Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Page A

fillings,” Morbier said, “moaned about needing the dentist’s drill.”
    “What about the jealous husband angle?”
    “She wasn’t married,” he said. “The Préfet keeps reminding me he’s got another five days to retirement,” Morbier said. “After a stellar twenty-five year career, the Préfet wants to depart with full honors from the Mayor. So he’d like the blame for the Vaduz mess to rest elsewhere. Too bad he can’t think of where else to put it. Right now, the Gendarmerie looks like the next candidate.”
    “Why?” she said. “They’re not responsible.”
    “Tell that to the public,” he said. “All us uniforms look alike, and we’re all to blame. The victims’ families want justice or vengeance.”
    Morbier’s pager beeped and she heard him fumble in his pockets.
    “May I borrow your hospital phone, Leduc?”
    She nodded. Then her aching neck protested in response.
    From the brusque tone of Morbier’s conversation, she knew something had gone wrong. He hung up.
    “What happened?”
    She heard Morbier’s long sigh.
    “Some problem in the Place du Trône,” he said, using the old name, the King’s throne, for Place de la Nation. Aimée found it ironic, since he was a dyed-in-the-wool socialist.
    “But Morbier, the caller who spoke to me knew the woman he was phoning. He sounded intimate with her.”
    “You told me. I’ve got to go,” he said. “The Préfet wants the case closed, clean and neat. Let’s agree on this, Leduc. Vaduz thought you were the victim. He was scared off when passers- by came down the passage. Lots of nightlife in the Bastille quartier. He’d been stalking the other woman before he encountered you. Then he found her.”
    Morbier continued. “This isn’t my turf, Leduc.” He let out a tired sigh. “The powers that be are trying to nail Vaduz. He’s brutally killed five women. And they’re salivating now, talking about the ‘special accomodation’ they’ve prepared for him at the Quai des Orfèvres—a wire and iron cage for his interrogation.” Another tired sigh. “The victims’ parents are angry and tired. And five bodies later, they’re demanding blood. Vaduz’s blood, and strong police action. So unless you’ve got something concrete, Leduc, I’ll recommend they tie this up with a nice bow.”
    She leaned back against the large pillows. What Morbier said was likely true. But the man who had attacked her wasn’t Vaduz.
    “Look, you know my hunches are good,” she said. “Papa trained me. I don’t agree. No serial stalker like Vaduz has such finesse. You said he has rotten teeth, right? But I don’t remember bad breath. It doesn’t make sense.”
    “Heard of breath mints?” said Morbier. “Didn’t you suffer a concussion and black out?”
    “Morbier, what aren’t you telling me?”
    Silence.
    “Spit it out, Morbier.”
    “What your father would have told you,” said Morbier. “Get the hell out of what you’re doing and stick to computers.”
    His remark made her angry.
    “After dining with a client, I was attacked, blinded. But it sounds like you think I invited it,” she said. She wanted to throw the phone at him but she didn’t know where it was. “It wasn’t the Beast of Bastille, that much I know.”
    A sob caught in her throat. But she stifled it.
    “I just worry you’re not safe. Sorry . . . don’t do well . . . it’s this hospital. . . .” his voice broke. “ Alors , I’ll keep my ears open.”
    And with that Morbier was gone.
    He’d never apologized to her or anyone in his life, that she knew of. What a first . . . a hollow victory.
    The room felt chilly. Cold drafts licked her feet. She got in bed and pulled up the covers. She couldn’t count on Morbier. Or the flics . If any investigating were to take place, it was up to her.
    She felt caught between a rock and a hard place . . . wasn’t that the saying? Until the police caught Vaduz, how could she prove he wasn’t the one who attacked her?
    The nurse