Cara Black - Murder in the Bastille

MURDER

in the BASTILLE

Cara Black

Dedicated to all the ghosts, past

and present.

Thanks to so many generous people who shared their knowledge and themselves: savvy Kathleen Knox and her seeing-eye dog Thai; Ron Hideshima, invaluable Access Technology Instructor, of the Living Skills Center for the Visually Impaired; Bill Simpson, Donna and the caring staff at Rose Resnick Lighthouse; the Tuesday group; Steven Platzman; Grace Loh, her insight, Jean Satzer, above and beyond, Dot Edwards who lived it and shared, toujours James N. Frey, Ron Huberman, San Francisco DA’s office, Dr. Eddie Tamura, his expertise, Mike Hakershaw, soul soeur Marion Nowak, Dr. Terri Haddix, and all bookseller amies.

In Paris: merci s to Anne-Françoise Delbegue, her wit, warmth and Bastille guidance; the Residence St. Louis, Carla, Kathleen and Marcus Haddock et Sarah, Martine, Gilles, Lesley, Gala; Brentano’s on Avenue de l’Opera; Isabelle et Andi; officer Cathy Etilé and Commandant Michel Bruno of the Commissariat Central du 12ème arrondissement who answer toutes and more.

Linda Allen for her support; deep thanks to Laura Hruska who encourages risks . . . big ones; Shuchan, my son, and Jun who puts up with it all.

You are not alive unless you know you are living

—graffiti on a Paris wall

In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king

—Desiderius Erasmus, Adagia

PARIS

OCTOBER, 1994

Monday Evening

AIMÉE LEDUC FELT THE air shift, the floating candles waver, as a woman murmuring into a cell phone, wearing a black silk Chinese jacket identical to Aimée’s, sat down on the restaurant banquette next to her.

Great. Just Aimée’s luck someone showed up in her jacket tonight. For a moment Aimée made eye contact with the woman. Blunt blonde shocks of hair framed her face. She favored Aimée with an intense stare. The vein in her temple stood out in her otherwise perfectly made-up face.

“Wouldn’t you know it!” Aimée said to her.

“Things could get worse. ” The woman shrugged, as if wearing the same outfit as her neighbor were the least of her worries. Aimée noticed the frightened look in her eyes before she averted her face.

Around them, illuminated by red glass Etruscan-style sconces, Parisiens drank, dined, and smoked. This upscale resto , formerly a meat market, with its exposed beams and rusted meathooks, was booked weeks ahead. But her client, Vincent Csarda, head of Populax, an agence de publicité, never had trouble getting a table.

Tinkling glasses and the waiters’ shouts made it difficult for Aimée to hear Vincent’s words. Vincent, the brains behind his advertising agency, who was sitting across from her, stabbed his slithering ziti con vongole as he spoke.

“But I’m just the mec stuck in the middle. My agency subcontracted this Incandescent campaign only two weeks ago,” he said. His short coifed hair and red bow tie were out of place in this fashionably dressed late evening dinner crowd. He was not quite Aimée’s height. Vincent, who was in his mid-thirties, was a nervous type. She figured he was gaunt from overwork and espresso. She wished it worked that way for her.

Aimée knew she should be home preparing her apartment for the construction crew and packing her bags. She was torn between bolting for a taxi or listening to more of Vincent’s excuses as he sat across from her.

“ Tiens ,” Vincent said, “was it my fault Incandescent was a front and laundered money for gun runners?”

“Vincent, the courts see it differently,” Aimée said, wishing he would accept the facts. But Vincent demanded control. Total control. Didn’t they all? “E-mail and downloaded documents constitute judicial evidence. We have to turn over your Opera marketing campaign file for the domestic and Russian tour.”

“But my Opera marketing campaign doesn’t relate to them. I refuse to let this investigation tarnish my firm’s reputation.”

She mustered a small smile. After all, he was a paying client. “My connection at the Judiciare says a subpoena’s imminent,” she said. “Count on it. It would be better to give them your hard drive voluntarily.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d regretted her best friend Martine’s referral. Martine and Vincent were partners in Diva , a new magazine. Martine, former Madame Figaro editor, savvy and connected, did the work and Vincent was the financial backer. Martine had been crazed, getting ready for the launch this week.

The woman next to them ground out her cigarette. She drummed her long purple fingernails on the table, then lit another and set it in the ashtray.

Aimée recognized the nail color—Violet Vamp, advertised as urban armor for girls on the go—as one she’d been meaning to buy herself. She tried to ignore the curling smoke. She’d quit smoking four days ago.

Again.

Aimée’s chipped nails, Gigabyte Green, needed a manicure. At least her sun-streaked hair and tan, from a week in Sardinia, helped her fit in with the sophisticated crowd.

Had everyone found the same boutique on rue Charonne? And coughed up the equivalent of the boutique’s rent for the supposed “one-of-a-kind” clinging side-buttoned dress with matching jacket? Aimée had only been able to afford the jacket with mahjong buttons, unlike her neighbor who wore the knockout matching sheath as well.

Scents of fresh basil and roasted garlic drifted from the next table. When Aimée looked over again, the woman had propped her menu against an ashtray and disappeared.

Laughter erupted from the bar. Nearby, chairs scraped over the floor tiles. Time to work out this agreement, smooth Vincent’s feathers, and get him to cooperate, Aimée concluded. Then she could leave.

“Dragging in my firm will give rise to rumors,” said Vincent. “Damaging rumors.”

Mentally, she agreed. Why be an appetizer served up before the main course in a foreign arms investigation? But once la Procuratrice got something on her court docket, it stayed there.

“Vincent, be calm. We hand over the hard drive. . . . ”

“I’m paid to deal with my client’s information,” he interrupted. “Not you. Not the Judiciare. They have no right to see my records or client database.”

She wanted to deflect his anger, focus on the ongoing computer security issues. “Here’s good news. We set up new fire-walls so Hacktivistes pose no threat to Populax,” she said, pouring sparkling Badoit mineral water into his glass. He worried about hackers constantly.

“That’s what we pay you for at Leduc Detective.” He stood up. Short as he was, even in his rumpled seersucker blazer, he commanded attention. “My lawyer will stop this. Why can’t you encrypt the Incandescent file? It would save everyone needless trouble?”

“Too late. Look, René and I installed your system,” Aimée said, “but we’re following the law. Encryption is illegal. I know la Proc, she’s reasonable.”

He glared. “We paid you for security!” Vincent took the agency’s contract with Leduc Detective out of his attaché case, tore it up, and sprinkled the pieces, like parmesan cheese, over her pasta.

He edged past the waiter holding the second course, artichauts aux citron. She got to her feet to stop him. But he’d darted out the door, disappearing into the warren of passages threading the Bastille quartier.