on the serial killer Vaduz and he’d shared but a fraction. And now she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to figure him out—or anyone else—again.

She hooked her arm around the metal bedframe, cold and smooth, then sank back into the pillows. Deep down, the realization that she might never be able to see again loomed.

The aroma of espresso, rich and dark, encompassed her. Had it all been a bad dream?

Of course it was. She’d wake up in bed in her apartment on Île St. Louis with the Seine flowing below her window, Miles Davis, her bichon frisée, perched in the sunlight on her duvet. She’d be cuddled against that tan hunk she’d met in Sardinia, muscular and with such a flat stomach and . . .

“Aimée, how about coffee?” René said. “Or do you want to sleep more?”

She kept her eyes closed. Kept the image of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and fur that needed a trim. Then she opened her eyes.

Darkness. Only darkness. And the crisp feel of laundered hospital sheets. It wasn’t a dream: she’d woken up dumped back into reality.

“With two sugar lumps, René?”

“Just how you like,” he said.

“Merci, you’re wonderful, René.” She sat up, felt behind her and propped up her pillows. She tried not to think about how she must look.

Her torched brain welcomed a warm, sweet java jolt. She opened her hands to clutch the hot cup, inched her fingers to find the spoon.

She told him about Sergeant Bellan’s questioning and Morbier’s comments about Vaduz.

“René, any more noises from the Judiciare about Populax?”

“If Vincent doesn’t release the hard drive, expect a subpoena,” René said.

She chewed her lip. “Hasn’t he reconsidered?”

“Not so far.”

Vincent’s attitude was outrageous. His veiled threat in the resto came back to her. And his arrogant denial. Either he felt he was above the law, or he was hiding something.

She circled the spoon slowly against the wall of the cup, but felt hot droplets on her chest. How could it be so hard to stir with a spoon?

“We should expect to appear at the Palais de Justice,” René said. “You know the drill.”

She gulped the espresso then felt the cup lifted from her hands. “Me . . . testify?” she asked.

“We’re in this together,” René said.

“We need Martine’s help to convince Vincent to cooperate.”

“I have your bag. Let me look up Martine’s number.”

Startled, she turned, banging her shoulder on the metal bed-frame— the shoulder she dislocated with annoying regularity.

“My bag . . . I thought it was stolen.”

“Who said so? It was next to you in the passage when I found you,” he said, “under muck and grime.”

“You’re a genius!”

What would be left inside?

She felt the zipper and ridges of her leather backpack, then the contents of her bag tumbling over the sheet. She ran her finger over a phone, a dog-eared software manual, the Populax file, her Ultralash mascara, the hard-edged laptop, a key ring, what was left of her stubby Chanel lip-liner, a small tube of superglue that worked miracles on broken high-heels, alligator clips, cord to hook into the phone line, screwdriver, Nicorette gum, Miles Davis’s calcium biscuit, and her father’s grainy holy medal.

All the familiar things of her work and her life.

Her old life.

Aimée shivered. She ran her hands through her spiky, matted hair to cover the trembling. Not only did she need a decent cut and shampoo from Dessange and a body scrub in the steamy Hammam, she needed her Beretta, for protection. And her sight, to use it.

“Let’s get Martine’s help. She’ll convince him. Punch in 12 on my phone, René,” she said. “That’s my speed dial for Martine.”

René handed her the phone.

No sound.

She clicked off.

“Odd, René . . . ?”

Then it hit her.

“Wait a minute, René,” she said, feeling around. “There are two phones in this bag. But only one’s mine.” Her voice rose with excitement.

“Isn’t the other . . .”

“I was trying to return the woman’s phone.”

“You mean . . . the attacker didn’t get either of the phones?”

She scrabbled for the instrument on the tray table and held both in her hands. “It’s like mine, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“René . . . are you nodding yes?”

“Sorry.”

“Now we can trace the dead woman’s calls!”

“He must have been in a hurry when he found out,” said René.

“Found out what?”

“That he’d got the wrong woman,” he said.

That was what Morbier had said. But this would be almost too easy— they’d just check the last call and find the killer’s number!

“I know what you’re thinking, Aimée,” said René. “But when I press call back, the last number received comes up invalid.”

“Invalid? Try again.”

She heard René take a deep breath. “She’s got the cheap version, no such features offered. No real features at all.”

“So that means we can’t trace who called her,” she said, disappointed.

A dead end?

Then she brightened up. “But René, it must have speed dial, non? Don’t they all have that?”

Silence.

“Are you nodding yes?”

“I see three numbers listed.”

“Parfait, we trace her phone’s speed dial numbers,” she said.

“Seems the attacker’s not too smart if his number’s on the phone.”

“You’re right,” she said.

Could he be that careless?

“We have to check, René. We have to find her name, the phone number of this phone, then who she called.”

“It’s easy to buy a prepaid in a store without security cameras,” said René. “She could have paid cash and bought airtime without leaving a trace. But why would she do that?”

Aimée thought of the burgeoning cheap second phone business for people who’d lost theirs. “Say the woman lost hers a lot. What if she wanted a cheap phone for work,” she said. “Like I did until I got this one. Still, everyone has to show ID to activate a phone.”

“Show ID?” asked René. “Now that makes it simple.”

“How?”

“My RAM’s revved up. I crack into a few databanks,” he said. “Run a program to check lists of purchases of cell phones by cash or charge. Takes about twenty minutes.”

He was a master of his métier.

“You’re a genius, René!”

Aimée briefly struggled with the idea of calling Morbier to tell him her bag had been found. But first she needed to find out the victim’s identity. Find out if she was the woman from the resto.

She had to make sure. Get concrete proof.

“Try 12 on my phone.”

René dialed and thrust it into her hand.

“Allô?” said Martine, her voice low and out of breath.

“Martine, don’t tell me you’re exercising?”

“Feels like it,” she said. “Climbing in heels on this spiral metal staircase seems like my own personal Stair-master hell.”

“Where are you?”

“About to meet Vincent for Diva’s cocktail preview, our biggest night. Cherie, you were invited, too. Aren’t you coming?”

Of course, with everything that had happened, she’d forgotten.

“Alas, no. I’m in l’hôpital des Quinze-Vingts.”

“Visiting someone sick?” She heard Martine’s sharp intake of breath. “Ça va?”

“You could say that.”

“What’s wrong?”

Should she tell her best friend? On her biggest night? Ruin it for her? Not now, not when Martine was about to launch her new venture. She could tell her tomorrow.

“I’d feel better if you persuade Vincent to turn over his hard-drive,” she said. “Besides, how could I come, I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“All you think about is work, Aimée,” she said. “Can’t this wait until . . .”

“Please Martine, la Procuratrice will subpoena Vincent’s firm.”

“For what? He’s not guilty. It’s the salopes he did business with!”

“So tell him to cooperate, Martine.”

Again, doubt assailed her about Vincent. An unease floated over her.

Aimée heard a low hum of conversation, strains of a chamber orchestra in the background. She visualized the fashionable crowd, smelled the wax dripping from the candles and tasted the bubbling champagne. And it came home to her that she was talking to her best friend since the lycée, as she’d done so many times, but it felt different. Like she was speaking in a vacuum.

“Aimée, right now, it’s impossible . . . tiens, there’s Catherine Deneuve . . .”

Aimée heard the smack of lips near cheeks as bisous were exchanged. In the background she overheard part of a conversation, “. . . she’s chic, she’s fierce and there’s something fresh about her. A Belle de Jour punk.”

“Big night here,” Martine said.

The background conversation continued, “. . . a facility for accents and for sliding up and down the social scale to play classy or crass, posh or punk. A little glam. A little raw.”

“If Vincent doesn’t act voluntarily,” Aimée said, raising her voice, “that makes him look bad.”

“I’ll try, got to go,” she said, and hung up.

“What did Martine say?”

“Besides gushing over Deneuve? She’s rushing to interview fashionistas, do profiles on glamour queens not afraid to get dirt under their fingernails, get sidebar tidbits on hot new authors. If only I could see or . . .”

She reached for his hand and found his arm.

“René, remember the article we read in the Japanese software magazine about technology for the blind?”

Silence. She heard René take a deep breath. “You mean the screen reader software that converts text into speech?”

“Exactly,” she said. “And the speech recognition software that converts speech into text for the laptop?”

“We make a deal,” he said. “You let me help find who attacked you, and I’ll get you these software programs. Even if I have go to Japan to do it.”

“Deal.”

But René didn’t have to go that far. A few phone calls and he found several programs via a hacker friend in the Sentier.

“He’s leaving,” said René. “If I don’t go now, I won’t get it installed . . .”

“But first I have to make sure the victim was the woman in the resto,” she interrupted, “and check the speed dial numbers on this woman’s phone.”

“There’s time for that,” René said. “The Judiciare problem can’t wait and I need your help.”

And with that, René left.

She must have drifted off. Aimée heard the metal rings on the top of the curtain beside her slide across the rod. Footsteps hurried across the linoleum.

“Mademoiselle Leduc, we’re evacuating the ward,” said the nurse from Burgundy, the nice one. She broke Aimée’s reverie of a gloom-filled future: her apartment sold to pay debts, creditors hounding René at Leduc Detective.

“Evacuating? There’s a fire . . . ?”

No smell of smoke.

“A train disaster . . . the TGV crashed coming into Gare de Lyon,” the nurse said, her words rushed, breathing hard. “Two hundred people have been injured. We’re the closest facility, so we’re taking the overflow. L’hôpital Saint Antoine, too.”

Aimée felt her blanket pulled back.

“All the area hospitals are Code Red,” the nurse from Burgundy continued. “Your condition’s stabilized so we’ll move you to the résidence Saint Louis around the corner. A place for the unsighted to learn how to function.”

So they were moving her to a blind people’s home.

“You don’t understand, I have a home. . . .” She wanted to shout “I’m not like them!”

But she was.

“Before you return to your own home, it’s best to learn to navigate in the world of the sighted, mademoiselle,” she was told. “Chantal, our volunteer, will guide you. She’s a resident there.”

A musty lilac scent accompanied the click of heels on linoleum. “Don’t worry,” said a quavering voice, “You can take care of yourself. I did.”

“But how can you help me if you can’t see?”

A cackle of dry laughter. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Aimée felt the nurse tying her hospital gown and draping a robe over her. Her bag was thrust in her arms. But how would René find her?

“I have to tell my friend . . .”

“Don’t worry, there’s time for that. Chantal’s a pro,” the nurse said. “Stand up.”

Aimée fought the dizzying sensation as she slid her feet to the floor. Sirens hee-hawed outside her window.

“Now, stretch out your arm and find my shoulder.”

Aimée gingerly extended her arm, felt smooth material, and gripped Chantal’s bony shoulder.

“Parfait! Let yourself see shapes with your fingers, read textures and angles. We will teach you tricks. Vite, eh . . . let’s make way for the real unfortunates!”

Aimée hesitated.

“Allons-y!”

Aimée shuffled forward, a baby step at a time.

“I’m only legally blind, you know,” Chantal said, her tone confiding. Her shoulder moved forward. “I distinguish light and dark, large shapes. That’s our little secret, eh? The doctor said you had spirit, he recommended you for the résidence. Not everyone gets sent there . . . God forbid, you could be shipped off to St. Nazaire or some provincial backwater! Saint Louis only takes the quick learners, don’t forget that.”