collection for the Opéra stage sets.”
“ Bien sûr. We will help with voice coaches,” said Monsieur Malraux. “After all, the Opéra’s in your backyard, so to speak.”
“Merci , Monsieur Malraux,” Chantal said.
“Of course,” another voice said. “We’re all part of the Bastille community. Superb idea.”
“Let me introduce a longtime resident, Lucas Passot, and our newest, Aimée Leduc,” Chantal said.
“We’re going to teach her the tools of the trade,” said Lucas. “Important survival skills like avoiding open freight elevators in the morning at the wine bar by Marché d’Aligre.”
Laughter greeted Lucas’s remark.
“Madamoiselle Leduc, excuse my bluntness,” said Monsieur Malraux, “Chantal’s told us many residents here have been blind from birth while some have suffered an illness. What, may I ask, brought you here?”
Aimée felt she had been put on the spot, expected to perform for people she couldn’t see.
“Monsieur, someone tried to strangle me. This caused trauma to my optic nerve.”
“How terrible!”
Several sympathetic murmurs came from the group. She heard “Passage . . . the Beast of Bastille.”
“Tell them what happened, Aimée,” said Chantal.
“But it wasn’t the serial killer,” Aimée said, in a voice that trembled.
“I’m so sorry to have brought all this back, forgive me,” he said. “Please accept my best wishes for a speedy recovery, mademoiselle.”
“Please forgive us,” said another voice. “ Now we must move on, gentlemen. I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but we’re joining the children’s clinic for lunch.”
The voices receded.
From the hallway came the slosh of a wet mop, the harsh acrid smell of disinfectant soap.
“Let’s hope they cough up,” said Chantal, rejoining them.
“Tell us about the attack on you.”
Aimée leaned forward and found Chantal’s knee. As she spoke and they listened, smells of frying shallots and garlic wafted through the window. Her stomach growled
“So you’re a real female detective,” said Lucas, sounding impressed. “And I thought they were only in the films.”
“Computer forensics is my field,” she said, shifting on the hard plastic chair.
“Don’t tell me you have no criminal experience,” Chantal said. “Private detectives are trained in all areas, aren’t they?”
“Licensed ones.”
“And you’re not?”
“Like I said, computer forensics.”
“Where’s your gun?” Lucas asked.
“My Beretta’s put away,” she said “and I don’t count on using it again. Especially now.”
“You’ve more experience than you’re letting on,” Chantal said. “Certain phrases you use sound like a flic’ s.”
“Maybe because my father was one, his father too,” she said. “I stopped all that after a contract surveillance for the Pré-fecture, when my papa was blown up by terrorists.”
“I’m sorry, how awful,” said Chantal. “But please, won’t you consider helping Mathieu Cavour? He’s innocent.”
“Have you forgotten something?”
“No, what?”
“I’m . . . I’m blind,” Aimée spat out.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” said Chantal. “So am I. But I keep going. And I know you’re determined to find out who attacked you, that’s obvious.”
“I hear it in your voice,” said Lucas.
“But that’s personal,” Aimée said. “I’m going to find out who did this to me, but I need help, even to find my way around the quartier . You’ll have to assist me.”
Even if they, too, were blind, they navigated in the world better than she did.
“Only if I get to shoot the Beretta,” Lucas said. “I’ve dreamed of hitting the target at a firing range, imagining the look on their faces.”
Despite her despair, she realized they could help her. Even if they were the only ones, besides René, who would.
“When my partner gets a voice-activated program for my laptop, I’ll be able to get back to work.”
“You’re really a
“ Bien sûr. We will help with voice coaches,” said Monsieur Malraux. “After all, the Opéra’s in your backyard, so to speak.”
“Merci , Monsieur Malraux,” Chantal said.
“Of course,” another voice said. “We’re all part of the Bastille community. Superb idea.”
“Let me introduce a longtime resident, Lucas Passot, and our newest, Aimée Leduc,” Chantal said.
“We’re going to teach her the tools of the trade,” said Lucas. “Important survival skills like avoiding open freight elevators in the morning at the wine bar by Marché d’Aligre.”
Laughter greeted Lucas’s remark.
“Madamoiselle Leduc, excuse my bluntness,” said Monsieur Malraux, “Chantal’s told us many residents here have been blind from birth while some have suffered an illness. What, may I ask, brought you here?”
Aimée felt she had been put on the spot, expected to perform for people she couldn’t see.
“Monsieur, someone tried to strangle me. This caused trauma to my optic nerve.”
“How terrible!”
Several sympathetic murmurs came from the group. She heard “Passage . . . the Beast of Bastille.”
“Tell them what happened, Aimée,” said Chantal.
“But it wasn’t the serial killer,” Aimée said, in a voice that trembled.
“I’m so sorry to have brought all this back, forgive me,” he said. “Please accept my best wishes for a speedy recovery, mademoiselle.”
“Please forgive us,” said another voice. “ Now we must move on, gentlemen. I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but we’re joining the children’s clinic for lunch.”
The voices receded.
From the hallway came the slosh of a wet mop, the harsh acrid smell of disinfectant soap.
“Let’s hope they cough up,” said Chantal, rejoining them.
“Tell us about the attack on you.”
Aimée leaned forward and found Chantal’s knee. As she spoke and they listened, smells of frying shallots and garlic wafted through the window. Her stomach growled
“So you’re a real female detective,” said Lucas, sounding impressed. “And I thought they were only in the films.”
“Computer forensics is my field,” she said, shifting on the hard plastic chair.
“Don’t tell me you have no criminal experience,” Chantal said. “Private detectives are trained in all areas, aren’t they?”
“Licensed ones.”
“And you’re not?”
“Like I said, computer forensics.”
“Where’s your gun?” Lucas asked.
“My Beretta’s put away,” she said “and I don’t count on using it again. Especially now.”
“You’ve more experience than you’re letting on,” Chantal said. “Certain phrases you use sound like a flic’ s.”
“Maybe because my father was one, his father too,” she said. “I stopped all that after a contract surveillance for the Pré-fecture, when my papa was blown up by terrorists.”
“I’m sorry, how awful,” said Chantal. “But please, won’t you consider helping Mathieu Cavour? He’s innocent.”
“Have you forgotten something?”
“No, what?”
“I’m . . . I’m blind,” Aimée spat out.
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” said Chantal. “So am I. But I keep going. And I know you’re determined to find out who attacked you, that’s obvious.”
“I hear it in your voice,” said Lucas.
“But that’s personal,” Aimée said. “I’m going to find out who did this to me, but I need help, even to find my way around the quartier . You’ll have to assist me.”
Even if they, too, were blind, they navigated in the world better than she did.
“Only if I get to shoot the Beretta,” Lucas said. “I’ve dreamed of hitting the target at a firing range, imagining the look on their faces.”
Despite her despair, she realized they could help her. Even if they were the only ones, besides René, who would.
“When my partner gets a voice-activated program for my laptop, I’ll be able to get back to work.”
“You’re really a
Similar Books
