came in. “Time to draw some blood, won’t take a minute. Looks like you dropped a toothbrush.”
After the nurse left, Aimée lay back and put the brush to her cheek, rolled it, then held it in front of her eyes. But no matter how hard she tried, even though it was right there, she couldn’t see it. She’d probably never see it again.
Fatigue tugged at her. Concentrating on Morbier’s words— and on what he hadn’t said—exhausted her. Listening to him, she’d worked harder than if she’d had her sight and still she felt she’d missed something: a nuance, the way his stubby fingers worried his jacket sleeve or how he looked away when she brought up uncomfortable subjects. Like her American mother’s abandoning them when she was eight or her father’s flic record. All the little clues she’d learned unconsciously to depend on to read him, to decipher his meaning.
And what was all that about the explosives and pulling staff off . . . ? He’d never tell her now. She was out of the loop. Useless.
Most of the time, she could tell when he had more to say. Of course he knew, he had full access to the fat dossier on the serial killer Vaduz and he’d shared but a fraction. And now she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to figure him out—or anyone else—again.
She hooked her arm around the metal bedframe, cold and smooth, then sank back into the pillows. Deep down, the realization that she might never be able to see again loomed.
The aroma of espresso, rich and dark, encompassed her. Had it all been a bad dream?
Of course it was. She’d wake up in bed in her apartment on Île St. Louis with the Seine flowing below her window, Miles Davis, her bichon frisée, perched in the sunlight on her duvet. She’d be cuddled against that tan hunk she’d met in Sardinia, muscular and with such a flat stomach and . . .
“Aimée, how about coffee?” René said. “Or do you want to sleep more?”
She kept her eyes closed. Kept the image of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and fur that needed a trim. Then she opened her eyes.
Darkness. Only darkness. And the crisp feel of laundered hospital sheets. It wasn’t a dream: she’d woken up dumped back into reality.
“With two sugar lumps, René?”
“Just how you like,” he said.
“ Merci, you’re wonderful, René.” She sat up, felt behind her and propped up her pillows. She tried not to think about how she must look.
Her torched brain welcomed a warm, sweet java jolt. She opened her hands to clutch the hot cup, inched her fingers to find the spoon.
She told him about Sergeant Bellan’s questioning and Morbier’s comments about Vaduz.
“René, any more noises from the Judiciare about Populax?”
“If Vincent doesn’t release the hard drive, expect a subpoena,” René said.
She chewed her lip. “Hasn’t he reconsidered?”
“Not so far.”
Vincent’s attitude was outrageous. His veiled threat in the resto came back to her. And his arrogant denial. Either he felt he was above the law, or he was hiding something.
She circled the spoon slowly against the wall of the cup, but felt hot droplets on her chest. How could it be so hard to stir with a spoon?
“We should expect to appear at the Palais de Justice,” René said. “You know the drill.”
She gulped the espresso then felt the cup lifted from her hands. “Me . . . testify?” she asked.
“We’re in this together,” René said.
“We need Martine’s help to convince Vincent to cooperate.”
“I have your bag. Let me look up Martine’s number.”
Startled, she turned, banging her shoulder on the metal bed-frame— the shoulder she dislocated with annoying regularity.
“My bag . . . I thought it was stolen.”
“Who said so? It was next to you in the passage when I found you,” he said, “under muck and grime.”
“You’re a genius!”
What would be left inside?
She felt the zipper and ridges of her leather backpack, then the contents of her bag tumbling over the sheet.
After the nurse left, Aimée lay back and put the brush to her cheek, rolled it, then held it in front of her eyes. But no matter how hard she tried, even though it was right there, she couldn’t see it. She’d probably never see it again.
Fatigue tugged at her. Concentrating on Morbier’s words— and on what he hadn’t said—exhausted her. Listening to him, she’d worked harder than if she’d had her sight and still she felt she’d missed something: a nuance, the way his stubby fingers worried his jacket sleeve or how he looked away when she brought up uncomfortable subjects. Like her American mother’s abandoning them when she was eight or her father’s flic record. All the little clues she’d learned unconsciously to depend on to read him, to decipher his meaning.
And what was all that about the explosives and pulling staff off . . . ? He’d never tell her now. She was out of the loop. Useless.
Most of the time, she could tell when he had more to say. Of course he knew, he had full access to the fat dossier on the serial killer Vaduz and he’d shared but a fraction. And now she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to figure him out—or anyone else—again.
She hooked her arm around the metal bedframe, cold and smooth, then sank back into the pillows. Deep down, the realization that she might never be able to see again loomed.
The aroma of espresso, rich and dark, encompassed her. Had it all been a bad dream?
Of course it was. She’d wake up in bed in her apartment on Île St. Louis with the Seine flowing below her window, Miles Davis, her bichon frisée, perched in the sunlight on her duvet. She’d be cuddled against that tan hunk she’d met in Sardinia, muscular and with such a flat stomach and . . .
“Aimée, how about coffee?” René said. “Or do you want to sleep more?”
She kept her eyes closed. Kept the image of Miles Davis’s wet black nose and fur that needed a trim. Then she opened her eyes.
Darkness. Only darkness. And the crisp feel of laundered hospital sheets. It wasn’t a dream: she’d woken up dumped back into reality.
“With two sugar lumps, René?”
“Just how you like,” he said.
“ Merci, you’re wonderful, René.” She sat up, felt behind her and propped up her pillows. She tried not to think about how she must look.
Her torched brain welcomed a warm, sweet java jolt. She opened her hands to clutch the hot cup, inched her fingers to find the spoon.
She told him about Sergeant Bellan’s questioning and Morbier’s comments about Vaduz.
“René, any more noises from the Judiciare about Populax?”
“If Vincent doesn’t release the hard drive, expect a subpoena,” René said.
She chewed her lip. “Hasn’t he reconsidered?”
“Not so far.”
Vincent’s attitude was outrageous. His veiled threat in the resto came back to her. And his arrogant denial. Either he felt he was above the law, or he was hiding something.
She circled the spoon slowly against the wall of the cup, but felt hot droplets on her chest. How could it be so hard to stir with a spoon?
“We should expect to appear at the Palais de Justice,” René said. “You know the drill.”
She gulped the espresso then felt the cup lifted from her hands. “Me . . . testify?” she asked.
“We’re in this together,” René said.
“We need Martine’s help to convince Vincent to cooperate.”
“I have your bag. Let me look up Martine’s number.”
Startled, she turned, banging her shoulder on the metal bed-frame— the shoulder she dislocated with annoying regularity.
“My bag . . . I thought it was stolen.”
“Who said so? It was next to you in the passage when I found you,” he said, “under muck and grime.”
“You’re a genius!”
What would be left inside?
She felt the zipper and ridges of her leather backpack, then the contents of her bag tumbling over the sheet.
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