Cara Black: Murder in the Bastille

Aimée’s appetite vanished. Why had things gone so wrong? A multimillion franc corporation looked better volunteering its hard drive data to the Judiciare, not concealing it. No one would welcome being drawn into a money laundering case, but did Vincent, a self-made chef d’operations, have something to hide?

Beside her, the woman’s cigarette with the Violet Vamp lip imprint—matching her nail polish—smoldered in the ashtray. Instead of lighting a cigarette of her own from it, Aimée popped a piece of Nicorette gum.

She dreaded calling René, her partner, and telling him of Vincent’s outburst. René was better with difficult clients. As he often pointed out, her level of tact left something to be desired. But the bottom line was, if they didn’t furnish the subpoenaed e-mail and data, they’d be disobeying the law. Even if Vincent had torn up their contract.

And then she noticed the cell phone on the banquette table. The one the woman had been using. She must have forgotten it.

Losing a phone was a pain; she’d misplaced hers and had to replace it, only last month. On her way out, she’d leave the phone with the maitre d’.

The waiter slipped her the check. A perfect ending to a perfect meal! She’d deduct it from Populax’s retainer when she sent their bill.

Then the maitre d’ returned to the table and handed back her card with a shrug. “No credit cards, désolé. ” So she had to dredge up her last bit of cash. No taxi tonight. She was left with just enough change for the Métro.

While she was working out how to break the news of the failed meeting to René, waiting by the register for a few francs change, the cell phone rang.

She answered it automatically, cupping the phone between her chin and shoulder as she took her change, balancing her heavy bag.

“For the love of God . . . forget your pride,” said a male voice, barely audible over the hum of conversation and strains of accordion music in the background. “Meet me in Passage de la Boule Blanche, give me one more chance, listen to reason. . . .”

“But. . . .”

A familiar tune wafted over the line in the background. Like a song her grandmother had played on her accordion. But Aimée couldn’t quite place it.

“Don’t argue, I won’t listen to a refusal.”

The phone clicked off.

Aimée stared at it. The cover bore the initials J. D. She looked out the window and saw the woman disappearing into the square outside.

“This belongs to that woman, the one wearing the same jacket as mine. Do you know her name?”

The maitre d’ shrugged again. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. “This is a busy night.”

“My receipt?” But the flustered maitre d’ had turned to seat a bevy of waiting customers.

Aimée grabbed her receipt which was by the register. She hit the phone’s callback button. A flat buzz. Odd. What should she do?

The corner resto faced the dark Place Trousseau. Turn-of-the-century baroque apartment buildings with filigree ironwork balconies bordered the quiet square. Leafy plane trees canopied the black iron fence that surrounded it. The woman had vanished.

She was familiar with the nearby Passage de la Boule Blanche; she often used it as a shortcut. The Cahiers du Cinéma , a film journal whose office was located mid-passage off a leafy courtyard, had been a client last year. She’d also joined their film club. Since the passage was en route to the Métro, she decided to return the phone to the man who had called. . . . Let them work it out.

She dreaded the packing that still awaited her in her apartment on Île St-Louis. And she still had to dig out the laptop cable adaptors. They were somewhere in the only closet, which was 20 feet high and full of rolled up, threadbare Savonnerie carpets.

Martine’s brother, in Shanghai on assignment, had sublet his apartment to her, until the remodeling—long overdue—of her own apartment’s bathroom and kitchen was finished.

At the passage entrance, streetlights from rue du Faubourg Saint Antoine illuminated peeling notices and a Meubles déco-ratifs sign affixed to the stone wall. A waist-high metal barricade, a Piétons barrés notice, and construction materials blocked the way. Inhabitants must have ignored the sign, since it was pushed to the side and a path had been beaten through the rubble.

Further along, the flat roof of the covered passage opened to the sky. The threadlike passage lined with narrow, looming buildings seemed to end in distant mottled shadows.

“ Allô? ”

The echo of her voice and faint meow of a cat reached her ears. Water dripped from somewhere. In the late evening, unseasonably warm for October, dampness from lichen encrusted water pipes chilled her.

“Monsieur?”

Why didn’t the man who’d telephoned answer? He’d said he was waiting.

She stepped past the barricade, scanning the dark passage, waiting in the shadowed stillness for a reply. Had he given up?

Cellophane wrappers crackled under her black Prada mules, a Porte de Vanves flea market find. Worn once. Or so the vendor said before she’d bargained him down to 300 francs.

The scent of night-flowering jasmine floated from a hidden garden behind the damp wall. Was the man playing games? She didn’t have time for this.

One of the phones in her handbag rang.

She picked it up.

“Look, monsieur, a woman forgot her phone and I picked it up. I’d like to return it, I’m in the passage.”

“What are you talking about?” her partner asked. “I thought you were dining with Vincent?”

“I’m in the Passage de la Boule Blanche. A woman left her cell phone in the resto and I was trying to return it to her.”

“What happened with Vincent?”

Now she’d have to admit the awful truth. She’d wanted to tell René in person.

“We were in the resto until Vincent tore up our contract,” she said, “Then he stomped out, leaving me with the bill.”

“Tiens! Aimée, you should have let me handle him,” he said. She heard the sigh in René’s voice.

“I won’t lie or cheat for clients.”

“There’s always a first time!” René snorted.

“At least not for conglomerates like Populax.”

“Quel méli-melo! What a mess!” René said. “The Judiciare’s getting nasty about this. I’ve been warned there may be a charge of obstructing justice in our future.”

The phone clicked.

“Hold on, I’m at the office,” René said. “I have another call.”

Aimée picked her way over the uneven path toward a widening of the passage. No windows here. Just wet cobblestones underfoot with shimmers of fluorescent graffiti catching licks of light. Further on, she knew it intersected with the dimly lit rue de Charenton.

She’d already left her dog, Miles Davis, with René’s neighbor, a female impersonator who performed in a club in Les Halles. Bon, she’d catch the Metro home and throw stuff in her suitcase and ask René to pick her up and drive her to the flat where she would stay during her apartment’s renovation. They could discuss strategies en route.

She smelled something tangy and tart. Cloth rustled. Aimée hitched up her leather backpack and grabbed her sharp keys in her fist as a defense. Before she could turn, viselike hands clamped around her neck, squeezing and choking her. She screamed but no sound came out.

Slammed into the wall, her face scraped the moss-speckled stone. Pain exploded in her skull. Then she was pulled back and slammed again. She grabbed at her throat, struggling to pull off those hands, to summon help.

Air. She had to get air.

Panic flooded her. She couldn’t breathe. Twisting, turning, trying to bite and scratch those hands.