Free Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Page A

basis.
    They would launch Diva for the public in a media circus at the Opéra’s Salle de Reception. Vincent knew Diva would shake the élite, the wannabes, the bon chic bon genre . . . but in a fresh way, the way they liked. And they would beg to be featured in it. The participation of the former editor of Madame Figaro guaranteed it.
    “Monsieur Csarda?”
    Vincent spun around. A waiter, his long white apron brushing his ankles, towered over him.
    “ Oui? ”
    No one crept up on him like that. Ever. He must focus, concentrate on the larger picture. Not become lost in minutiae.
    “Pardon, monsieur, the organizer needs your approval for the orchids. A last minute change, only purple ones arrived.”
    “Merci. ” Vincent smiled. He could afford to appear gracious.
    By the time he resolved the crisis with the orchids— Malraux, the Bastille Opéra patron, detested purple—he realized Malraux was late. A no-show? Impossible . . . Malraux owed him. In more ways than he could repay.

Wednesday Noon
    DOWNSTAIRS AT THE COMMISSARIAT, in sunlight dappled Place Léon Blum, Sergeant Loïc Bellan thumbed the fat Beast of Bastille dossier. As he had so many times. But this would be the final run-through. After this, he’d sign off on the compilation, then turn it over to the frigo , slang for the archives . . . to be frozen cold and deep in the police vault’s repository under the Seine.
    Bellan hunched over the long wooden table in the deserted operations room. Outside in the square, named for the Socialist Prime Minister of France between world wars, early morning buses, taxis and bicycles passed the grilled windows.
    Nearby, embedded in the pavement, were five stones which had once supported the wood scaffold of the guillotine. Lacenaire, the poet, had referred to them as the “flagstones of death.” Today they were part of the white-striped crosswalk pedestrians used daily.
    Bellan knuckled down to what he did best, putting the perp under his own brand of microscope. Rereading and combing the information one more time, sifting the loose ends, arranging and rearranging items. Searching for loose threads and ways to knot them. Maybe then he could let go.
    He pored over the notes made by the quai des Orfèvres’ psychological profiler, the photos of the victims, details from the forensic lab reports, the few witnesses’ and neighbors’ accounts. Then he looked at the map of the Bastille quartier . . . at the location of the attacks.
    No question remained in his mind. Vaduz had committed the murders described in the dossier. But this last one, of Josiane Dolet, smelled off. Like an overripe Brie.
    His conscience had to be clear . . . his nights were bad enough without Marie and his daughters. Whiskey deadened the pain for only so long. He’d wake in the middle of the night, thinking he had to get the girls up for school. But a yellow pool of light on the bare wooden floor was his only companion.
    Jean-Claude Leduc’s aphorisms from Loïc’s rookie year echoed in his head: “If you smell something, follow your nose. . . . When it pecks at your shoulder night and day, pay attention.”
    What had he missed?
    With the combination of his huge caseload, the few of hours of restless sleep, the endless espresso on prolonged stakeouts, and the flask of whiskey he’d taken to keeping in his vest pocket . . . he couldn’t be sure.
    Something nagged at him. Was it the remark Aimée had made about the passage . . . its narrowness? Loïc chewed the end of his pen. He stood back and surveyed the enlarged bus and Métro map on the wall.
    Vaduz’s victims’ trails aligned themselves in the few blocks where the #86 and #91 bus routes merged. This corresponded with the Bastille, Ledru Rollin and Faidherbe Chaligny stops along the purple Métro line. Loïc studied the detective’s notes verifying that the suspect and victims had taken the same bus to work; his customary bars, cafés, and laundromats in the quartier which were also