Murder in the Bastille (21 page)

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 building
s.
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.

Saturday

LOÏC BELLAN TRUDGED UP the wide steps, arguing into his cell phone. “No one’s there. The boat’s shut. Can’t the examining magistrate speed up the search permit?”

“All in good time, Bellan,” said the
flic
at the other end. “Keep your phone on.”

Along the quai, at the end of a row of plane trees, stood a small café. Grass carpeted the slope up to boulevard de la Bastille. Bellan took a seat on the terrace, ordered a café. No booze, he promised himself.

And he watched the navy blue
péniche
. He’d had worse stakeouts than this. The sun beat on his face, a fountain gurgled behind him, and the soft lap of wavelets against the hulls lulled him. The roar of Bastille lay right behind him, but one would never know it.

He’d brought his girls here once. When a very pregnant Marie had a doctor’s appointment and she’d begged him to take the afternoon off. A pang of regret hit him. Why hadn’t he done that more often? He’d taken his girls to the science museum at Porte de Villette, then for a slow canal ride all the way here. They’d loved it. So had he.

“Monsieur, monsieur!”

Bellan blinked his eyes. He must have dozed in the sun. No one was there. Or at the boat.

“Monsieur!”

He looked around. A small boy stood partly behind a tree, pointing to Bellan’s feet, where a soccer ball lay.

“Please throw it, monsieur,” said the boy. “We’ll get in trouble if we bother café patrons but . . .”

Bellan lifted the ball, stood and stretched, then walked over to the tree. Three young boys, the oldest no more than 10 years of age, a little
bande
from the
quartier
, eyed him.

“Whose ball?”

“Mine,” said a red-faced, tow-headed boy.

“
Bon,
I need some help,” said Bellan, sending the ball over the grass with a fancy kick. “You boys know about the boats, about the people who live on them?”

They stared. The red-faced boy caught the ball.

“Ever see anyone go onto that dark blue
péniche
?”

They shook their heads in unison.

“André, Marc, Charles! Lunch!”

Good Catholic names.

“Can’t you boys help me?”

They backed away.

“Ask Bidi, he’s bigger than us. The shop at number 22,” said the red-faced boy.

Then they ran past the trees.

He must be losing his edge. After he paid for the coffee, he walked past the hedge and trees.

Number 22, boulevard de la Bastille was a nineteenth-century apartment building. There was a grocery under a striped awning at street level. Bins of bright green peppers, leeks, zucchini, endive spears, and melons lined the façade. From the doorway, Bellan sniffed the detergent smell of a freshly mopped floor.

“
Attention,
monsieur, it’s still a bit wet. May I get something for you?” said a bald older man, wiping his hands on his apron, from behind the cash register.

“Bidi, may I speak with him, please?”

“Of course, he’s in the back,” the man said and smiled. “Bidi!”

Bellan noticed the narrow shop’s crammed shelves. Crammed but neat. Organized. Every available space filled: boxes of pasta, flour, tins of cocoa, vacuum packed coffee, biscuits, chocolate or butter, rice, Nutella, and jars of jam and tomato sauces, boxes of brown sugar, slim flaçons of Provençal olive oil and tarragon vinegar, tins of packed sardines and plastic shrink-wrapped eight-packs of bottled mineral water and Orangina. The small refrigerated section was crowded with milk, yogurt, packaged meat and cheeses: goat, sheep, cow, hard, soft, or semi-soft.

This little miracle of convenience was usually known as the
arabe
—because corner shops open late and on weekends, were usually run by North Africans. They existed all over Paris.

“Alors
,” said the man. “He gets involved in his work, that boy. Bidi!”

Down the aisle, Bellan saw the back of a young man on his knees, stacking cartons of sea salt. His head bobbed; he wore headphones. Bellan tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Pardon.
”

He turned around and Bellan stiffened in surprise.

A smiling Down syndrome-afflicted boy looked up at him.

“Bidi?”

“Ouai
?” he said
.

Bellan caught his disappointment before he blurted something he’d regret. What could he get out of
this
boy? A big fat nothing.

“I’m sorry, I thought you might help me, but you’re busy,” said Bellan, hoping to make a tactful exit.

“Are you shouting because of my headphones?” Bidi said, his words slow but clear. “I took them off. See.” He pointed to them around his neck. “I can hear you.”

Had he been shouting? Bellan’s next words caught in his throat. “I . . . I . . . some children said you might know something.”

Bidi got to his feet, dusted off his knees. “
Ouai
,” he said, nodding his head. He had oval close-set eyes, a small mouth, and freckles. “They told me. Said you looked like a serious man.”

Bellan felt perspiration beading his brow. Was it that hot? He opened the top button of his shirt.

“You scared André,” Bidi said. “But André’s scared a lot.”

“Do I scare you?”

Bidi grinned.
“Non.
I like your shirt. My brother has one just the same.”

“Merci.
” Bellan shifted on his feet. Marie had picked the shirt out at Printemps for his birthday.

“The boys said you want to know about the boat. The blue one.”

“Why yes, actually I wondered if people live on it, you know. But I suppose you’re too far away to see from here . . .”

“Why?”

“These men . . .”

“Are you a
flic
?”

Bellan nodded.

“A real one?”

Bellan pulled out his picture ID and badge. He didn’t know if Bidi could read. “It might be hard to read, but there’s my photo.”

“I can read. Monsieur Tulles says I’m very careful. Handle things just so. And in straight lines,” said Bidi. “Look, I put all the items in order: first by type, then by size, and then . . .”

“Bidi, I’m sure the policeman can see how good your work is,” interrupted Monsieur Tulles. He came up to Bidi, put his arm on his shoulder, smiled. “I’m so lucky to have you work here every day.”

“
Ouai
, after Madame died, you needed help.”

Bellan shuffled, felt excluded. And alone. Something radiated from these two. Something warm and caring that he wasn’t part of.

“I wondered, since your shop fronts the quai, if you’d seen men going back and forth?”

“They like feta cheese, pickles, and English soda crackers,”

Bidi said. He pointed to the next aisle. “Over there.”

Bidi’s watch alarm sounded. He turned abruptly. “I have to finish working. My job ends in five minutes.”

“Talk to the policeman, Bidi, it’s fine,” said Monsieur Tulles.

“But I haven’t finished my work . . .” said Bidi. His brow creased.

“The policeman needs information. And you are very observant, haven’t I told you so?”

Bidi’s face broke out in smiles. He looked with adoration at Monsieur Tulles. “You are a good man.” Bidi looked at Bellan. “Are you a good man?”

Bellan put his head down. Ashamed. “Not very often.”

“They are bad men. I know that.”

Bellan looked up. “How Bidi?”

“They hurt people.”

“Did you see them fight?”

“There was blood on their shirts. I said OMO worked best on stains.”

Customers came into the shop and Monsieur Tulles left to wait on them.

“One named Dragos has a ponytail and works at the Opéra,” said Bellan. “Know him?”

“I like the singing place. He paid me to bring food.”

“Aaah,” Bellan nodded. “So he wasn’t sick, then?”

Bidi shook his head. He scratched his muscular arm. “No food’s allowed backstage, but he showed me a secret way.”

Bellan’s eyes widened. Would Dragos Iliescu show this simpleminded boy a secret . . .? But Bidi wasn’t so simpleminded, Bellan grudgingly admitted to himself; it was more complicated. He pushed that out of his mind. Bidi seemed loyal, punctual, and a hard worker. That was how someone once referred to him, after his graduation from the police academy. Like a dog who responded to affection.

“Why did Dragos show you a secret way?”

“To bring his lunch. He didn’t like his bosses. He laughed at the big one and said he would show him.”

Bidi looked at his watch. “It’s time to go. Or I’ll be late. Can’t be late.”

“Will you show me?” asked Bellan, hesitant.

“No time. Later.”

Bidi stacked his last box, hung up his apron, slipped on his backpack, and was gone.

“Does he have an appointment?”

“He’s a bird watcher,” Monsieur Tulles nodded. “Every day at this time he watches the falcons nesting behind the Gare de Lyon clockface.”