“What time, Monsieur Piot?” asked René.
“Until midnight, I’d say. Then he drove off.”
ALL THE way back in René’s car, she sat hunched over, trying to imagine the streets and people. Flashes of light blinked every so often in the gray haze before her eyes, and she realized it must be the globes from the streetlights.
Was this progress? Shades of light and dark? Hope sputtered in her. What if her sight returned? She pushed that aside. No time to think about that now.
At least they had proof Vaduz was in Porte la Chapelle at midnight. Even if he U-turned and went to Bastille, it would have taken him a while to cross the eastern part of Paris. No matter what Barzac might say, the flics would take a bonded locksmith’s word over a drug dealer’s.
But she knew that something stared her in the face and she couldn’t see it. Literally or figuratively.
“We’re missing something, René,” she said. “Like Piot said, it’s right there but we don’t see it.”
Saturday
AIMÉE SAT IN THE clinic in l’hôpital Quinze-Vingts hugging her bag. The rustle of magazine pages amid frequent calling of patient names from the reception indicated efficiency. To her it also said impersonality.
She fingered the hem of her leather miniskirt, tugged it down, and felt for the zipper. Good, it was on the side, where it should be. She couldn’t stand the waiting, the doing nothing. And the darkness.
After last night, everything made her edgy. She figured the attacker would strike again to get Josiane’s phone and finish the job. He’d be stupid not to.
The flics continued to do nothing. And she wondered again why Bellan hadn’t called.
“Leduc, Aimée,” said a loud voice over the scratchy speaker. She was gripped by the elbow.
“Come this way,” said a young woman.
Blasts of dry heat hit her legs as they walked down a corridor echoing with footsteps, conversations, and doors whooshing open and closing.
“I’m Dr. Reyaud, the retinologist,” a man said.
“But I thought Dr. Lambert . . .”
“Let’s see what we have here,” said Dr Reyaud, guiding her to what felt like a smooth plastic chair. “He referred you to me.”
Without telling her?
“But he hasn’t . . .
“Have a seat,” he said.
She felt a glowing heat on her eyelid.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t worry, mademoiselle, this won’t hurt.”
His patronizing tone bothered her.
“Did you see the MRI results, Doctor?” she asked.
“Machines show us some details, but not everything,” he said. “Deciphering the brain’s architecture takes time.”
“Does that mean my retina’s involved?”
“Like I said, we see the damage but not necessarily the immune defenses and healing process battling it.”
No, he hadn’t said. But he wasn’t saying much.
“Dr. Lambert wants to run more tests . . .”
“I’ve taken over your case,” said Dr. Reyaud, “He has transferred your file to me.”
A sinking feeling came over her.
She’d made a fool of herself the other night with Dr. Lambert. Guy, as he’d wanted her to call him. Must have drank more than she’d realized. But he’d seemed amenable. More than amenable when he’d kissed her.
Dumb. She’d scared him off. Or had he scared himself off, wary of obligation?
He’d tried to be nice, that’s it. Got carried away and realized on his way home. Doctors didn’t get involved with patients. Who cared? Not she.
“Doctor, my vision came back,” she said. “Not very clearly or for long. Last night I saw light and dark. But I did recognize things.”
“That’s quite common with trauma to the optic nerve,” he said. “Does your vision flicker in and out?”
She nodded. All the blinking sparks and pepper-like fog must mean bad news. “Doctor, will things get worse. . .can the inflammation affect other parts of my brain?”
She heard metal scratch. His stethoscope against his name badge. She felt him take her hand in his. They were large and warm.
“Mademoiselle, you’re young, healthy and strong-willed, according to your chart and from what I hear from Dr. Lambert,” he said. “There’s so much going for you. No one can predict the future. But let’s try a new anti-inflammatory medication, see if it reduces the swelling more effectively. Schedule your next appointment for Monday.”
By Monday she could be dead. And that wasn’t her depression speaking.
An older nurse guided her to pick up her prescription. By the time she’d made it back to Madame Danoux’s, she felt so tired and dispirited that she fell asleep.
She woke up to a chill in the room. It must be evening. Blind people must save a lot on their energy bill since they used so little electricity for light, she reflected.
Then, from outside the window, she heard a church bell strike twelve. Only noon.
What if the Romanian had an arrest record, but it was sitting on someone’s desk? Or had been filed with the morning reports, like so many of the backlog cases. Overworked flics got to them when they had desk time. She knew they always aimed to clear their desks by noon.
She had to do something until she could check with Martin. That wouldn’t be for hours. She called the Commissariat again, asked for the records department.
“Lieutenant Égérie? I’m Aimée Leduc. My father worked with you.”
Pause. She heard raised voices in the background, like an argument.
“So you’re Jean-Claude’s daughter!”
Égérie, whose name meant muse, suffered teasing because of it. He’d been the dispatcher on her father’s shift. A tall man, thin as a rail, he lived with his mother. He had a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed when he talked, which had fascinated her as a little girl. Sometimes, in the Commissariat, after school when the others were busy he’d bend his double-jointed fingers and do amazing tricks.
“I remember when you got those rollerskates, not like the ones they have today,” said Lieutenant Égérie. “The wheels came off . . .”
“And you were the only one who could fix them,” she said, “everyone else was helpless. Just like now.”
He laughed. “Still the same. But you’re not asking me for help now, are you?”
She told him about Dragos.
“Let me see,” he said, his voice tired, “we’re down four investigating officers due to flu. They’ve pulled staff for the explosives case. Everyone here’s doing double shifts.”
Funny, Morbier hadn’t told her that.
“Of course, just thought I’d ask,” she said. “What explosives?”
“Very hush-hush,” he said. “I haven’t heard much.”
And he usually did.
“I’ll sniff around for you on Dragos. No promises.”
She hung up. And for a moment, thoughts of Dr. Guy Lambert crossed her mind. She wondered if he’d watched the sunrise this morning. For half a franc, she’d call and ask him what colors had painted the dawn.
But he’d referred her to another doctor. And hadn’t even told her. Forget him.
A minute later she dialed his office.
“Dr. Lambert’s in a meeting,” the receptionist told her.
“Please have him call me . . .” she paused. This was about her health, not about some silly kiss after several drinks that he regretted. A delicious kiss. Of course, he’d done the classic French naval manuever . . . made for the target, then veered off and run. “This concerns my MRI results.”