Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page A

Comte.
    “Art’s not cerebral, there’s more than that,” she was saying. Her voice rose, lyrical. “The indefinable something from the soul that most of us strive for. Few achieve it, much less describe it.”
    Why wouldn’t she stop talking? And then, quiet. He looked around, afraid of her accusing glances. But admiration and something like awe shone in her face.
    “You must think me a blathering fool!” she said. “But I see, you’re an artist. You, of all people, must realize how much it means to me.”
    A pang of guilt pierced him.
    She lifted a small folder. Inside were photos from a lost time; black and white images of a young boy in a sailor suit, a serious-looking girl with long braids holding his hand. They stood in a room surrounded by museum-quality furniture, Impressionist paintings on the wall.
    Conflicted, he turned away. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you. But I don’t know how.”
    “Monsieur, forgive me, I’ve offended you,” she said, “I’m sorry this came out all wrong. I’m grabbing at a thread from more than fifty years ago.”
    He saw her to the door and watched her make her way through the courtyard.
    Nothing must threaten his arrangement. Nothing. Even though the pieta dura commode sat in his cellar, refinished and ready for the auction house.

Wednesday late afternoon
    AIMÉE FIDDLED WITH THE bandages around her neck. The stiff awkward bulk bothered her. Her hair clumped in sticky strands from the gel she’d combed through it. Or thought she had. She never realized combing hair could be such an art. And how hard it was without sight.
    She heard a familiar gait cross the linoleum: Morbier’s slight shuffle. His right foot was half a size larger than his left, so even though he wore an extra sock on it, one shoe flapped.
    The breeze had stopped flowing through the window. He must be crossing on her left and have taken in her hospital gown and seen the chart at the foot of the bed.
    “There’s food on your tie, Morbier,” she said, facing the window.
    The footsteps stopped. “Can you see?”
    “You always have food on your tie,” she said. “Grab a chair.”
    “I spoke with the nurse. She didn’t say much,” he said. “How bad is it?”
    Was that concern in his voice?
    She let a big silence fill the space. Morbier, a master interrogator, knew how to wait.
    So did she.
    Trolley cart wheels wobbled and squeaked in the hallway. Lunch was over; maybe it was medication time.
    “That bad?” he asked finally.
    “You mean, can I see anything?”
    “That’s a start,” he said.
    He wasn’t one to deal well with emotion. If at all.
    “Or will I ever see again?” She threw her leg over the bed, reached for what she thought was her comb on the tray. It clattered to the floor.
    She heard him grunt as he bent down for the comb.
    “The neurosurgeon’s procedure saved my life, but the lack of oxygen or the bleeding from the blows to my skull obscure where a weak vein ruptured.”
    “Say it so I can understand, Leduc.”
    “They call it complications of treatment.”
    “Aha . . . clear as Seine mud.”
    She agreed.
    “Someone attacked me in the passage,” she said. “The force of the blow caused a weak vein wall in my brain to burst.”
    “And the prognosis?”
    She heard him rifling through his pocket, the crinkle of paper.
    “The doctor’s becoming repetitive. ‘Just wait and see.’ ‘No pun intended,’ he says.”
    She wished her relationship with Morbier was different. For a moment, she wanted Morbier to throw his big arms around her. Hold her. Tell her it would be all right and that he would make things better. Like he had once when she was little and her father was away on stakeout. After school, she’d tripped and split open her knee on the Commissariat’s marble step. He’d scooped her up, held her to his scratchy wool jacket, dried her tears with his sleeve and cleaned her knee while telling her stories about his old dog who loved strawberries and