Cara Black: Murder in the Bastille

“Not that heavy.”

Her ears perked up.

“Not that heavy?”

“Ravic uses thin leaded sheets,” he said. “Mixed with some alloy, for strength.”

“Does he supply craftsmen in the area?”

Silence. Did he shrug or shake his head?

“I’m sorry but I can’t see you.”

“Mais oui ,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “He supplies everyone.”

“ Merci , monsieur.”

Buttery smells wafted from somewhere as they reached rue de Lappé. René told her to wait, then she felt something warm put in her hand.

“What’s this?”

“A Bastille pavé, a cobblestone,” he said. “At least that’s what the boulangerie calls them.”

“It tastes more like chocolate pastry,” she said. “Delicious.”

She clutched René’s elbow as they walked, cupping crumbs with her other hand.

“What are you getting at, Aimée?” asked René.

“Do you remember what Brault said about Dragos looking for lead?”

“So what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I need to reach Vincent,” she said. “To find out. Let’s go call from a café. We’ll try another number.”

“VINCENT CSARDA, ” he answered at the first ring.

“We need to talk, Vincent.”

“Impossible. Look, sorry,” he said. “Let me call you later.”

“This can’t wait, Vincent.”

“Bad time right now,” he said.

“Your bad time’s just beginning if we don’t persuade la Proc to ignore your affair, Vincent,” she said, improvising as she went along.

“What do you mean?” His voice lowered.

“Having an affair is your business except . . .”

“Join the planet, Aimée Leduc,” he said. “Get back to reality.”

“It’s who you had the affair with ‘Inca,’ ” she said.

She heard rustling, as if his hand covered the phone. Mur-murred speech.

“How do you mean?”

“Kinky, threesome or however Inca liked it,” she said. “Short for Incandescent.”

“Who?”

“Those hot e-mails make it hard to convince the Proc you had no involvement with Incandescent.”

“Leave my business alone,” he said, his voice brittle. “Our contract has ended.”

“And to think, a moment before you apologized!” she said. “But in a court of law, as I told you, we’re still responsible. Monday’s the court date, René expects the subpoena to issue then.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“Vincent, I’ve got the software to prove it. And I will. It’s personal now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Why couldn’t he understand? Face it, he didn’t want to understand.

He kept talking. “We just settled our negotiations in Bordeaux,” said Vincent. “Those vintners take their time. I kept telling them, backing a business isn’t like aging wine. One has to move in a flash. Thank God for Martine. She’s saved the magazine.”

Hadn’t Martine spoken with him?

She took a deep breath. “After you stormed out of the resto, when I was en route to the Métro, someone attacked me. Or maybe you know all about that?”

“What do you mean?”

He sounded surprised.

“Josiane, the woman who sat next to us was killed in the adjoining passage. I’m going to find out who attacked me and murdered her. I’ve got time, since the attacker blinded me.”

The words had tumbled from her. She heard him gasp on the other end.

“You? A murder?” His surprise sounded genuine.

Aimée’s reply caught in her throat.

And a terrible thought crossed her mind. She remembered Josiane sitting and smoking at the table adjoining theirs. And her glance their way. Had her look been aimed at Vincent?

“You knew Josiane Dolet, didn’t you?”

Silence.

Was that planned . . . had there been some code between them? Or had she been about to speak with him, but thought better of it and agreed to meet him later?

“You killed Josiane.”

“You’re not making sense,” he said, his voice hoarse. “All these allegations about an affair and now . . .”

“She investigated your ties to Incandescent. The money laundering for the gun-running . . .”

“This has nothing to do with that,” he said, his voice low, filled with emotion. “Look, Aimée I’ve been keeping this quiet. One of my friends had a relationship with her. But I’m shocked to learn she’s dead.”

“Your friend? If you knew her, why didn’t you speak to her?”

“But I didn’t know her, not to talk to anyway. There’s a lot more on my mind than a friend’s estranged lover.”

“Martine was in Bordeaux, didn’t you see her?”

Wouldn’t Martine have told Vincent about the attack on her?

“Tiens! I prepared the groundwork. Then I just missed her. Alain Ducasse had demanded a correction in the nouvelle cuisine review about to print. Another impending catastrophe . So she flew to Lyon, soothed him, and sweet-talked him out of it. She works miracles, does Martine.”

She knew Martine. And she believed him.

Metal clanged in the background and what sounded like knocking, then a door opening.

“I have to go,” said Vincent.

“Who killed Josiane?”

“Leave me alone,” said Vincent. His voice cracked.

“These Russian e-mails weren’t part of the Opéra advertising campaign were they?”

“Russian e-mails?”

“Why did you encrypt them?”

“I don’t contact the Russian Opéra or encrypt e-mails,” said Vincent. “Why would I?” But his voice slowed, as if weighing his words.

“René made backup tapes,” she said. “It’s all on there.”

“You’re folle! Out of your mind.”

And he hung up. One thing she could say for Vincent, he was consistent; tearing up contracts, walking out, and hanging up on her. But he’d sounded genuinely surprised hearing of the attack on her and of Josiane’s murder.

Then what was he hiding? And what friend’s affair had he been shielding?

“Where are we going?” asked Aimée, as they got into the Citroen.

“Vincent’s office.”

“You want to try to make him reconsider in person?”

“Can’t hurt,” said René. “His office is on rue Charenton. Close by.”

She heard René’s turn signals beat a pattern. From outside the window came the revving of cars shifting into first gear.

“He’s scared, René,” she said. “He says his friend was having an affair with Josiane.”

“Two ends of the spectrum, aren’t they?”

“These e-mails generated a lot of steam,” she said.

“But why would Vincent kill her?” asked René.

Aimée shook her head and regretted it. The sparks behind her eyelids moved.

“The Proc ’s assistant will meet with us before the hearing on Monday if . . .”

“How will we explain the encrypted Russian e-mails?”

“Russian e-mails . . . is that what you were talking about?”

And she described what she’d discovered among Vincent’s deleted e-mails as the car sped along.

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But when I confronted him now, he sounded surprised. Denied knowledge of them. And somehow, I believe him.”

She heard René inhale. “So someone stole his password?”

René had a good point. She hadn’t considered that.

“Or used his computer and logged on with their own. A secretary would know who had access to his office,” she said.

“But first, let’s talk with Vincent, make sure he’s being straight with us.”

But Vincent wasn’t in his office. His secretary said he hadn’t returned and didn’t know when he would.

“Who has access to Monsieur Csarda’s office?” asked René.

“Talk to Monsieur Csarda,” said the secretary, irritation evident in her voice. “Excuse me, but we’re closing now.”