Murder in the Bastille

Saturday

AIMÉE SAT IN THE clinic in l’hôpital Quinze-Vingts hugging her bag. The rustle of magazine pages amid frequent calling of patient names from the reception indicated efficiency. To her it also said impersonality.

She fingered the hem of her leather miniskirt, tugged it down, and felt for the zipper. Good, it was on the side, where it should be. She couldn’t stand the waiting, the doing nothing. And the darkness.

After last night, everything made her edgy. She figured the attacker would strike again to get Josiane’s phone and finish the job. He’d be stupid not to.

The flics continued to do nothing. And she wondered again why Bellan hadn’t called.

“Leduc, Aimée,” said a loud voice over the scratchy speaker. She was gripped by the elbow.

“Come this way,” said a young woman.

Blasts of dry heat hit her legs as they walked down a corridor echoing with footsteps, conversations, and doors whooshing open and closing.

“I’m Dr. Reyaud, the retinologist,” a man said.

“But I thought Dr. Lambert . . .”

“Let’s see what we have here,” said Dr Reyaud, guiding her to what felt like a smooth plastic chair. “He referred you to me.”

Without telling her?

“But he hasn’t . . .

“Have a seat,” he said.

She felt a glowing heat on her eyelid.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t worry, mademoiselle, this won’t hurt.”

His patronizing tone bothered her.

“Did you see the MRI results, Doctor?” she asked.

“Machines show us some details, but not everything,” he said. “Deciphering the brain’s architecture takes time.”

“Does that mean my retina’s involved?”

“Like I said, we see the damage but not necessarily the immune defenses and healing process battling it.”

No, he hadn’t said. But he wasn’t saying much.

“Dr. Lambert wants to run more tests . . .”

“I’ve taken over your case,” said Dr. Reyaud, “He has transferred your file to me.”

A sinking feeling came over her.

She’d made a fool of herself the other night with Dr. Lambert. Guy, as he’d wanted her to call him. Must have drank more than she’d realized. But he’d seemed amenable. More than amenable when he’d kissed her.

Dumb. She’d scared him off. Or had he scared himself off, wary of obligation?

He’d tried to be nice, that’s it. Got carried away and realized on his way home. Doctors didn’t get involved with patients. Who cared? Not she.

“Doctor, my vision came back,” she said. “Not very clearly or for long. Last night I saw light and dark. But I did recognize things.”

“That’s quite common with trauma to the optic nerve,” he said. “Does your vision flicker in and out?”

She nodded. All the blinking sparks and pepper-like fog must mean bad news. “Doctor, will things get worse. . .can the inflammation affect other parts of my brain?”

She heard metal scratch. His stethoscope against his name badge. She felt him take her hand in his. They were large and warm.

“Mademoiselle, you’re young, healthy and strong-willed, according to your chart and from what I hear from Dr. Lambert,” he said. “There’s so much going for you. No one can predict the future. But let’s try a new anti-inflammatory medication, see if it reduces the swelling more effectively. Schedule your next appointment for Monday.”

By Monday she could be dead. And that wasn’t her depression speaking.

An older nurse guided her to pick up her prescription. By the time she’d made it back to Madame Danoux’s, she felt so tired and dispirited that she fell asleep.

She woke up to a chill in the room. It must be evening. Blind people must save a lot on their energy bill since they used so little electricity for light, she reflected.

Then, from outside the window, she heard a church bell strike twelve. Only noon.

What if the Romanian had an arrest record, but it was sitting on someone’s desk? Or had been filed with the morning reports, like so many of the backlog cases. Overworked flics got to them when they had desk time. She knew they always aimed to clear their desks by noon.

She had to do something until she could check with Martin. That wouldn’t be for hours. She called the Commissariat again, asked for the records department.

“Lieutenant Égérie? I’m Aimée Leduc. My father worked with you.”

Pause. She heard raised voices in the background, like an argument.

“So you’re Jean-Claude’s daughter!”

Égérie, whose name meant muse, suffered teasing because of it. He’d been the dispatcher on her father’s shift. A tall man, thin as a rail, he lived with his mother. He had a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed when he talked, which had fascinated her as a little girl. Sometimes, in the Commissariat, after school when the others were busy he’d bend his double-jointed fingers and do amazing tricks.

“I remember when you got those rollerskates, not like the ones they have today,” said Lieutenant Égérie. “The wheels came off . . .”

“And you were the only one who could fix them,” she said, “everyone else was helpless. Just like now.”

He laughed. “Still the same. But you’re not asking me for help now, are you?”

She told him about Dragos.

“Let me see,” he said, his voice tired, “we’re down four investigating officers due to flu. They’ve pulled staff for the explosives case. Everyone here’s doing double shifts.”

Funny, Morbier hadn’t told her that.

“Of course, just thought I’d ask,” she said. “What explosives?”

“Very hush-hush,” he said. “I haven’t heard much.”

And he usually did.

“I’ll sniff around for you on Dragos. No promises.”

She hung up. And for a moment, thoughts of Dr. Guy Lambert crossed her mind. She wondered if he’d watched the sunrise this morning. For half a franc, she’d call and ask him what colors had painted the dawn.

But he’d referred her to another doctor. And hadn’t even told her. Forget him.

A minute later she dialed his office.

“Dr. Lambert’s in a meeting,” the receptionist told her.

“Please have him call me . . .” she paused. This was about her health, not about some silly kiss after several drinks that he regretted. A delicious kiss. Of course, he’d done the classic French naval manuever . . . made for the target, then veered off and run. “This concerns my MRI results.”

And it struck her again . . . did his opinion matter? She feared the worst. The retinologist hadn’t even responded to her queries.

Chantal and Lucas led full, active lives, adapting and managing without sight. She could learn to live with the darkness. Even if she didn’t want to. Even if it wasn’t fair. Even if the man who caused it was still out there somewhere.

And she would.

She had to keep telling herself that.

She’d never saddle René with a whining, awkward burden. That’s if he would still want to work with her. She’d have to organize her life, adapt her apartment and the office, learn Braille, train Miles Davis to cope. And pay her bills.

But first she had to find out who was after her, before they came calling again. And deal with Vincent’s predicament, as she’d promised René.

She booted up her laptop and opened the Populax file one more time. Checked each entry pertaining to Incandescent, the gun-running firm Vincent had unwittingly represented. After two tiring hours of examining data via the robotic screen reader, she felt convinced Vincent had honored the marketing duties outlined in his standard short contract.

Why would he fear showing his clean laundry in public? Why had he torn up their contract?

Curious, she delved further, checking his e-mail. Then his deleted e-mail. Common thinking was if you deleted e-mail it was erased from the hard drive. But that was true only if you didn’t know where to find it. Once written or received, nothing left the hard drive.

After reading Vincent’s e-mails, she concluded that he was having an affair. A very hot one, almost worshipful in tone, with someone called Inca.

If it was exposure of these e-mails that bothered him, she’d ask René, see if he thought they could have a word with la Proc. Try and work out a deal citing the intimacy factor. They’d done it before and saved face for a few of their clients.

When she was about to end her search, the robotic voice said “Unable to read encrypted e-mail file.”

Startled, she sat back, alarms sounding in her brain.

Vincent had encrypted part of his e-mail! That bothered her. Why just some of it, not all?

She checked the date. A Friday. René picked up all client backup tapes on Friday mornings. A routine. And then it occurred to her that Inca . . . might be short for Incandescent . . . or someone who worked there.

Was Vincent having an affair with someone at Incandescent? Had he wanted to withhold the hard drive because of an affair with an employee . . . an employee in a company being investigated?

She wondered if René’s standard backup files would display the e-mail before it had been encrypted. A long shot, she figured, but worthy of scrutiny. Otherwise she’d ask René for software to crack the encryption. But depending on the code, and with her handicap, it would take time. Longer than they had.

She rummaged in the laptop carrying case, feeling for the velcro tabs holding the tapes, assuming they were where she hoped René kept them.

Sun beat down on her leg, warm and lush for October. A nice break from the rain. From somewhere in the apartment, a parakeet’s song trilled.

Below, a Frexpresse delivery man announced his arrival with a shout from the courtyard. “Delivery!”

What she wouldn’t do right now for an espresso and a cigarette! Yet she wasn’t up to navigating Madame Danoux’s kitchen, redolent of bay leaf, without any help. It would be as daunting as negotiating the Métro platform without a white cane.

Twenty minutes later, after much experimentation, she found the right Populax backup files. They had an extensive batch, since Vincent had been a client for several months. After another two tries, she found the tape.

The robotic voice enunciating the contents of Inca’s hot emails was almost funny. But something nagged her. Why hadn’t Vincent told her? Or had he been embarrassed because she would know the recipient?

She put that thought aside to follow up later.

After Inca’s torrid e-mail correspondence came a series of innocuous messages from Popstar. The subject read Marmalade tea. Then she deciphered:

Call 92 23 80 29 for a good time.

Why encrypt this sort of thing? Something smelled off. Way off.

She decided to check each detail; she reprogrammed the software. Now the robotic voice read each word of the email header. Her system had trace route capability, so she converted the e-mails’ IP address by using a DOS command line and pinging the name which came back as a number: 217.73.192.109.

This pinging, as it hopped on the IP’s traceroute, indicated how many servers the e-mail had gone through. She figured if she listened long enough, she’d hear a pinging symphony.

Excited, she kept going. After twenty hops, it landed.

243ms 246ms 239ms head.rambler.ru ru . . . the origin of the message was Russia.

She sat back, surprised. And tried several more. Every time it went back to the same server in Moscow. That made sense. Even though the Wall had fallen and the Soviet Union disintegrated, she knew Big Brother in Moscow still looked at all email. They probably hadn’t enough money to change their system.

Yet.

Now she had to figure out why Vincent was getting spam-like e-mail from Russia that he kept encrypted. Was he the intended recipient? Was it going first to someone else?

The phone rang. Josiane’s phone.

She hesitated then answered.

“Allô?”

“I’ve just got a minute,” Lieutenant Egérie said. “This came across my desk.”

She picked up an unusual, tense note in his voice.

“I appreciate it.”

“In the process of being charged, a man became ill,” Lieutenant Égérie said. “A Dragos Iliescu.”

That was the name Yann Rémouze had given to René. She held back her excitement.

“Where’s he now?”

“Hôtel Dieu, but he’s due to be charged with drug trafficking in the 11ième.”

“Merci.”

The Hôtel-Dieu, on Île de la Cité between Notre Dame and quai des Orfèvres, supposedly dated from Druid times. However, Aimée’s lycée teacher had insisted it was only from Emperor Julien II’s era. And her parish priest had cited Saint-Landry, the bishop of Paris in A.D. 600, as the builder of this hospital for the needy.

Any of them were good enough for her.

She knew how to circumvent the Hôtel Dieu switchboard, archaic, but still functioning.

“Bonjour,” she said. “I’m calling on Commissaire Morbier’s behalf about prisoner Iliescu.”

The woman at the other end of the line coughed; papers rustled. “Let me transfer you to the ward nurse.”

Clicks and buzzing accompanied her call.

“Ward 13C,” said a brisk voice.

“Checking on prisoner Dragos Iliescu. The Commissaire’s interested in his health status.”

“So he’s a doctor now, your Commissaire?”

“Not in this life,” said Aimée, trying to inject a world-weary tone in her voice as if she did this every day, “but he wants to know if this Iliescu’s healthy enough for arraignment.”

“Let me check,” she said. “Aaah, that one. Transferred from CUSCO to intensive care.”

CUSCO was the prison section of Hôtel Dieu.

“Can you elaborate? Why?”

“He needs twenty-four hour care and supervision,” she said.

What was wrong with him?

“Sounds serious. Want to share it with me so I can give my boss a time-frame here? Two days, a week, or . . .”

“Third degree burns, high fever, nausea,” the sister said. “Hard to say.”

“Burns?” she asked, perplexed.

“Like he’d been on vacation, but only his arm got sunburned. Bizarre, eh?” she said. “Time for rounds, excuse me.”

Bizarre.

From the window, Aimée felt the Seine-scented breeze waft inside. If only she could take Miles Davis for a walk right now along the quai.

If only.

But food and rent weren’t paid with if onlys. She had to move on.

And then she thought about what René had recounted to her after his conversation with Mathieu, the ébéniste, in the passage. She had some questions; it was time for her to visit him.

“ I APPRECIATE your taking me, Chantal,” Aimée said.

“No problem,” said Chantal, “It’s on my way to the Braille library on Avenue Parmentier. I work there this afternoon.”

“Work?”

“What people do to earn money, yes,” she said. “I supervise the reading room.”

Aimée felt Chantal’s dry hand on her elbow, guiding her. And the uneven cobbles beneath her feet. She didn’t want to admit how afraid she felt. How vulnerable to attack.

But talking with Cavour could give her information about Josiane.

Or not.

But she had no one else to ask.

“You know, there’s a Braille beginning class starting next week. Two nights a week, an accelerated class.”

Aimée thought about all the CDs she wanted to hear. And how if she put off learning Braille, it would just get harder.

“Sign me up, Chantal,” she said, anxious to arrive.

“Fine. We’re almost there,” said Chantal. “Feel the wall, how it curves; it’s the way medieval entrances were built.”

Aimée’s hands, guided by Chantal’s, felt the pocked, cold stones, the crumbling pebblelike mortar in between. Grayish film swam in front of her eyes, coarse and grainy. Like ground pepper. Her heart skidded. Was she seeing what she was feeling?

“Dr. Lambert’s referred me to a retinologist,” she said. “Why couldn’t the geek have done it in the first place?”

“Geek . . . are you kidding?” she said. “Everyone says he’s . . .”

“Pardon, madame et mademoiselle,” said a quavering voice near them.

Aimée slid the sunglasses up on her head. And for a moment, a glint of silver hair flashed in front of her, superimposed on the pepperlike film. But there was no depth. No distinction between close or far.

The world tilted. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She grabbed at the wall, pressed her forehead against the cold stone, gray and furred with lichen. Ecstatic to see, and yet so dizzy.

“Alors, Aimée, I must hurry,” said Chantal. “I have to open the reading room.”

“But Chantal . . .”

“Mathieu, Mathieu!” said Chantal, interrupting her, pulling Aimée along.

She felt as though she’d stepped into a Dalí painting. No depth of field, everything pasted together. Colors colliding. Weaving and wonderful and surreal and sickening.

She picked a point and tried to focus, but every stone, each bar of woven grille work, disoriented her. Her nose brushed the wall, yet she’d had no idea how close she was.

Her head ached. She wanted so much to see and so much to close her eyes.

And then it began fading. Fading. Images of a hammer, and a man in a wavy, blue workcoat, coming in and fading out . . . a gauze-like haze hovered, never quite lifting.

The man’s mouth was moving in the haze, he was saying “Chantal . . .” The granular film descended, succeeded by gray mist.

“No, no,” she said, rubbing her eyes, trying to rub the film away.

But Chantal didn’t answer. Nor did the man. Silence, except for the birds singing in the distance. She realized they’d entered Mathieu’s atelier. And there had been large chairs hooked on the walls and gilt frames stacked against tables. She’d seen it. Work-worn, real. Good God, she’d seen it!

She felt a tentative hand on her shoulder.

“Mademoiselle, ça va?”

And she realized her face was wet. Tears streamed down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing them away. The vision had been so brief. So beautiful. Her body quivered. “Forgive me. Your atelier’s wonderful.”

“But it’s a mess!” he said, his voice edged with amusement. “The only other person it’s brought to tears was myself when I was twelve and forbidden to go to the cinema until I cleaned all the solvents my dog spilled. A long, tearful process.”

A cloth was pressed in her hand.

“Please, take the handkerchief.”

She wiped her face, rubbed her nose. “I forgot about . . . rocks, tools, the hue of fabrics, how things glint and catch the light.”

She shook her head, put her fist over her streaming eyes. “Forgive me. I saw an old woman’s silvery hair, your mouth moving, your face . . .” She turned away, trying to get hold of herself.

“You shame me,” he said, his voice saddened.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Non. How I think nothing of my sight and my hands, mademoiselle,” he said. “Hearing you humbles me. You’re too young. It’s not right.”

The finches sang in his courtyard. Water gurgled from what sounded like a fountain, and the scent of honeysuckle wafted inside.

She could never forget seeing sunrise over the Seine, how the first peach violet light stained the roofs, skylights, and the pepperpot chimneys, or the Seine’s green mossy quai, the brass doorknockers shaped like hands that invaded her dreams. Just one more time she wanted to trace the dewed veins of a glossy camellia leaf, see the tip of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and his button eyes. The memories passed before her; her father’s smile, the signature carmine red lipstick her mother had used, her grandmother’s worn accordion strap.

Get a grip, she told herself. She turned to where she thought Cavour stood. Again, she wished her emotions hadn’t gotten the upper hand. She had to salvage this visit, find out if the ébéniste knew anything. Better to deal with her emotions in private.

She ran her fingers along the rough wood counter permeated with smells of turpentine, wood stain, and sawdust. Her hands touched a handle. Then what felt like a rectangular plane with wood shavings curling on it.

“Attention!” said Mathieu.

Too late. She’d knocked it to the floor. Things clanged and clattered by her feet.

“I’m so sorry. What did I spill?” she said stooping down and feeling with her hands to locate whatever she’d knocked down. She had visions of having ruined a priceless piece. “I’m so clumsy!”

She felt a cold slick sheet of . . . alumininum? No. Too dense and stiff for that.

“Forgive me.” Guiltily she tried to pick up whatever her hands touched. They slid beside what felt like a long, round-edged salt shaker. But something was attached to it, like a panel.

“Let me help,” he said, taking things from her hands.

“You work in metal, too?”

She heard him grunt, then his hands taking things from hers. “Once in a while.”

She marshaled what grace she could and climbed her hands up the worktable leg. Helpless and awkward again.

“If I broke something, let me replace . . .”

“No harm done,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

She felt even more awkward, but had to find out if he knew anything.

“My partner René spoke with you about the attack on me.”

“So it’s you,” he said. “The one hurt in the Passage, non?”

“Oui.”

“I didn’t help you,” he said. “I am sorry . . .”

But could he have helped? Suspicion crossed her mind. The police had questioned him. But would he have attacked her in front of his own workshop?

It was Josiane who had been the target . . . everything pointed that way. And the police had let him go.

What if he had witnessed something he was unaware of?

“Tell me what you remember, Mathieu,” she said.

“The old lady you passed, the one whose hair you saw,” he said, his tone wistful. “I caused her to be hurt, too.”

Why did he sound so guilty?

She sensed he’d gone down another track. Again, in her mind she saw his blue work coat, the way his mouth moved, and his hands caressing the wood chair.

That’s what she’d forgotten. The more she thought, the more briefly glimpsed images came back to her. The way he’d touched the wood, the atmosphere in the atelier, his obvious love of his craft.

How did it come together? The attack on her in the passage, Josiane’s murder, the Romanian thugs, Vincent, and Mathieu’s atelier? How could it? Yet somehow, in her gut, she knew it did.

Her brief moment of vision illumined her sense of Mathieu, and she was thankful. Intuitively, she knew he was a good man. But good men make mistakes, like bad men, like everyone.

“Look Mathieu, try to remember where you were when you heard. . . . Had you seen Josiane?”

“Josiane loved the Bastille,” he said. “She spearheaded our association to save this historic quartier.”

That piece fit in the puzzle.

“So could you say Mirador was alarmed by her investigative reporting?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would Mirador encourage her to reconsider her article on the evictions? Or hire thugs to threaten her?”

Only the finches chirped in response.

“We can keep it between us, Mathieu,” she said. “Mathieu?”

“Since when do you have such pretty visitors, Mathieu?” said a man’s voice behind her.

Aimée stiffened. She knew that voice.

“Monsieur Malraux,” said Mathieu.

“No wonder the piece isn’t ready, eh. A nice distraction to occupy you.”

Was there an edge in the man’s tone?

But she heard a warm, slow laugh.

“I like to tease him, mademoiselle,” he said. “He hardly ever gets out, shuts himself up with his work.”

“Let me check for you,” said Mathieu. His voice receded along with the clop of wooden clogs—sabots her grandmother had called them—over the floor.

“What brings you here, Mademoiselle Leduc?” asked Malraux.

Now she remembered. She thought fast. “Trying to solicit a donation for the Résidence, Monsieur Malraux, just as we are from you trustees.”

Again that nice laugh.

“Bon, but you could have asked me to intercede with Mathieu. I’d be more than happy to help you. Don’t tell Chantal, let’s keep it between ourselves for now, eh, but I’ve got her a van.”

“That’s wonderful!” Aimée turned to his voice. But he was moving. She tried tracking him and then gave up. Too much work. She pulled her dark glasses on. “Chantal will be thrilled.”

“I really feel I should be doing more,” he said. “Especially after Chantal explained how vital these programs are. She’s a wonder, that woman: working, volunteering. Never stops.”

Aimée felt a pang of guilt. What a caring man. . . . So what if he was an Opéra patron, well-connected and wealthy? Unlike most of those social climbers, he shared, helping those less fortunate. A rarity.

“Chantal’s wonderful,” said Aimée. “She teaches me a lot.”

“Matter of fact, just between us, I’m getting two vans donated,” he said. “My cousin’s father-in-law’s a Renault dealer in Porte de Champerret.”

That’s how it worked. Through connections. Her friend Martine would no more consult the Yellow Pages in the phone book than eat food off the floor. It wasn’t done. One went through a friend or a work colleague or a great-aunt’s cousin, in the time-honored tradition. Probably unchanged since feudal times.

Malraux rose higher in her estimation. Favors begat favors. Now he’d owe the donor.

Where was Mathieu?

A gust of damp, subterranean air encompassed her. Accompanied by a strong scent of paint.

“Have you commissioned a work from Mathieu?” she asked, turning her head and hoping she faced him. Sun from an overhead skylight warmed her. Was it her imagination or did pale haze creep from the corners of her vision?

“Indirectly. My client needs a special vernissage on a piece.”

She liked the smooth cadence of Malraux’s voice. Imagined what he might look like. Tall, well-built. She figured he paid attention to detail.

And then her mind went back to Vincent. He obsessed over detail. But Vincent was short and bursting with nervous energy. While Malraux projected an aura of effortless charm in dealing with people and projects . . . like an aristo, someone to the manor born. Or maybe that mode of operating was de rigueur in the art world.

Vincent . . . could he have . . . ?

“So, of course, I come here,” Malraux was saying. “Mathieu’s one of the few left who know this vernissage technique.”

Malraux seemed very sure of his status, something she sensed Vincent craved. A hunger coloring all his efforts.

She heard the clop of wooden sabots up the stairs.

I’m sorry, but the last layer of lacquer won’t be dry until “tomorrow,” said Mathieu. “Not today.”

“But they must pack . . . well, the backstage prop manager told me he’s loading the container this evening.”

So Malraux was having a piece fixed for the Opéra? But he’d said for a client. If the client was the Opéra, she wondered, did Malraux know Vincent?

Mathieu’s voice cut in on her thoughts.

“Linseed oil takes time,” said Mathieu. “You know it’s not always possible to predict the drying rates in changeable weather. Especially these past few days.”

“But this needs . . .”

“The work will be ruined,” Mathieu asserted. “It’s still wet.”

Something in Mathieu’s voice was strained. Was it because he had to refuse Malraux’s demand? But it wasn’t only that. She heard an underlying tension. Was Mathieu stressed about Josiane?

“Excuse me,” said Malraux. “I’m late for the Opéra board meeting. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Hope to see you again.”

She heard footsteps, then the door shut. Aimée was wondering at Mathieu’s silence when the phone in her pocket rang. Josiane’s phone. The one she’d been attacked for.

“Allô?”

“Where are you?” said René, his voice raised. In the background she heard klaxons blaring.

“In Mathieu’s shop in the passage.”

“I found Dragos’s bag,” he said, his voice vibrating with excitement.

“Dragos’s bag?”

“No, I stole it,” said René. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”

Aimée realized Mathieu was beside her, silent.

“Go on, René.”

“You have to see this,” he said. “I can’t describe it over the phone.”

“Slight problem, René,” she said. “I can’t see.”

“Get your white cane, come out to rue Charenton in three minutes.”

Her heart thumped. She didn’t want to walk there. Again.

“I don’t have a cane.”

“Why not?”

“A dog’s better.”

She didn’t want to admit she’d refused the white cane. Pride had prevented her from learning how to use one. Stupid. Face it. She needed one now.

“The Citroën’s too wide to get by the construction. My God, Aimée, it’s a medieval passage. Come out in two minutes, you’ve got less than fifty meters to walk.”

Her head hurt. Her brief period of sight with no depth perception, the resulting lack of balance had disoriented her. But she gathered her bag, thinking back to the layout she’d seen. Unease lingered in her mind. She didn’t want to ask Mathieu for help.

All she could think of was that awful choking. No air. Having to walk there alone, again. Her hands went to the dressing still on her neck, covered by a scarf.

“Excuse me, Mathieu,” she said. “My partner’s waiting.”

Mathieu guided her to the door. She refused his offer of further help. She stretched her hands out, felt the cold stone, and took small steps, guiding herself along the wall.

The passage felt much warmer than on the night she’d been here. Noises of trucks, the chirp of someone’s cell phone, and the smell of espresso came from somewhere on her left.

Something gnawed at her. Stuck in the back of her mind. But what was it? Immersed in the fear and frustration of blindness, had she missed details . . . important ones?

Now it all came back: the dankness from the lichen-encrusted pipes, the dark sky pocked with stars, the cell phone call’s background noise, the tarlike smell of the attacker.

She felt sick . . . had it been Mathieu? Had he thought she was Josiane?

“René?” she said, hearing the familiar Citroen engine.

“Door’s open.”

She smelled the leather upholstery he’d oiled and polished. And what smelled like fresh rubber latex.

“Put these gloves on and feel this.” She felt René thrust latex gloves in her lap, then what felt like a glass tube.

The car shuddered as he took off down the street.

“Wait . . .” She wanted a cigarette. And for the fireworks to subside in her head. Her pills. She’d forgotten to take them. She found the pill bottle inside her pocket, uncapped it, and popped two pills. Dry.

“Let’s stop. I need water and a pharmacy.” As the Citroën sped down cobbled streets, Aimée was glad for the smooth suspension.

René pulled up at the curb. “Here’s a pharmacy. Let me . . .”

“I’ll manage,” she said, feeling her way on the sidewalk. “How many steps to the door?”

But the doors opened automatically. Pharmacy smells and warm air enveloped her. Now if only she could find the tar shampoo. The one the attacker smelled of. She took small steps and listened for voices.

“May I help you, mademoiselle?” said an older woman.

“Water, please,” she said. She smelled floral bouquet soap. “Am I near the shampoo?”

“Keep going, end of the aisle, on your right.”

Aimée felt slick plastic bottles, smooth boxes, and more perfumed smells. Not what she looked for.

“Madame, what about the medicinal shampoos?”

“Here’s your water,” the woman said, grasping Aimée’s hand, putting a cold bottle in it. “Right here. Which one would you like?”

She craned her neck forward, sniffing the boxes. Both rows. And then she smelled it. “This one. What’s it called?”

“Aaah, super-antipelliculaire shampoo. This one really fights dandruff. Tar-based. It’s the most effective.”

“Merci, madame.” She paid for the water and shampoo and edged her way back to René’s car.

“What was all that about?” asked René.

“Whoever attacked me has dandruff,” she said. “And uses this shampoo.”

“Him and thousands of others,” said René.

“It’s a start,” she said. “How often does it say to shampoo?”

“Once a week, but for increased effectiveness, every three days,” said René.

“Then he’s about due if he’s conscientious.”

She dialed Morbier’s line.

“Commissaire Morbier’s attending a refresher training course in Créteil,” said the receptionist.

So he’d gone. What about that explosives case he’d mentioned? He’d always said he was too old a dog to learn new tricks.

Didn’t he care? Deep down she’d thought maybe he’d . . . what? Give up his caseload and devote himself to her? That wasn’t Morbier.

Morbier always struggled with his emotions. Even when her father died. He’d avoided seeing her in the burn hospital after the explosion.

And though she wasn’t surprised, it had hurt.

What more could she do?

She wanted to avoid faxing their information about Vaduz to Bellan. Too many prying eyes in the Commissariat. Maybe he wasn’t back yet from Brittany? Lieutenant Nord had promised he’d call her.

Right now she had to concentrate on what René wanted to show her.

“Why don’t we check Dragos’s bag?”

René parked at tree-lined Place Trousseau. Aimée rolled down the window of his Citroen. A police siren reverberated in the distance; the gushing of water and the noise of plastic rakes scraping over the stone sounded in the background.

She inhaled the soft, autumn air tinged by dampness. Sounds of crackling leaves and a dog’s faint bark reminded her of why she loved this time of year.

“What does the bag look like, René?”

“Dirty natural canvas, D.I. stitched on the inside of the flap,” he said. “Long strap. You know, the ones people drape around themselves on motorcycles.”

Common and available everywhere. She pulled the latex gloves on, finger by finger, an arduous process. It reminded her of when she was little and her grandfather insisted she put her winter mittens on by herself. Never mind that she couldn’t see where her fingers were going.

“Tell me what you see,” she said.

“Better yet,” said René. “Open your hands.”

“No guessing games.”

Too late. Again she felt a long, glass-hard tube. Then another. “Feels like a beaker. From a laboratory. Any markings?”

“Just worn red lines indicating measurements.”

She smelled a cloth exuding stale sweat.

“Can you describe this?”

“That’s a bandanna, here’s some used Métro tickets, a stick of cassis chewing gum,” said René, “a roll of black masking tape and a flyer for the Chapel of the hôpital Quinze-Vingts.”

“Does the flyer have a map?”

“Non, but isn’t the Chapel on the right of the hospital as you enter?”

Now she remembered. She’d seen it, rushing by in the rain, parallel with the disused Opéra exit. The Chapel was tall, medieval-walled. In the centime-sized courtyard before the Chapel, large blue doors led to rue Charenton. A shortcut to Vincent’s office.

But the doors had been locked. So, in the pouring rain, she had kept on to the hôpital entrance, the remnant of the Black Musketeers’ barracks, surmounted by a surveillance camera.

Her thoughts spun. So easy for someone, if they had a key, to avoid the main portal. Or to jimmy the lock mechanism and avoid the surveillance camera.

“Why would Dragos have this flyer? You wouldn’t suppose a thug for hire and dope seller would be religious.”

“Says here one of the first French cardinals has a crypt there,” he said. “The holy water font was commissioned by the nuns of the Abbaye Royale de Saint-Antoine.”

The scratch of the streetcleaner’s broom receded in the background. She heard the whirr of the small, green pooper-scooper truck, and exclamations from the pedestrians it dodged on the pavement.

“Could Dragos have killed Josiane? But the man who called spoke without an accent, and he knew her. I’m sure of it,” she said. The thoughts spun faster and faster. “If Dragos is newly arrived he’d have a Romanian accent. And the field’s specialized. Hired thugs, muscle men, aren’t hit men, right? We’ve been through this before.”

“If you say so,” said René. “But the Chapel’s right there. Dragos could have gone into it on his lunch hour. No, wait, it says here it’s only open one Thursday a month for services.”

An idea came to her.

“What a perfect place to stash something.”

“Stash what?”

“Whatever was in these glass beakers . . . wouldn’t it be safer there than on the péniche?”

“But how would Dragos get into the Chapel?”

She sat back against the cream-soft leather, let the breeze flutter over her.

“Brault, the architect, knows more than he was telling you, René,” she said.

“Shall we pay him a visit?”

“Good idea, partner.”

BY THE time she and René sat in Brault’s waiting room, the little light flashes behind her eyes had subsided. The grayish hue had deepened, lightened, fragmented, and then faded out like the snow on a TV screen.

Brault was in a meeting. They waited. Aimée tried Morbier. No answer on his personal line. She left a second message. Then called Bellan. Also, no answer. With her luck they would both be at a retirement party for the Préfet.

She heard René’s footsteps. “Merde, Brault’s crossing the courtyard, I see him from the window. He’s trying to avoid us.”

“Go ahead, René, I remember the way. I’ll catch up.”

She felt her hand grabbed, as René ran ahead.

“Trust me, keep up,” he said.

She stumbled, awkward and hesitant, to the elevator behind René. Why had she worn her T-strap heels? But the only other pair she had were boots. Just as high-heeled.

On the ground floor, René pulled her along, “Run. We have to stop him before he gets into his car.”

Aimée heard a car door slam, an engine start, then a gear whining into first.

“Brault’s pointing to his wristwatch,” said René, his tone anguished. “I can’t believe it, he’s driving right by us. He won’t stop.”

“Oh, yes, he will,” she said, waving and stepping off the curb in front of the approaching car. Brakes squealed at the last minute and she felt a bumper dust the hem of her leather skirt. A window rolled down.

“Look, I’m late for a meeting,” Brault said irately. The revving of his engine almost drowned out his words.

“Monsieur Brault, you’ll be late for a lot more if you don’t cooperate,” said Aimée. She edged her hands along the car’s warm hood. The wind picked up, gusting leaves, a garbage can and what sounded like a clay flower pot striking the stone pavement.

“Threatening me?”

“Where can we talk?”

“I’ve told him everything I know,” Brault said.

“You mean my partner?” she said. Aimée bent down, feeling her way toward Brault’s voice. “My partner suspects you withheld information. That’s trouble for you, since I feel inclined to name you and your firm in my legal action.”

“What legal action?”

“Meet us in the electrical shop in rue Sedaine,” she said. “The small one, around the corner from Café de l’industrie, in five minutes.”

“Why should I?”

“If I were you, I’d come,” she said. “The police want Josiane Dolet’s phone. Now that they know Vaduz, the serial killer, had already had a fatal car accident, and couldn’t have killed Josiane, they’re interested in . . .”

Cars honked behind them.

“That’s my boss,” said Brault, gunning the engine. “And the administrative staff. Get out of the way.”

“Running over a blind woman doesn’t look very good,” she said. “Any way you put it.”

I know the shop,” he admitted, and roared off. “

* * *

“SO I lied,” she said, holding René’s elbow and trying to keep in step with him over uneven cobblestones.

“Brault’s smart,” said René.

“Then my lie should get him there.”

A buttery lemon smell came from her right where she figured Café de l’industrie stood. She’d frequented the café, enjoyed the unpretentious crowd and simple décor. No branché Bastille types here. Turn-of-the-century plates studded the walls. Old wooden tables paired with mismatched chairs. Even a mounted rhinoceros head above the bar.

“Here?” asked René.

“Are we in front of a narrow electrical shop with fifties irons in the window?”

“Just several old Moulinex vacuums,” said René, “like Maman had at home.”

“Feels right.”

Aimée remembered the shop’s worn steps, the iron and rust smell inside, and Medou, Monsieur Fix-it, they called him. His shop was one of the few places left to get an appliance, no matter how old or from what era, repaired. Medou kept cases filled with widgets, wires, and rotary dials. Anything needed to keep one’s grandmother’s ancient fryer working. Or most anything else.

He’d also been in the Résistance. The rear of his shop connected to an old wallpaper factory, once the meeting site of La Fiche Rouge members, a cell of Eastern European Jews active in the Résistance. Two of them had slain a Wehrmacht soldier in the Barbès Métro station. Later they were betrayed, as rumor went, by the Communists in Bastille. The youngest, Maurice Rayman, had been twenty years old.

Now it was a studio de danse, replete with buffed ash wood floors, ballet bars, an upright piano, and huge gilt mirrors propped against the walls.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Medou,” she said. “Still playing in the boules league?”

“I’m too old for bowling, eh, but my trophy’s in the back,” he said.

Silence.

“Go ahead, René,” she said, gripping his elbow harder, “go where he shows you.”

She heard René clear his throat. She’d love to see the look on his face when they entered the dance studio.

“Merci, monsieur, our colleague will be joining us.”

Her vision field brightened. The skylight must be uncovered. Surprised, she realized how light and dark planes crisscrossed in front of her. Not uncommon, the retinologist had said . . . what was that song . . . a whiter shade of pale?

But worry tugged in back of her mind. Did this, perversely, signal damage? Was this all just a tease?

“How do you know about this place?” asked René.

“Now if I told you, I wouldn’t have any secrets, would I?” she said, feeling her way to the wall. “This should convince Brault to unburden himself in total secrecy.”

“Says here, hip hop, salsa, tango, and ballet classes offered,” said René.

“You might meet someone here at a class, René,” she said.

“That’s my line to you,” said René.

Footsteps, then a muttered curse. Brault had arrived.

“Blackmail won’t work,” said Brault. “I’m going to speak with the Commissaire myself . . .”

“Go right ahead,” she said, tracking his footsteps and turning that way. “He’ll weigh whatever you say against what I tell him. And he’s my godfather.”

“Who are you?”

“I already told you, the name’s Aimée Leduc,” she said. “Take a seat, let me explain. There’s a chair here somewhere, isn’t there?”

She gestured vaguely, heard a chair scrape over the wood.

Then took a deep breath, explained about Josiane, the attack, and her blindness.

Brault stayed silent.

“Tell me,” said Aimée, “what’s the matter with Dragos?”

“Who knows?”

She detected surprise in his voice.

“Asbestos exposure? Tainted water?” she asked. “Is that it?”

No reply.

“Mirador exposes the workers to unsafe conditions, eh?”

Silence. Then a bird twittered from Medou’s shop. And all she could think was of was how a caged bird must feel. Caged in darkness.

Back to business. “Look, we need to know,” she said, hoping she faced in his direction. She knit her fingers on the ballet barre, to keep her balance. “If Dragos suffers serious health problems, others must be in danger. As a professional, you’re obligated to inform those in the area.”

“My architecture firm designs for Mirador, that’s all.”

“Dragos was nabbed selling Ecstasy. He’s in Hôtel Dieu, sick as the dog he probably is, with burn marks. Care to comment? And if you don’t, I guarantee Commissaire Morbier will be more interested than I am.”

“You two don’t give up, do you?”

“That’s rhetorical, n’est-ce pas?” said René. “In fact, we become vicious.”

Aimée repressed her smile.

“Whatever I tell you stays off the record. D’accord?”

“Of course,” said René.

“No asbestos or poison. Nothing toxic at the site, I’m sure. The code’s strict and we follow it. After all, the planning commission has to sign off on each job. But I do know that Dragos wanted lead.”

“Lead poisoning?”

“Lead.” Brault’s voice dropped and he sounded tired. “Dragos boasted a lot when he was drunk. He kept saying he could make a profit on lead.”

“What did Dragos mean?”

“Beats me.”

“How did you know Josiane?”

“Josiane wrote articles for L’événement and Libération, deploring that all eight Green seats in the European Union had been lost. She wrote pieces on human rights, not popular mainstream themes. I respected her; she wrote what she believed. And she dug for truth. But I don’t know what she found, if anything.”

“Whatever she found killed her,” said René.

“Did Dragos find any lead?”

“No clue,” said Brault. “Listen I’m running late . . .”

“But it doesn’t make sense to me,” said Aimée. “Why would you associate with Josiane if you work for Mirador?”

Brault was full of talk. Good talk. Yet, 10 minutes before he’d been about to run her over.

“I’m an architect. Not a developer,” he said. “There is a difference. My goal has been to preserve the quartier, however I can, in my own way. Keep the flavor. But in business, sometimes you work with the devil. That’s my experience. Mirador’s not much worse than the others. At least I thought so at first.

Josiane understood she had to protect her sources, that I couldn’t be quoted.”

Why was he so secretive? Couldn’t he just spill it?

“We know about the Romanians evicting old people in the middle of the night . . . What else is there?”

“That’s it,” he said, seemingly surprised. “Josiane was going to expose this practice of Mirador’s. I helped . . . in secret.”

Of course. He wanted to have the job, look good, and salve his conscience at the same time. Or was she too hard on him?

“Then what happened? What did Josiane tell you?”

“We were going to meet,” he said. “She called me. Sounded excited. But insisted we talk in person.”

“Where was that?”

“She never showed up.”

“Where and what time was your meeting supposed to be?”

Silence.

“Of course, it’s not my business,” said Aimée, wishing she could gauge his reaction. “But you were having an affair with her, weren’t you? Isn’t that what you don’t want to admit?”

But she was the one surprised.

“Vincent Csarda was. Not me.”

That came off his tongue quickly.

“What do you mean?” asked René.

“Josiane and Vincent were having an affair.”

That didn’t make sense. If it were true, wouldn’t Josiane have spoken with Vincent in the restaurant?

“How do you know this?”

“That’s my guess. Somehow in the way he talked, he left me with a sense . . .”

Silence.

“Go on,” she said.

“Vincent owed someone,” said Brault, his words measured.

“Owed who?”

“I felt from the way Vincent spoke, he was more like a conduit,” he said. “And some women like that tortured male type.”

“That’s news to me,” she said. “Weren’t you attracted to her? Were you jealous of Vincent?”

A small laugh. “Not me. I go the other way.”

Not only had she lost her eyesight, but her touch! Something didn’t feel right to her. Didn’t “smell” right, as her father used to say.

“You still haven’t told us where and when you were meeting Josiane,” said René.

“On rue du Lappe,” he said. “Number 24, in a courtyard across from the Balajo.”

“Who picked the place?”

“She’d consulted her astrologer,” he said. “She always did when she was afraid.”

Aimée remembered how she’d chain-smoked and talked nonstop on the cell phone in the restaurant. Like most Parisiens. But Aimée remembered the fear in her eyes.

A gust of air, warmed by the sun, passed by her legs. She heard René clear his throat.

“So let me understand this, Monsieur Brault,” said René. “Josiane’s writing an exposé about Mirador’s practice of hiring Romanian thugs to evict old people from historic buildings. Mirador demolishes them and constructs upmarket buildings. Meanwhile, you sense she’s having an affair with Vincent, who’s somehow compromised. Dragos shoots his mouth off to you about making a profit on lead and then Josiane calls, saying she has to talk with you in person. But she’s a no-show.”

“If you put it like that . . . maybe.”

“Did she tell you she was having an affair with Vincent?”

“Not in so many words,” he said, “but I felt it.”

Maybe it was someone else.

“Does Dragos have an accent?” asked Aimée.

“I’m late,” said Brault, standing and pushing the chair back. It hit the wall with a dull thud. What sounded like keys jingled in his pocket.

“Does he?” she pressed.

“A thick accent,” he said. “Romanian’s very close to Latin.”

The man calling on Josiane’s cell phone had had no accent.

“So what’s your connection to Vincent?”

“Vincent organized our ten-year anniversary ad campaign. He’s good. The best.”

He was. And that always surprised Aimée. Maybe with his clients he sheathed his bristling manner.

“Did Josiane introduce you?”

Silence. “Let me think,” he finally said. “Must have been at that party last year. The antique dealer’s hôtel particulier with the exquisite little theatre.”

“Was Dragos there?”

“Why would he be there? As I recall, it was more the limo liberal set we’d mobilized for an Opéra fundraiser.”

The set Vincent and Martine reported on in their new magazine.

She tried a hunch.

“Was Malraux there? He’s involved with the Opéra.”

“But it was his place! He’s an Opéra patron,” said Brault. “A real aficionado! He donates furniture for the sets. That’s funny . . . now I remember. Dragos was moving furniture into the courtyard.”

The cell phone vibrated in her skirt pocket.

“Allô?”

“Guess I’m popular, Leduc,” said Morbier, “you’ve tried to reach me several times.”

“I found proof.”

“Proof of what?”

Footsteps walked by her and Brault muttered something that sounded like goodbye or good riddance, she wasn’t sure which.

“Vaduz didn’t kill Josiane Dolet,” she said.

“Leduc, you still stuck on that?”

“Like glue,” she said. “René will leave an envelope containing proof with Bellan, who closed the case too soon.”

Silence.

“What’s wrong, Morbier?”

“All I want to do is retire. Keep my pension intact. Stay on speaking terms with colleagues I’ve worked with for most of my life.”

“Why wouldn’t you, Morbier?” She didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. A bad taste formed in her mouth.

“Leduc, I’ve been checking into your story. On my own,” said Morbier. “But the creek’s run dry. No leads. I’m sorry.”

Another apology from Morbier? Amazing. At least he’d been trying.

“What if her lover called her,” she said, “then killed her, using the Beast of Bastille guise.”

“I like that. Shows malice and premeditation. Everything we need for the Judiciare,” said Morbier. “The department would look better, the public would forgive us. It’s nice.” He blew a gust of air into the phone. “But I’m afraid it’s too pat. You were hit on the head too many times, Leduc.”

“I have Josiane’s phone,” she told him.

If he was surprised his voice didn’t show it. “That’s evidence. Why haven’t you turned it over?” he said. “Give me a good reason not to nab you for witholding evidence.”

“A cheap phone with a phone card?” she said. “The only numbers on her speed dial are an architect, her astrologer, and a doctor at the Nuclear Office in Taverny.”

“Taverny?”

“He’s away. You’d find more in her apartment overlooking Marché d’Aligre.”

“But we didn’t,” said Morbier.

He’d dole out information to her bit by bit. Make her work for it. Like he always did.

In the background, Aimée heard voices. Phones rang. “BRIF,” someone answered.

Her shoulders stiffened. Realization flooded over her. No wonder Morbier moved around. “You’re with the explosives division. Terrorism. You never went to Créteil for a seminar.”

“I can’t say anything, Leduc,” he said, with a big sigh. “Go talk to Bellan. Give him your info.”

Instead of satisfaction at Morbier’s words, her heart sank.

“Look, Morbier—” she said, but he’d hung up.

She shook her head. What was wrong with him?

The phone rang.

“Don’t hang up on me like that . . .”

“But I didn’t,” interrupted Dr. Lambert.

“I’m sorry,” she said, surprised.

“Who would hang up on you?” Was that irritation in Lambert’s voice?

“My godfather’s good at it,” she said. “Look, I know I’m not your patient now, but . . .”

“I referred you because Reyaud’s an excellent retinologist,” Dr. Lambert said. “He can help you more than I’m able to right now.” She heard him take a breath over the phone. “The MRI results weren’t conclusive. Sorry, I know you were anxious about them. Take the medication, then I’m sure Reynaud will suggest another MRI.”

Her hopes were plunged into limbo again. She had better say goodbye: He was in the business of taking care of others.

“Thanks for telling me,” she said. “I won’t take any more of your time.”

“Reyaud’s treating you now,” he said. “I’m not. So this is a social call.”

Right. She’d embarrassed him and he was being polite.

“Dinner . . .” he was saying. “I know you drink. You eat, don’t you?”

“Me?”

Was he asking her out for dinner?

“Try to pick a resto. I’ll call you later,” he said. “After evening rounds, I’ve got a consultation, so it’s hard to predict just when.”

Pause.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Hang up on me. You’ll feel better.”

And she did.