Cara Black: Murder in the Bastille

“Any shadows?” he asked.

She felt a breeze in front of her.

“No. But you’re waving your hand in front of my face, aren’t you?”

“Don’t treat this like a quiz, mademoiselle,” he said. “You must feel angry. I would, too.”

She wanted to say that anger didn’t quite cover it. But after all, he was just doing his job.

“When will I see again?” She hoped her panic didn’t come across in her voice. “Why can’t I see?”

“We’ll run tests, analyze the fluid buildup, see if the pressure on your optic nerve dissipates.”

Aimée took a deep breath. “And if the pressure continues?”

“Complications occurred after the procedure in l’hôpital Saint Antoine,” he said. “Let’s talk after the tests.”

Complications? He sounded young. . . . What if he was an intern? Or some médicastre, a quack?

Would she ever see? Or would she be stuck, depending on others, the rest of her life? She tamped her fear down, tried to make sense of the future.

Her business was at stake. Not to mention her life, her dog, and her apartment. She’d lose everything if she couldn’t pay her bills. The little windfall she’d gotten in the Sentier had been eaten up by the contractor and plumber. Every time they opened a seventeenth-century wall, they’d shaken their heads and held out their hands.

“Doctor, no offense, but I’d like more explanation. Perhaps I could talk with the specialist or department head?”

She felt a distinct pinch on her arm. Hard. From the level of where René’s arm would rest.

“No offense taken, Mademoiselle Leduc,” the doctor said. “But that’s me.”

Was that a glimmer of amusement in his tone?

“We specialize in trauma-related optic injuries. I manage the department,” he said. “Your partner specifically requested me. Had you brought over from surgery in Saint Antoine. Highly unusual, but I consented.”

“But Doctor, will I be blind . . . ?” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say forever . Not as a prognosis. She’d never even used the word forever in the same breath with a relationship.

“Let’s get you back on the gurney for an MRI and CAT scan.” He must have leaned forward, because she smelled espresso on his breath. “Anger’s essential to your recovery, mademoiselle. Don’t let up.”

His warm hands helped her onto a gurney.

“I’ll meet you there,” said the doctor.

She felt helpless all the way through the echoing corridors and during the elevator ride. The rubber wheels squeaked on what sounded like freshly waxed linoleum. “René?”

“Right here,” he said, from somewhere near her elbow.

“You should have told me if the doctor was a geek, René,” she said. “What does he look like, eh . . . glasses and overweight? Is he really any good?”

René made a sound she’d heard when he’d choked on a chicken bone once. “Look, Aimée . . .”

“Well, you’re right about the glasses,” said Dr. Lambert.

Why couldn’t the earth open up and swallow her?

“Sorry, my big mouth . . .”

“Excuse me, sir,” a deep voice interrupted. “Only hospital staff allowed from here on. You can return to see the patient in a few hours.”

Then she heard the ping of the swinging doors, felt the wheels wobbling. No more René.

Fear took over. She sat up, struggling to get off the gurney. They had to tie her down to the CAT scan table.

Tuesday night

“A FLIC ’S WAITING TO speak with you,” the nurse said to Aimée. The nice nurse who rolled her r’s and tried to hide her Burgundian accent. Typical of new arrivals in Paris. “He’s waited a while. Do you feel up to it?”

Aimée fingered the bandages on her neck. She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this. How could she speak with someone she didn’t know and couldn’t see? She wanted to burrow into a hole and die.

“I told Sergeant Bellan you might be up to it,” the nurse said. “He mentioned he was a family friend.”

Loïc Bellan . . . a family friend! That lowdown snake who had accused her and her father of graft. Calling them dirty and accusing them of being on the take!

Before she could answer, the nurse’s footsteps clattered away.

“We meet again, Mademoiselle Leduc,” Loïc Bellan said, his steps on the linoleum accompanying his words. His voice sounded low and gravelly, as usual. He’d been a protegé of her father’s, until her father left the force. Once, Bellan had idolized him.

The last time she’d come across Bellan, he’d been reeling drunk and abusive, in front of the Commissariat. But she’d turned the tables in the Sentier, proving him and the others wrong. She learned his wife had given birth to a baby with Down Syndrome. Last month she’d heard from her godfather that Bellan was falling apart.

“Care for a Gauloise?”

“I quit. Smoking’s not allowed anyway,” she said. “But I’m sure you know that.”

She smelled a stale whiff of Paco Rabanne cologne and tobacco on his clothes. He must have lit up in the hallway.

“There are just a few questions I need to ask you about the attack.”

No mention of the baby, just born when he’d last seen her, nor any word of sympathy for Aimée’s condition. And no apology for the drunken abuse he’d heaped on her the last time they’d met.

She wished she knew where he was standing. Most of all she wished she could see him, fix him with a steely stare. And then she had a semblance of coherent thought.

“Wait a minute, Bellan, you’re stationed in the second arrondissement , not the Bastille,” she said. “Off your turf, aren’t you?”

“Good memory,” he said. “I’m racking up overtime. But I appreciate your concern. Now, tell me what happened,” he said, his voice businesslike.

“You must be on special assignment if you’re out of your arrondissement .”

“I can’t say anything about it,” he said. “But if you cooperate, I’ll take your statement.”

Flics didn’t travel between arrondissements . At least they hadn’t before.

“Something else going on, Bellan?”

Silence again.

“Or does it have to do with my father? Guilt by association.” He must enjoy seeing her blind and squirming.

“Like I said, take it easy,” Bellan said.

Feet shifted on the linoleum. Good, she made him uncomfortable.

“You don’t believe anything I say. My father crumbled from the pedestal you put him on. But he wasn’t dirty, I proved it. The rest is in your head, Bellan.”

“I’m harsh sometimes,” he said, “That was a bad time for me.”

“You mean when your baby was born,” she said. Tactless again. “Sorry . . .”

“Can it,” he interrupted, his voice rising. “I am on special detail, if you need to know. Feel better?”

“Concerning what?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

And she did for the most part. Even her stupidity in going down a dim passage. But this was Paris, and it was a passage she’d walked a hundred times. She’d never felt afraid before. Not like now.

“So would you say someone might have followed you from the resto?”

“If so, I didn’t hear him.”

“This client, Vincent Csarda, did he know where you were going?”

“Csarda left before me,” she said.

Though vindictive in business, she doubted Vincent would physically attack her. He’d coerce her and René in other ways.

“The person behind me was tall; Vincent’s shorter than I am.”

“Just checking all leads,” he said.

A slow throbbing achiness filled her head. All this thinking and concentrating hurt. At least it took her mind off the stinging bruises ringing her swollen neck.