“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.”
BACK IN Madame Danoux’s apartment, Aimée got on her hands and knees and felt each armchair and cabinet until she found the old record player. Right where Madame Danoux had told her it would be. And Madame’s records. Her collection of old songs from the Bastille.
The floor grumbled. She clutched the nearest thing. The leg of a coarse horsehair upholstered divan. She had to calm down, remember it was only the Métro passing below in the bowels of Bastille.
René had gone to copy the morgue log and would leave it in an envelope for Bellan at the Commissariat. She didn’t want to get Serge in trouble, so they had to disguise her morgue source.
Right now she wanted to hear music. Find the old Bastille songs. The power button stuck out, like the one in her father’s old stereo set. Like on all the phonographs from that time. Her hands traveled over the plastic hood.
She pushed what felt like the turntable switch.
The record dropped onto the turntable. The needle joined it with a soft whisper. A slight crackle, then Jacques Brel’s voice soared with When one only has love to give to those whose only fight is to search for daylight. The guitar and Brel’s words, struck her. Moved her.
The French analyzed him. But it was his own Belgians who knew the gray streets of Brussels that he evoked, the wistfulness of old lovers who meet again.
Too much like the way she felt. She ran her fingers over record jackets, so many, dusty and peeling. In the end she put on the next one that smelled old. She put her index finger on the hole and after trial and error, the disk slipped down the tall, thin record holder.
“Nini peau le chien of the Bastille,” Aristide Bruant’s turn-ofthe-century chanson of a third-class streetwalker accompanied by accordions and a scratchy voice.
She froze. That was it . . . the song. The one her grandmother used to play, the song she had heard in the background over the cell phone. The funny title, skin of the dog . . . as a little girl she’d wondered if it meant Nini’s complexion or her cheap “fur” wrap.
Her mind raced. The same music was in the background . . . Nini le peau chien . . . just like that night.
The doorbell rang. Was it René? Should she answer?
“Who’s there?”
“Madame Danoux?” asked a familiar voice.
Surprised, Aimée stood, took small steps, then bumped into the door. She felt for the lock, turned the deadbolt, pulled the door ajar with the chain still on it. Cold, stale air came in from the hallway.
“It’s me,” said Dr. Guy Lambert. “Can I come in?”
She slid the chain back and let him in.
A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “Ça va?”
“Never better,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a huge smile. “Madame Danoux’s not here.”
“But you’re the purpose of my visit,” he said, taking her hand. “We were talking about dinner, remember?”
She liked his hands; the warmth and the way his fingers tapered. Slender yet strong.
How could she have forgotten?
“Notice any changes in your vision?”
“More of the same: swirling dots and pebble patterns or a grayish net. Is this what it will be like?” she said. “It makes me dizzy like a whirlpool that never ends. Nauseous.”
“That could persist for a long time,” he said. “Nothing happens quickly, I’m afraid.”
His voice moved. Where was he?
“Except for how I feel about you.”
Had he said what she thought she heard?
“What do you mean?”
“You’re always getting into trouble,” he said.
“Everyone needs a trademark.”
But he didn’t laugh. She sensed him standing next to her. And all her consciousness settled on his hands enveloping hers.
“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His hands traveled up her arm, to the place where her shoulder met her neck. “I’m getting to like keeping you out of broom closets and safe from attackers.”
Was this some rescue fantasy he had? His words didn’t feel as welcome as she thought they would. But his warmth and the faint scent of Vetiver did.
From somewhere in the street came the muted clash of cymbals, the thunder of a kettle drum, and the clear peal of a tenor’s voice.
“Opéra tonight,” he said. “Don Giovanni.”
“Believe it or not,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself since I was eight.”
“You’re boasting.”
Maybe she was. “Boastful or not, it’s the way my life’s played out. No one’s ever wanted to take care of me except my father.”
Her hand brushed a stiff plastic rectangle of his badge, then the cold metal of his stethoscope.
“On duty, Doctor?”
“Just on call, until morning.”
“So that means?”
“I’m at the mercy of my beeper, but we can have dinner,” he said.
“Hungry?” She felt for his warm hand.
And she wanted to be close to him. Right now.
“Famished.”
“Feel like appetizers in my room?” she said, turning and pulling his stethoscope. “That’s if I can find it.”
His footsteps stopped.
What was wrong?
“Attends,” he said. “This isn’t right.”
“What do you mean?” She let go of the stethoscope.
“I know about people in your condition,” he said. “You feel grateful but . . .”
“I’m not people. I’m me.”
Pause.
“There’s the doctor and patient relationship to consider . . .” he said.
“But you’re no longer my doctor,” she said. “You referred me to a retinologist. Remember?”
Another pause.
“Is that it? A quick jump under the duvet?” he said, his voice low.
Was that anger in his voice?
She sensed him moving away.
Great. She wanted to curl up and disappear. What in the world had she done? Thrown herself at this man who smelled delicious, whose touch thrilled her?
Merde! She deserved some kind of medal, ruining her chances with a man in record time. Talk about faux pas. Why had she done that? Acted so desperate with her doctor!