Free Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black

the means to get it.
    Vincent waved to his secretary, who applied makeup with a deft hand at her desk while talking on her speakerphone, indicating he needed five minutes. He shut the door of his Bastille office and checked his e-mail. Opened the one from “popstar.” The subject read “Marmalade tea.” The message:
    Call 92 23 80 29 for a good time.
    He wrote down the number on his palm. More secure. Then he deleted the e-mail. This was the last time. No more messages; he’d wash his hands of it now.
    He adjusted the white dress shirt, spritzed Le Mâle by Gaultier, and checked for lint on his tailored black tuxedo, the trousers of which hid his platform shoes. He’d be going to the Bastille Opéra’s Salle de Reception later for a press conference launch. The Arsenal Pavillon might have been more chic. But Monsieur Malraux, the art appraiser, had offered his hôtel particulier, a detached mansion in the faubourg that carried cachet . And cachet counted with the gauche-caviar.

    A SOFT, blurred blue shone from the high-paned windows overlooking the courtyard in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The pilasters and sculpted frieze on the façade reflected the glow. The bluish star Vega, in the Lyre constellation, hung in the sky. Inside, myriads of tiny blue lights blanketed the balustrades, giving a gleaming otherworldly luster to the foyer.
    Blue like Diva , their new magazine. Perfect for the pre-launch gala, Vincent thought, tenting his fingers. A mix of elegance and freshness.
    One of the Bourbon monarchs had installed his mistress, a well-known actress, here. The monarch built the petit théâtre, a gem complete with a foyer hung with Gobelin tapestries, for her performances. He liked to show her off to court intimates, to keep her happy. Rumor had it, he was so enamored of her that he had an underground passage to the Bastille dug to permit impromptu visits.
    Vincent doubted that part of the story. Why hide a liaison? Few at court had.
    The theatre, perfect for the pre-launch gala, had a gilded stage scalloped by cherubs under a painted ceiling. It seated 200 at most in the frayed maroon velvet seats. The theatre had an élan that money couldn’t buy. Vincent hungered for it. Something he’d wanted all his life . . . an entrée into a world that excluded him.
    But not for long. He would obtain his backers’ and the arbiters of fashion’s approval at this pre-launch event for the élite of society.
    Vincent lifted up the first issue of Diva , a glossy four-color magazine. On the cover were three Bastille divas representing tragedy, wisdom, and glamour. Martine’s first issue profiled women spearheading the arts; the designer Jean Paul Gaultier; and a ferment of young filmmakers, architects, installation artists, dancers, and singers in the “new” Opéra.
    A winner. He felt it in his bones. A bit of flash, glamour, and luxe tempered by conscience; interviews with activists, writers, and the editors of the Cahiers du Cinéma . A smattering of locals as a guide to the branché clubs and bistros. A French rapper and a Chinese teahouse and its owner in the Arts et Chic section.
    With the success of Diva Vincent would truly join the gauche-caviar . Not just pretend from the sidelines. Money did not guarantee entry; he had plenty of that. He needed the cachet of owning a politically conscious, avant-garde and quasi- intello fashion magazine.
    A sprinkling of socialist ministers, human rights activists, prominent left-wing lawyers, trust fund hippies, and aristos glossed the guest list. Vincent noted every detail: the lobster and truffle hors d’oeuvres , bowls of glittering Petrossian caviar, the magnums of chilled Champagne, handmade chocolate favors shaped like the Bastille columns. No matter how polit- ically diverse the guests’ views, Vincent was savvy enough to know their preferences.
    The best.
    Like the Prime Minister or President, they might be very “left” but they dined on caviar. On a regular