Murder in the Bastille

Thursday Morning

AIMÉE SHUDDERED. SWEAT BEADED her upper lip. She balanced herself against the smooth Formica-topped chest of drawers beside her. She’d never realized how difficult putting on her underwear could be. Forget matching or even clean. Wearing a leopard thong with the black lace bra wouldn’t matter, not even if they were inside out.

First she had to find them, then get one leg in and then the other, and pull them up.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Loud and in front of her.

Merde!

You might want to close your door,” said a familiar voice. “Aimée recognized the distinctive rolling r’s of the Burgundian nurse.

“Not on duty at the hospital?”

“Time for my nap,” she said. “I work a split-shift today.”

Aimée heard a yawn.

“We’re neighbors,” the nurse said. “A perk of my job; I get lower rent, an ascenseur instead of winding stairs to the sixth floor, a room—not a closet like the maid’s room on rue Charenton, and a real kitchen and bath.”

Aimée sympathized. Living in her seventeenth-century high-ceilinged apartment with extensive foyers and a cavernous diamond-tiled hallway didn’t always make up for the galleylike kitchen and postage-stamp bathrooms.

“Call me Sylvaine,” the nurse said.

Aimée felt her hand grasped by a a warm one.

“Aimée,” she said.

“Feel free to ask for help. That’s part of my rent package, too.”

Aimée felt shy, but her legs were freezing. That she stood practically naked in full view from the hall hadn’t occurred to her. Yet on second thought, she realized, few inhabitants would know the difference.

“I know you’re tired and I don’t want to impose but . . .” Aimée said. “Mind helping me get dressed? If you get me started, I think I can manage.”

“Organization,” Sylvaine said. “It all comes down to organizing, putting and keeping things in the same place, developing a system that works for you. Makes you independent.”

Aimée liked that idea.

A half hour later Sylvaine and Aimée had arranged LeClerc’s face powder, Chanel red lipstick and lip-liner, and Chanel #5 scent within reachable distance for Aimée and organized her drawer of patterned panty hose, bar of dark chocolate, and cell phone so Aimée could locate them. They’d hung her leather miniskirt over the chair back and angled her boots by the door. Aimée felt thankful René had brought her the essentials on his first visit.

“My mother was blind,” Sylvaine said. “But you’d hardly have known it. At home anyway. She did everything. Even managed homemade foie gras for Noël. As long as someone carved the goose, she said.”

“She sounds amazing,” Aimée said.

A welcome breeze entered the small studio via the window.

“And bullheaded,” Sylvaine said. “She wouldn’t have got far without that strong will of hers. We had our own secret way to communicate. At least, I thought it was secret until I saw some of the deaf-blind people use it too.”

Interested, Aimée asked, “How’s that?”

“We did it for fun. If we were somewhere and she didn’t like something, she’d block print instead of whispering or being rude.”

“Block print?”

“Palm printing . . . it’s simple. You form the words in capitals on someone’s palm or forearm. Like this.”

Aimée felt Sylvaine take her arm. Then Sylvaine’s finger traced lines and curlicues on it.

“It tickles.”

“All the letters are composed of one to three strokes,” Sylvaine said. “A U is a rounded one stroke. The V slants . . . feel the difference?”

Aimée nodded. Sylvaine’s presence dispelled the cold isolation she had felt.

“What did I write?”

“The doctor was . . . no is . . . chunky?”

Sylvaine’s throaty laughter filled the room.

“Do me one more big favor,” Aimée said. René had left her room too soon to give her the information. “Write down on a paper the numbers from this phone’s speed dial on a piece of paper. Then I promise to leave you alone.”

“Pas de problème, but you’ll owe me,” Sylvaine said. “There are three numbers.”

Aimée felt a paper thrust into her hand.

Then a beeping came from somewhere at mid-level where Sylvaine stood. “Oops, I’m being paged,” she said. “Time for my shift.”

Aimée felt guilty. “Sorry that you missed your nap.”

“Rien de tout! Drop by my room, it’s four doors down on the left. We’ll have coffee and talk. I need to interview another patient for my nursing course, someone other than eighty-year-old Madame Slavinksy who falls asleep after three minutes and wakes up thinking we’re in the Warsaw theatre watching a performance of The Threepenny Opera.”

After Sylvaine’s last footsteps echoed down the hallway, it struck Aimée. For a brief time, with Sylvaine, she’d forgotten she was blind. The first time since it had happened since that night.

The phone rang.

“Allô?”

“I’m mad at you, Aimée,” said Martine, her voice husky as usual. “Furious.”

“But why? Won’t Vincent cooperate . . . is he badmouthing me?”

“You didn’t let on. I’m your best friend,” she said. “Tell me it isn’t true? You’re . . . you’re. . . . It’s not permanent, is it?”

“I was going to tell you,” Aimée said. “I didn’t want to ruin your big evening.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I feel terrible. What do you need?”

What she really needed, Martine couldn’t provide.

“Don’t worry,” said Aimée.

“René says Lambert’s the specialist in Paris,” said Martine. “But there’s always Dr. Smoillet in Lyon, who helped my father. Or the eye clinic in Genève.”

Martine’s father had had routine cataract surgery, and the eye clinic in Genève specialized in macular degeneration. Neither was her problem. But she knew Martine wanted to help.

“Martine, I need decent dark glasses,” she said. “Miles Davis chewed on the only pair I have, not that it matters to my vision . . .”

“Say no more, they’re on the way,” she said. “I’ll engage a nurse to help you at my cousin’s apartment. Round the clock care.”

“Whoa Martine, you’re wonderful but I’m learning to help myself. And I need to stay here, they’re still running tests.”

And she wasn’t really sick. Battered, blind and concussed, but that was different. She didn’t need a nurse.

The phone clicked. “Sorry, I have to put you on hold,” said Martine.

By the time Martine came back on the line, Aimée had gotten one of her legs into her black tights.

“This magazine will kill me yet if the typesetters don’t,” she said, sounding frazzled. “The typesetters were on strike, but we took care of that. Now the major account in Bordeaux has ‘problems’ with the concept of our article on the ‘new’ winemakers. Nom de Dieu, I have to go or they’ll pull out of the coming issue. And their five pages of advertising.”

“Can’t Vincent go?”

“These types need the editor to hold their hand. I’ll come by as soon as I get back.”

ABLE TO use the phone now, Aimée felt more confident. It had only taken her three tries to reach René.

“René, any luck finding the software I need?”

“Not too bad,” he said, klaxons honking in the background. “I’m picking up cables near Montgallet Métro.”

He must be on rue Montgallet, a street lined with old storefronts that housed discount computer shops, Aimée thought. One of René’s favorite haunts. Many were run by families from Bangalore, the Silicon Valley of India.

“It’s a Diwali sale,” René said. A diesel truck shifted, the sound of gears scraping like the ragged cry of an animal in pain.

“Diwali? The Hindu festival of lights happens in November, René,” she said. “Nice try. It’s still October.”

“A pre-Diwali sale. Rajeev will give us a good price. He’s helping me with setup.”

She wondered if René, her partner, had thoughts about a future with Rajeev, who was a part-time programmer as well as a shop owner. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. She realized she had to help René with Vincent’s hard drive, even if it were the last job they did together. But she couldn’t worry about that now. Or she would give up and fall apart.

“René, did we do a shred analysis of Populax?”

“You mean a scan to see if deleted files were really gone?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Non.”

She detected interest in his voice.

“Exactement,” she said. “Vincent’s stubbornness bothers me. Let’s check the operating system. That should tell us if the file system was freed.”

She heard raised voices in the background. “Then we should see if the OS wrote a special one-character code to the beginning of the directory entry for any file,” René said. Aimée could hear his mounting excitement over the voices in the background. “It would mark any file as deleted. But unless it’s overwritten, the file info is still stored in the directory and the data still exists on the hard drive.”

“Even with our low-level software tools, we could read any deleted files,” she said.

She felt around for her leather backpack. Found it hanging on the hook and slipped the straps around her shoulders.

“And if we find something incriminating on Populax’s sys- tem, it’s better to know your enemy than be surprised, as they say,” she continued. “PR and marketing firms steal from each other all the time. And since the Judiciare’s not asking for anything else, just the hard drive info, suppose we found evidence of a nasty white collar crime? It would give us a bargaining chip with Vincent.”

“We could even get Vincent to pay us to delete it,” René said, admiration in his voice.

“But first we’ve got to find out what files exist,” she said. “And I don’t know how fast I’ll be using a voice-activated program,” she told him. “If you come to visit again, they moved me to the residence behind the hospital. Room 213.”

“By the way, I checked the databanks,” René said. “She bought her cell phone on rue Sainte Antoine.”

Aimée took a deep breath.

“And she was?”

“Josiane Dolet, lived at thirty-four, rue de Cotte.”

The initials J.D. . . . of course. Now that she knew her name she could find out more.

“Wonderful work, René!” On her right she heard the tap of a cane on linoleum. Closer and closer.

“I’ll come to see you as soon as . . .

“Take your time, René,” she said, reaching for Chantal’s elbow. “I’m going shopping.”

* * *

“THIS IS my friend, Chantal,” said Aimée, making the introduction to Lulu Mondriac, the owner of Blasphème.

Chantal had accompanied her so she could navigate. Lavender oils and frangipani fragrance from the scent counter wafted across to Aimée as Lulu acknowledged the introduction.

“It’s funny, Lulu,” Aimée said. ”You told me it was an exclu- sive when I bought it. But I ran into this woman who was wearing the identical silk Tong jacket. Matter of fact, she was seated next to me in a resto.”

Aimée could visualize Lulu’s round blue glasses, the thick silver bracelets up her arm like armor, the red hennaed hair piled on her head and her uniform of black silk Chinese pajamas. “When I work, I stay comfortable,” Lulu had told her. Aimée had bought two pairs of the same silk pajamas.

“It was the sample. I’d kept it for myself, one for you and one for me. She begged for it,” said Lulu. “But the embroidery and mahjong buttons weren’t as nice as yours.”

If Lulu had any suspicions that Aimée couldn’t see, she kept them to herself. “A John Galliano top’s coming in this week,” she confided. “It’s brilliant. Got your name on it.”

An attempt at appeasement, Aimée thought.

Lulu’s racks often held surprises, an eclectic collection that might include a Christian Lacroix sweater confection with an embroidered and beaded flowered collar, a Kenzo sweater threaded with metallic Lurex, or a poem printed on an Italian microfiber scarf.

On rare occasions she’d splurge in the shop, to celebrate a new contract or when her bank balance looked healthy. When would she next have such a reason to splurge? She pushed those thoughts away.

“Was the customer who purchased the sample Josiane Dolet, a stick-thin blonde, with Violet Vamp nails?” Aimée asked.

Silence. Was Lulu nodding? Aimée visualized the small store’s layout, hoping she still faced Lulu.

“It was her, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve known Josiane for years. She’s one of my best clients. So I had to let her have it,” Lulu admitted. “Look, Josiane was having a midlife crisis,” said Lulu, “I’ve had one or two of those myself.”

“What did she do?”

“What’s this . . . twenty questions?”

Torn between telling Lulu her reason for asking or keeping it to herself, Aimée bit her lip. Lulu might have useful information. But Aimée didn’t like disclosing what had happened.

“Won’t you tell me about Josiane?”

“Any special reason?”

Besides being your client and dropping big money, Aimée almost said. “Keep this between us. Josiane was the woman killed in the passage.”

Aimée heard a long gasp. Then silence. What she wouldn’t give to watch Lulu digesting this news.

“The serial killer . . . but how. . . . They never release the victim’s names,” Lulu said, almost whispering.

“The victim was wearing a silk Tong jacket with Mahjong buttons.” Aimée was guessing.

“Mon dieu. . . . It must be her. Why hurt Josiane?” said Lulu, her voice shaking in shock.

“The flics will want to question you, Lulu.”

The shop door opened with a gust of wind.

“Delivery!”

“Ici. . . .”

The rest of Lulu’s words were lost in the wind, but she was moving. Disconcerted by her change in position, Aimée didn’t know which way to turn. Where had Lulu gone?

“What’s wrong with you?” Lulu’s voice came from behind her now.

Aimée was hesitant to admit she couldn’t see. That she was blind and vulnerable, dependent on another blind women to help her. She didn’t feel like a detective, more like an awkward victim who asked silly questions.

“Arnica does wonders,” Lulu whispered. “Reduces the swelling. Sleep sitting up. And once those stitches come out. . .”

Did Lulu assume since her face was swollen and she wore dark glasses that Aimée had just had plastic surgery?

“Josiane wanted to look young, to recapture her youth.” Lulu went on, apparently satisfied with her own explanation. “That’s my theory. You know, some of them put on clear plastic shoes with patterned socks, carry a doughnut-shape shoulder bag, and buy a new face. You’ve had some work done, too, eh?”

Aimée stayed silent. Chantal cleared her throat and pinched Aimée.

“Are you a reporter, too?” Lulu asked her. Chantal must have shaken her head since Lulu went on, “Well, Josiane was blonde. Me, well my hair’s red now. I should be safe.”

Was it widely known that the victims were all blondes? Aimée remembered Morbier saying that, but this fact had not been mentioned the one time she’d heard about the crimes on the téle.

”Lulu, no one’s safe.”

“You’re right.” Lulu let out a big sigh. “We’re dancing between landmines here. Complacency’s dangerous. I’ll get the faubourg association to do something.”

Aimée doubted they could do much. If they hadn’t stopped the Beast of Bastille before, what could a neighborhood association do now?

“Lulu, he attacked me, too,” Aimée said, “But Josiane was his target.”

“He attacked both of you?”

“It was the jacket,” said Aimée. “I think he confused us. He went for me, thinking I was Josiane.

Aimée kept her head steady and focused her eyes in what she hoped was the right direction.

“But the man who attacked me wasn’t the serial killer. The flics won’t investigate; they think it’s an open-and-shut case. They’re sure it was the Beast. So please, tell me about her.”

“Alors, this goes from bad to worse,” Lulu said. “Josiane freelanced as a journalist. From what she said, she mostly did pieces on human rights. A green type . . . political. But a limousine liberal, you know.”

Aimée hadn’t known. Did green types go in for cosmetic surgery? That seemed to strike a false note. But on the other hand, why not?

Footsteps tramped in the door, then came rustling noises, then the slinging metallic sound of clothes hangers sliding along a rack.

“Madame . . . I’ll take this in medium. Here’s my card.”

Aimée heard clicks, a muttered curse. Lulu must have slid a credit card through the portable machine, then slammed it hard on the pink concrete counter. She’d done the same thing with Aimée’s card last week. Another loud thwack and Aimée jumped. Right against something that jiggled. The beaded jewelry display?

“Piece of garbage, this thing.” Lulu’s voice, in a low growl, came from Aimée’s right. “My clients wait, the charge doesn’t go through. I end up doing this twenty times a day! Look, we’ll have to talk later.”

Aimée felt an arm and Lulu’s frangipani-scented lip tint brushing by her cheek and realized she was being escorted out the door. “I’ll do what I can.”

* * *

ALL THE way back along the slippery pavement, clinging to Chantal’s arm, Aimée wanted to kick herself. She knew she must look awful. And the crowded, narrow streets and cars whizzing by terrified her. Noises jumped out from everywhere.

Something chirped and startled her. Birds . . . near the Bastille column?

“That traffic signal’s for us,” Chantal said. “You can let my arm loose, you know. I’ll need it later and you’ve nearly squeezed off my blood circulation.”

“Sorry,” Aimée said, feeling sheepish. She was adrift in the sea of sounds.

“You need protection, now,” said Chantal. “You’ll feel safer once you master simple cane skills.”

Chantal left her in the lobby and Aimée rode the elevator by herself. The numbers were announced automatically, and she felt proud when she got off at her floor until, once again, she sensed another presence. Someone stood in the hallway. Somewhere near her room. Her voice caught in her throat.

She took two steps. Grabbed for the railing and missed. Found it the next time and reached for her keys.

“Looking for someone?” she asked.

Silence.

Paralyzed, she waited.

Then the elevator whished open behind her. She turned, her keys pointed.

“Shopping, in your condition?” René asked behind her. “Find anything?”

“I found out more about Josiane Dolet. Now I’m certain she was the intended victim,” Aimée said. “Anyone else here?”

“Just us.”

“Could you look inside my room for me?”

She felt him take the door key that she held between her fingers, poised in the attack mode, and brush by her.

The door clicked as it was unlocked. “Coast seems clear,” René said a moment later.

Was she paranoid? Hadn’t someone been standing there when she got out of the elevator?

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

The attacker had taken nothing from her. She figured he’d been in a hurry when he found out she wasn’t the right woman.

“Time to get to work, partner,” she said, feeling her way along the wall. After a big breath and three steps, she reached her bed and kicked her bag under it.

She located a bottle of water, twisted the top, and took a slug. Half of it went down her shirt. Cold and soaking wet.

“Here’s the screen access program I promised you,” said René. “Blind programmers say DOS screen readers go quicker than what we’re used to. They’re dealing with strings of text with no graphic interface to slow it down. I think 128 megs of RAM should be enough for you. Schematics, variable capacity and interfaces work off those. Remember, the way we designed the Populax firewall?”

She heard the machine power up, the echoing pings as the net connection was made.

“A double password protected firewall, as usual!” she said.

“Click on Internet, then open browser,” René said.

A silky robotic-tinged voice responded “Log-in completed, internet connection established.”

“You’re wonderful, René.” Simultaneously, a surge of power ran through her. “Now I can investigate what’s bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did Vincent tear up our contract?” she said. She nodded, her fingers finding the keys, nestling in the ridges. Enjoying the familiar little clicks, feeling at home. Her fingers racing over the keys and responding to voice commands. “What is he hiding?”

She positioned the laptop on her bed, crossed her legs, and opened an internet browser. A pleasant male voice, deep and with a slightly robotic accent, responded to her key commands.

“Sexy enough for you?” René asked.

“He’s no Aznavour, but he’ll do,” she said. “René, I need a favor. Please copy these numbers.” She thrust the paper with Josiane’s speed dial numbers at him and the phone itself.

“And then . . .” she paused. She didn’t want to ask him to do this. But one of them had to comb the hard drive as soon as possible. René had provided her with the software so she could, and right now he would be better at interviewing someone.

“Up to calling on these folks and getting information from them, René?” she asked.

“It says Leduc Detective on our door,” he said. “Doesn’t it?”