Murder in the Bastille

Saturday Night

“THIS CAME FOR YOU, Sergeant Bellan,” said the night duty desk officer. “And these messages.”

All from Aimée Leduc.

Bellan took them, with his espresso, and sat down at the desk. He’d closed the Beast of Bastille file, sent it to the frigo. He wanted to throw Aimée’s things in the trash bin to join the cigarette butts, coffee-stained memos, and wilted violets.

But he set Officer Nord’s report down to read first. Then he opened the thick envelope, scanned the morgue log, and read the note Aimée’s partner, René, had written.

He gulped the espresso.

“I need a driver, officer,” he said, stuffing the report in his case.

“No one left in the driving pool tonight, sir,” he was told. “We’re short on officers if you need a backup.”

“No problem, no backup. I’m on special detail. Get me a car.”

Loïc Bellan sped over the pont Notre-Dame, the dark Seine illumined by pinpricks of blue light from the bateaux-mouches below. He pulled into the Place Lepine, on the Île de la Cité, where vendors were setting up stalls for the Sunday flower market.

He ran into Hôtel Dieu, flashed his badge, and was pointed in a direction by the sleepy-eyed security guard. Several long hallways and wrong turns later, he found Intensive Care.

“Nurse, I need to speak with a patient in custody, Dragos Iliescu.”

From around the night desk came the beeping of machines, and the sound of a floor waxer in the cavernous hallway. The ancient stone had been sandblasted, giving it a butterscotch hue in the dim lighting.

“Let me check, I just came on shift,” she said, consulting a computer. He saw the other nurse in the station nudge her, point to a file. A dark blue folder.

“Too late, I’m afraid, Sergeant,” she said. “He passed away.”

Frustrated, Bellan wanted to kick himself. Why hadn’t he come earlier?

“What was the cause of death?”

“The doctors are doing a preliminary now, taking a toxicology screening to determine if it was drugs.”

“Here’s my card. My number’s there. Have the doctor call me the minute he knows.”

If he hadn’t been so stubborn . . . so rigid in the way he thought. Wasn’t that what Marie told him, “Loïc listen to someone else sometime, then make up your mind.”

Merde!

All the way in the car, he berated himself. There was only one other way. He parked on the curb of 22, boulevard de la Bastille. He turned off the ignition and sat in the car. The small shop was lighted. A minute later he got out.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Tulles,” he said. “Is Bidi here?”

“We’re just closing up,” smiled Monsieur Tulles. “Bidi! Guess you want to ask him more questions.”

No answer.

“I’m sorry, that boy with those headphones is . . . Bidi!”

Bellan looked down at his feet. Something about this place, Monsieur Tulles, and Bidi made him tongue-tied. He hesitated, swallowed hard.

“Actually, Monsieur Tulles, if you don’t mind, I need Bidi’s help.”