She ran her finger over a phone, a dog-eared software manual, the Populax file, her Ultralash mascara, the hard-edged laptop, a key ring, what was left of her stubby Chanel lip-liner, a small tube of superglue that worked miracles on broken high-heels, alligator clips, cord to hook into the phone line, screwdriver, Nicorette gum, Miles Davis’s calcium biscuit, and her father’s grainy holy medal.
All the familiar things of her work and her life.
Her old life.
Aimée shivered. She ran her hands through her spiky, matted hair to cover the trembling. Not only did she need a decent cut and shampoo from Dessange and a body scrub in the steamy Hammam, she needed her Beretta, for protection. And her sight, to use it.
“Let’s get Martine’s help. She’ll convince him. Punch in 12 on my phone, René,” she said. “That’s my speed dial for Martine.”
René handed her the phone.
No sound.
She clicked off.
“Odd, René . . . ?”
Then it hit her.
“Wait a minute, René,” she said, feeling around. “There are two phones in this bag. But only one’s mine.” Her voice rose with excitement.
“Isn’t the other . . .”
“I was trying to return the woman’s phone.”
“You mean . . . the attacker didn’t get either of the phones?”
She scrabbled for the instrument on the tray table and held both in her hands. “It’s like mine, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“René . . . are you nodding yes?”
“Sorry.”
“Now we can trace the dead woman’s calls!”
“He must have been in a hurry when he found out,” said René.
“Found out what?”
“That he’d got the wrong woman,” he said.
That was what Morbier had said. But this would be almost too easy— they’d just check the last call and find the killer’s number!
“I know what you’re thinking, Aimée,” said René. “But when I press call back, the last number received comes up invalid.”
“Invalid? Try again.”
She heard René take a deep breath. “She’s got the cheap version, no such features offered. No real features at all.”
“So that means we can’t trace who called her,” she said, disappointed.
A dead end?
Then she brightened up. “But René, it must have speed dial, non? Don’t they all have that?”
Silence.
“Are you nodding yes?”
“I see three numbers listed.”
“ Parfait , we trace her phone’s speed dial numbers,” she said.
“Seems the attacker’s not too smart if his number’s on the phone.”
“You’re right,” she said.
Could he be that careless?
“We have to check, René. We have to find her name, the phone number of this phone, then who she called.”
“It’s easy to buy a prepaid in a store without security cameras,” said René. “She could have paid cash and bought airtime without leaving a trace. But why would she do that?”
Aimée thought of the burgeoning cheap second phone business for people who’d lost theirs. “Say the woman lost hers a lot. What if she wanted a cheap phone for work,” she said. “Like I did until I got this one. Still, everyone has to show ID to activate a phone.”
“Show ID?” asked René. “Now that makes it simple.”
“How?”
“My RAM’s revved up. I crack into a few databanks,” he said. “Run a program to check lists of purchases of cell phones by cash or charge. Takes about twenty minutes.”
He was a master of his métier.
“You’re a genius, René!”
Aimée briefly struggled with the idea of calling Morbier to tell him her bag had been found. But first she needed to find out the victim’s identity. Find out if she was the woman from the resto.
She had to make sure. Get concrete proof.
“Try 12 on my phone.”
René dialed and thrust it into her hand.
“Allô? ” said Martine, her voice low and out of breath.
“Martine, don’t tell me you’re exercising?”
“Feels like it,” she said. “Climbing in heels on this spiral metal staircase seems like my own personal Stair-master hell.”
“Where
All the familiar things of her work and her life.
Her old life.
Aimée shivered. She ran her hands through her spiky, matted hair to cover the trembling. Not only did she need a decent cut and shampoo from Dessange and a body scrub in the steamy Hammam, she needed her Beretta, for protection. And her sight, to use it.
“Let’s get Martine’s help. She’ll convince him. Punch in 12 on my phone, René,” she said. “That’s my speed dial for Martine.”
René handed her the phone.
No sound.
She clicked off.
“Odd, René . . . ?”
Then it hit her.
“Wait a minute, René,” she said, feeling around. “There are two phones in this bag. But only one’s mine.” Her voice rose with excitement.
“Isn’t the other . . .”
“I was trying to return the woman’s phone.”
“You mean . . . the attacker didn’t get either of the phones?”
She scrabbled for the instrument on the tray table and held both in her hands. “It’s like mine, isn’t it?”
Silence.
“René . . . are you nodding yes?”
“Sorry.”
“Now we can trace the dead woman’s calls!”
“He must have been in a hurry when he found out,” said René.
“Found out what?”
“That he’d got the wrong woman,” he said.
That was what Morbier had said. But this would be almost too easy— they’d just check the last call and find the killer’s number!
“I know what you’re thinking, Aimée,” said René. “But when I press call back, the last number received comes up invalid.”
“Invalid? Try again.”
She heard René take a deep breath. “She’s got the cheap version, no such features offered. No real features at all.”
“So that means we can’t trace who called her,” she said, disappointed.
A dead end?
Then she brightened up. “But René, it must have speed dial, non? Don’t they all have that?”
Silence.
“Are you nodding yes?”
“I see three numbers listed.”
“ Parfait , we trace her phone’s speed dial numbers,” she said.
“Seems the attacker’s not too smart if his number’s on the phone.”
“You’re right,” she said.
Could he be that careless?
“We have to check, René. We have to find her name, the phone number of this phone, then who she called.”
“It’s easy to buy a prepaid in a store without security cameras,” said René. “She could have paid cash and bought airtime without leaving a trace. But why would she do that?”
Aimée thought of the burgeoning cheap second phone business for people who’d lost theirs. “Say the woman lost hers a lot. What if she wanted a cheap phone for work,” she said. “Like I did until I got this one. Still, everyone has to show ID to activate a phone.”
“Show ID?” asked René. “Now that makes it simple.”
“How?”
“My RAM’s revved up. I crack into a few databanks,” he said. “Run a program to check lists of purchases of cell phones by cash or charge. Takes about twenty minutes.”
He was a master of his métier.
“You’re a genius, René!”
Aimée briefly struggled with the idea of calling Morbier to tell him her bag had been found. But first she needed to find out the victim’s identity. Find out if she was the woman from the resto.
She had to make sure. Get concrete proof.
“Try 12 on my phone.”
René dialed and thrust it into her hand.
“Allô? ” said Martine, her voice low and out of breath.
“Martine, don’t tell me you’re exercising?”
“Feels like it,” she said. “Climbing in heels on this spiral metal staircase seems like my own personal Stair-master hell.”
“Where
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