Cara Black - Murder in the Bastille

A sob caught in her throat. But she stifled it.

“I just worry you’re not safe. Sorry . . . don’t do well . . . it’s this hospital. . . .” his voice broke. “ Alors , I’ll keep my ears open.”

And with that Morbier was gone.

He’d never apologized to her or anyone in his life, that she knew of. What a first . . . a hollow victory.

The room felt chilly. Cold drafts licked her feet. She got in bed and pulled up the covers. She couldn’t count on Morbier. Or the flics . If any investigating were to take place, it was up to her.

She felt caught between a rock and a hard place . . . wasn’t that the saying? Until the police caught Vaduz, how could she prove he wasn’t the one who attacked her?

The nurse came in. “Time to draw some blood, won’t take a minute. Looks like you dropped a toothbrush.”

After the nurse left, Aimée lay back and put the brush to her cheek, rolled it, then held it in front of her eyes. But no matter how hard she tried, even though it was right there, she couldn’t see it. She’d probably never see it again.

Fatigue tugged at her. Concentrating on Morbier’s words— and on what he hadn’t said—exhausted her. Listening to him, she’d worked harder than if she’d had her sight and still she felt she’d missed something: a nuance, the way his stubby fingers worried his jacket sleeve or how he looked away when she brought up uncomfortable subjects. Like her American mother’s abandoning them when she was eight or her father’s flic record. All the little clues she’d learned unconsciously to depend on to read him, to decipher his meaning.

And what was all that about the explosives and pulling staff off . . . ? He’d never tell her now. She was out of the loop. Useless.

Most of the time, she could tell when he had more to say. Of course he knew, he had full access to the fat dossier on the serial killer Vaduz and he’d shared but a fraction. And now she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to figure him out—or anyone else—again.

She hooked her arm around the metal bedframe, cold and smooth, then sank back into the pillows. Deep down, the realization that she might never be able to see again loomed.

The aroma of espresso, rich and dark, encompassed her. Had it all been a bad dream?

Of course it was. She’d wake up in bed in her apartment on Île St. Louis with the Seine flowing below her window, Miles Davis, her bichon frisée, perched in the sunlight on her duvet. She’d be cuddled against that tan hunk she’d met in Sardinia, muscular and with such a flat stomach and . . .

“Aimée, how about coffee?” René said. “Or do you want to sleep more?”

She kept her eyes closed. Kept the image of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and fur that needed a trim. Then she opened her eyes.

Darkness. Only darkness. And the crisp feel of laundered hospital sheets. It wasn’t a dream: she’d woken up dumped back into reality.

“With two sugar lumps, René?”

“Just how you like,” he said.

“ Merci, you’re wonderful, René.” She sat up, felt behind her and propped up her pillows. She tried not to think about how she must look.

Her torched brain welcomed a warm, sweet java jolt. She opened her hands to clutch the hot cup, inched her fingers to find the spoon.

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

“René, any more noises from the Judiciare about Populax?”

“If Vincent doesn’t release the hard drive, expect a subpoena,” René said.

She chewed her lip. “Hasn’t he reconsidered?”

“Not so far.”

Vincent’s attitude was outrageous. His veiled threat in the resto came back to her. And his arrogant denial. Either he felt he was above the law, or he was hiding something.

She circled the spoon slowly against the wall of the cup, but felt hot droplets on her chest. How could it be so hard to stir with a spoon?

“We should expect to appear at the Palais de Justice,” René said. “You know the drill.”

She gulped the espresso then felt the cup lifted from her hands. “Me . . . testify?” she asked.

“We’re in this together,” René said.

“We need Martine’s help to convince Vincent to cooperate.”

“I have your bag. Let me look up Martine’s number.”

Startled, she turned, banging her shoulder on the metal bed-frame— the shoulder she dislocated with annoying regularity.

“My bag . . . I thought it was stolen.”

“Who said so? It was next to you in the passage when I found you,” he said, “under muck and grime.”

“You’re a genius!”

What would be left inside?

She felt the zipper and ridges of her leather backpack, then the contents of her bag tumbling over the sheet. She ran her finger over a phone, a dog-eared software manual, the Populax file, her Ultralash mascara, the hard-edged laptop, a key ring, what was left of her stubby Chanel lip-liner, a small tube of superglue that worked miracles on broken high-heels, alligator clips, cord to hook into the phone line, screwdriver, Nicorette gum, Miles Davis’s calcium biscuit, and her father’s grainy holy medal.

All the familiar things of her work and her life.

Her old life.

Aimée shivered. She ran her hands through her spiky, matted hair to cover the trembling. Not only did she need a decent cut and shampoo from Dessange and a body scrub in the steamy Hammam, she needed her Beretta, for protection. And her sight, to use it.

“Let’s get Martine’s help. She’ll convince him. Punch in 12 on my phone, René,” she said. “That’s my speed dial for Martine.”

René handed her the phone.

No sound.

She clicked off.

“Odd, René . . . ?”

Then it hit her.

“Wait a minute, René,” she said, feeling around. “There are two phones in this bag. But only one’s mine.” Her voice rose with excitement.

“Isn’t the other . . .”

“I was trying to return the woman’s phone.”

“You mean . . . the attacker didn’t get either of the phones?”

She scrabbled for the instrument on the tray table and held both in her hands. “It’s like mine, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“René . . . are you nodding yes?”

“Sorry.”

“Now we can trace the dead woman’s calls!”

“He must have been in a hurry when he found out,” said René.

“Found out what?”

“That he’d got the wrong woman,” he said.

That was what Morbier had said. But this would be almost too easy— they’d just check the last call and find the killer’s number!

“I know what you’re thinking, Aimée,” said René. “But when I press call back, the last number received comes up invalid.”

“Invalid? Try again.”

She heard René take a deep breath. “She’s got the cheap version, no such features offered. No real features at all.”

“So that means we can’t trace who called her,” she said, disappointed.

A dead end?

Then she brightened up. “But René, it must have speed dial, non? Don’t they all have that?”

Silence.

“Are you nodding yes?”

“I see three numbers listed.”

“ Parfait , we trace her phone’s speed dial numbers,” she said.

“Seems the attacker’s not too smart if his number’s on the phone.”

“You’re right,” she said.

Could he be that careless?

“We have to check, René. We have to find her name, the phone number of this phone, then who she called.”

“It’s easy to buy a prepaid in a store without security cameras,” said René. “She could have paid cash and bought airtime without leaving a trace. But why would she do that?”