“Even with our low-level software tools, we could read any deleted files,” she said.
She felt around for her leather backpack. Found it hanging on the hook and slipped the straps around her shoulders.
“And if we find something incriminating on Populax’s sys- tem, it’s better to know your enemy than be surprised, as they say,” she continued. “PR and marketing firms steal from each other all the time. And since the Judiciare’s not asking for anything else, just the hard drive info, suppose we found evidence of a nasty white collar crime? It would give us a bargaining chip with Vincent.”
“We could even get Vincent to pay us to delete it,” René said, admiration in his voice.
“But first we’ve got to find out what files exist,” she said. “And I don’t know how fast I’ll be using a voice-activated program,” she told him. “If you come to visit again, they moved me to the residence behind the hospital. Room 213.”
“By the way, I checked the databanks,” René said. “She bought her cell phone on rue Sainte Antoine.”
Aimée took a deep breath.
“And she was?”
“Josiane Dolet, lived at thirty-four, rue de Cotte.”
The initials J.D. . . . of course. Now that she knew her name she could find out more.
“Wonderful work, René!” On her right she heard the tap of a cane on linoleum. Closer and closer.
“I’ll come to see you as soon as . . .
“Take your time, René,” she said, reaching for Chantal’s elbow. “I’m going shopping.”
* * *
“THIS IS my friend, Chantal,” said Aimée, making the introduction to Lulu Mondriac, the owner of Blasphème.
Chantal had accompanied her so she could navigate. Lavender oils and frangipani fragrance from the scent counter wafted across to Aimée as Lulu acknowledged the introduction.
“It’s funny, Lulu,” Aimée said. ”You told me it was an exclu- sive when I bought it. But I ran into this woman who was wearing the identical silk Tong jacket. Matter of fact, she was seated next to me in a resto.”
Aimée could visualize Lulu’s round blue glasses, the thick silver bracelets up her arm like armor, the red hennaed hair piled on her head and her uniform of black silk Chinese pajamas. “When I work, I stay comfortable,” Lulu had told her. Aimée had bought two pairs of the same silk pajamas.
“It was the sample. I’d kept it for myself, one for you and one for me. She begged for it,” said Lulu. “But the embroidery and mahjong buttons weren’t as nice as yours.”
If Lulu had any suspicions that Aimée couldn’t see, she kept them to herself. “A John Galliano top’s coming in this week,” she confided. “It’s brilliant. Got your name on it.”
An attempt at appeasement, Aimée thought.
Lulu’s racks often held surprises, an eclectic collection that might include a Christian Lacroix sweater confection with an embroidered and beaded flowered collar, a Kenzo sweater threaded with metallic Lurex, or a poem printed on an Italian microfiber scarf.
On rare occasions she’d splurge in the shop, to celebrate a new contract or when her bank balance looked healthy. When would she next have such a reason to splurge? She pushed those thoughts away.
“Was the customer who purchased the sample Josiane Dolet, a stick-thin blonde, with Violet Vamp nails?” Aimée asked.
Silence. Was Lulu nodding? Aimée visualized the small store’s layout, hoping she still faced Lulu.
“It was her, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve known Josiane for years. She’s one of my best clients. So I had to let her have it,” Lulu admitted. “Look, Josiane was having a midlife crisis,” said Lulu, “I’ve had one or two of those myself.”
“What did she do?”
“What’s this . . . twenty questions?”
Torn between telling Lulu her reason for asking or keeping it to herself, Aimée bit her lip. Lulu might have useful information. But Aimée didn’t like disclosing what had happened.
“Won’t you tell me about Josiane?”
“Any special reason?”
Besides being your client and dropping big money, Aimée almost said. “Keep this between us. Josiane was the woman killed in the passage.”
Aimée heard a long gasp. Then silence. What she wouldn’t give to watch Lulu digesting this news.
“The serial killer . . . but how. . . . They never release the victim’s names,” Lulu said, almost whispering.
“The victim was wearing a silk Tong jacket with Mahjong buttons.” Aimée was guessing.
“Mon dieu. . . . It must be her. Why hurt Josiane?” said Lulu, her voice shaking in shock.
“The flics will want to question you, Lulu.”
The shop door opened with a gust of wind.
“Delivery!”
“Ici. . . .”
The rest of Lulu’s words were lost in the wind, but she was moving. Disconcerted by her change in position, Aimée didn’t know which way to turn. Where had Lulu gone?
“What’s wrong with you?” Lulu’s voice came from behind her now.
Aimée was hesitant to admit she couldn’t see. That she was blind and vulnerable, dependent on another blind women to help her. She didn’t feel like a detective, more like an awkward victim who asked silly questions.
“Arnica does wonders,” Lulu whispered. “Reduces the swelling. Sleep sitting up. And once those stitches come out. . .”
Did Lulu assume since her face was swollen and she wore dark glasses that Aimée had just had plastic surgery?
“Josiane wanted to look young, to recapture her youth.” Lulu went on, apparently satisfied with her own explanation. “That’s my theory. You know, some of them put on clear plastic shoes with patterned socks, carry a doughnut-shape shoulder bag, and buy a new face. You’ve had some work done, too, eh?”
Aimée stayed silent. Chantal cleared her throat and pinched Aimée.
“Are you a reporter, too?” Lulu asked her. Chantal must have shaken her head since Lulu went on, “Well, Josiane was blonde. Me, well my hair’s red now. I should be safe.”
Was it widely known that the victims were all blondes? Aimée remembered Morbier saying that, but this fact had not been mentioned the one time she’d heard about the crimes on the téle.
”Lulu, no one’s safe.”
“You’re right.” Lulu let out a big sigh. “We’re dancing between landmines here. Complacency’s dangerous. I’ll get the faubourg association to do something.”
Aimée doubted they could do much. If they hadn’t stopped the Beast of Bastille before, what could a neighborhood association do now?
“Lulu, he attacked me, too,” Aimée said, “But Josiane was his target.”
“He attacked both of you?”
“It was the jacket,” said Aimée. “I think he confused us. He went for me, thinking I was Josiane.
Aimée kept her head steady and focused her eyes in what she hoped was the right direction.
“But the man who attacked me wasn’t the serial killer. The flics won’t investigate; they think it’s an open-and-shut case. They’re sure it was the Beast. So please, tell me about her.”
“Alors, this goes from bad to worse,” Lulu said. “Josiane freelanced as a journalist. From what she said, she mostly did pieces on human rights. A green type . . . political. But a limousine liberal, you know.”
Aimée hadn’t known. Did green types go in for cosmetic surgery? That seemed to strike a false note. But on the other hand, why not?