Murder in the Bastille

Monday Night

RENÉ FRIANT STRETCHED HIS short legs, adjusting the tight headset while scanning the computer screen at his desk. Shadows filled the corners of the office. He wished he were home, not on the phone with a furious Vincent Csarda, who had spoken without taking a breath for at least two minutes.

“This Incandescent fiasco could lose me the Opera Bastille marketing campaign,” said Vincent. “We’re trying to revitalize the quartier,” he said, “I cannot have it.”

“Of course, Vincent. You know that, I know that,” René said, his tone soothing. Revitalizing took on different meanings depending on the person, René thought. Areas of the quartier had become á la page, trendy. Decaying factories with southern exposure had become pieds-à-terre and lofts for the gauche caviar. These limousine liberals of the left had followed the designer Kenzo who’d purchased a huge crumbling warehouse for his atelier, a fantastic bargain.

“Aimée and I will work it out with the Judiciare,” he said, hoping to placate Vincent.

From his custom orthopedic chair René noticed cobwebs on the high ceiling over the map of Paris which was sectioned into arrondissements. Where was Passage de la Boule Blanche?

Outside, the dark shapes of the trees on rue du Louvre brushed the tall windows. In the distance, streetlights along the Seine glittered. “Vincent, Incandescent’s scandal touches each firm who’s worked with them. Guilt by association, unless proven otherwise. Your Populax is no exception. Let’s just let la Procuratrice take a look, let her see for herself.”

“Don’t you understand . . .”

“Vincent,” René interrupted, with a sigh. “Let me speak with the Judiciare’s assistant first thing tomorrow, see what I can do.”

Silence. Vincent had hung up.

René rubbed his eyes, cranked down his chair and realized he had several security backup tapes to record. And today’s data to monitor.

Then he remembered.

He’d left Aimée on the line.

He clicked back to her on the phone. And heard the sounds of someone choking.