Murder in Belleville ali-2

by Cara Black

  “Philippe, there was a car bomb,” she said.

  “Car bomb—Anaïs?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing. He started for the door.

  “Hear me out. Sylvie Coudray’s dead.”

  Philippe paused. “Sylvie … No, it can’t be,” he blinked several times.

  Aimée read shock on his face. And sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” Aimée said. “Sylvie turned on the ignition and then—”

  He sat down heavily, shaking his head. “Non, not possible,” he said, as if his words would negate what happened.

  “Philippe, her car blew up right in front of us.”

  He sat, stunned and silent.

  “Do you understand?” Aimée said, her voice rising. “We were thrown by the blast; Anaïs might have internal injuries.”

  He looked as if he’d hit a cement wall. Full force.

  “What does it have to do with you, Philippe?”

  “Me?” Philippe rubbed his forehead.

  The clink of melting ice cubes accompanied the hum of voices from the other room. Platters of wilted salad sat by the sink.

  “Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs something.”

  Philippe stood up, anger flashing in his eyes.

  “So?”

  She wondered why Philippe was reacting this way.

  “Anaïs could have been in that car,” she said.

  “Never,” he said. “They didn’t get along.”

  What an understatement.

  “I helped Anaïs escape—”

  “Escape? What do you mean?”

  “Some men followed her,” Aimée said. “They came after us when your mistress was murdered.”

  “But Sylvie’s not my mistress,” he cut her off. Philippe paced past the stainless-steel refrigerator. Preschool paintings with ‘Si-mone’ scrawled in pink marker covered most of the door.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “But Philippe,” she said, “Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs—”

  Aimée was interrupted by two men, their arms around each other, who burst through the kitchen doors.

  “Why all the secrecy, Philippe? Eh, hiding in the kitchen,” said a smiling man with curly hair and flushed cheeks, pushing up the sleeves of his djellaba. He had laughing eyes and cinnamon skin. He saw Aimée and his brows lifted.

  “Call me a party crasher,” Aimée said, wishing they would leave. “Excuse my appearance, I’m in rehearsals,” she said to explain her outfit. She wanted to keep it vague. “A German miniseries—a Brecht adaptation.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the man. Of the two, he appeared the more personable.

  “My wife’s friend, Aimée Leduc,” Philippe said reluctantly. “Meet Kaseem Nwar and le Ministre Olivier Guittard.”

  Both men smiled and nodded to Aimée. Guittard gave her a once-over. Already she didn’t like him. It had nothing to do with his Cartier watch or perfectly brushed hair. She imagined him having a matching blond wife and 2.5 blond children.

  Kaseem turned to Philippe. “Of course, you’re announcing the joint venture with continued funding of the humanitarian mission tonight?” He spoke with a slight Algerian accent and seemed intent on cornering Philippe.

  She saw Philippe stiffen.

  “Tiens, you’re impatient, Kaseem!” Philippe said, his tone even. He put his arm around Kaseem and shot a look back at Aimée that read, Keep your mouth closed.

  Aimée didn’t like this, but she gave Philippe the benefit of the doubt. No reason to blurt out what had happened to these men.

  “You know that’s a quality I admire, but the Assembly thinks along different lines,” Philippe said. “Last night we recommended that the delegation count on next year.”

  “Kaseem’s plan depends on the dry season, Philippe,” Guittard said. “We don’t want to disappoint him or his backers.”

  “Social gatherings require wine, Olivier, don’t you agree?” Philippe said, reaching to uncork a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage on the counter. “Or juice for Kaseem?”

  Aimée couldn’t see Philippe’s face while he redirected the conversation. Or tried to.

  “What about your wine, Philippe,” Olivier said. “Has Chateau de Froissart yielded a good vintage yet?”

  “Soon,” Philippe said. “Winemaking takes time, everyone struggles the first few years.”

  “So you keep your women in the kitchen like we do, Philippe?” Kaseem grinned. He turned to Aimée. “Don’t be offended, I’m joking. Some women feel more comfortable.”

  Aimée gave a thin smile. She didn’t think she looked like the domestic type.

  Philippe rubbed his white, fleshy thumbs together. A bland, masklike expression came over his face.

  “Excuse us.” He motioned his guests in the direction of the dining area.

  Philippe returned, his eyes dark.

  “I’ll take care of Anaïs,” he said, guiding her toward the back door.

  “Philippe, why are men after her?”

  His face was flushed. “How do I know what you’re talking about? Let me speak with Anaïs.”

  And he shut the door on her.

  In the taxi on her way back, Aimée wondered what Philippe was hiding. And she realized she hadn’t seen one single woman at the reception.

  ON ILE St. Louis, Aimée asked the taxi driver to stop around the corner from her flat. Dropping change on the floor, she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She needed a drink. The dim lights of the bistro Les Fous de L’lsle shone on rue des Deux Ponts. She tucked a hundred francs under his lapel.

  “Call me next time,” the driver said, giving her his card, which read “Franck Polar.”

  “Don’t log the fare, Franck,” she said. “That’s if you want me to call you again. Merci.”

  She got out and inhaled the crisp air, her bruises and cuts smarting. Dankness emanated from the leaning stone buildings and she pulled her sweater tighter. Ahead, leafy quaiside trees rustled, and the Seine lapped below Pont Marie. She narrowly missed stepping on dog droppings, which reminded her of Miles Davis, her bichon frise—time for his dinner.

  She heard strains of music wafting over the narrow, wet street. Outside the bistro a blackboard announced in blue chalk, QUINTET JAZZ! She opened the glass doors plastered with accepted bank cards and edged past the tall potted plants. The warm, hazy smoke hit her. She’d chew nails for a cigarette right now.

  The quintet had paused while the female drummer did a solo. The piano player sat upright, eyes closed, with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, while the saxophonist, trumpet player, and contrabass player stood together, swaying to the notes. Every table was full of patrons eating. A standing crowd overflowed the bar. The beeping cell phones, blue cigarette haze, and familiar gap-toothed grin of Monique at the bar made Aimée feel at home.

  She squeezed in at the counter between a Bourse stockbroker type with a nice profile and an aging longhaired man. He proudly told anyone who’d listen that his daughter Rosa played the saxophone, even though she was in the Conservatoire de Musique.

  “Ca va, Monique?”

  “Bien, Aimée. You working?” Monique eyed her, setting a glass of house red in front of her.

  Aimée nodded.

  “Et apres?” Monique asked.

  “Steak tartare to go,” she said.

  Monique nodded solemnly.

  “Une tartare pour Meek Daveez,” Monique said turning to the chef, her brother, also gap-toothed. Maybe it was genetic.

  “For me a cheese tartine,” Aimée said.

  “Your usual, eh?”

  Aimée nodded, sipping the heavy vin rouge and drumming her fingers in time to the beat.

  The stockbroker lit a cigarette, talked earnestly into his cell phone, and smiled. He exhaled a snake trail of smoke near her ear. She wanted to grab his filter-tipped Caporal and suck the tobacco into her lungs, but instead she reached into her pocket for Nicorette gum.

  He raised his wineglass in salute, his dark blue
eyes holding hers. She raised her glass, then ignored him. Not her bad-boy type.

  The solo ended; then the quintet resumed, with the piano player singing a smooth, unsentimental variation on Thelonious Monk’s version of “April in Paris.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

  Aimée didn’t want to hear any more. She picked up her food, wedged the franc notes under her glass, and slipped into the crowd.

  Miles Davis greeted her at the apartment door, his wet black nose sniffing her package of steak tartare. She kicked the hall radiator in her twenty-foot-ceilinged entryway twice until it sputtered to life, pulled her damp wool sweater off, and stepped out of her leather pants. She sniffed. Something smelled musty.

  “Time for dinner, Miles Davis,” she said. She scooped him into her arms and carried him to the dark kitchen at the back of the apartment. The Seine flowed gelatinous and black below her tall windows. Lantern lights dotted the quai, their pinprick reflections caught in the heavy water. Almost as though they were drowning, she thought.

  Bone weary, she peered outside to look at the quai, her nose touching the cold glass. The only person she saw was a figure walking a German shepherd. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt she wasn’t alone. Foreboding washed over her.

  Miles Davis licked her cheek.

  “A table, furball,” she said, and hit the light switch. The chandelier flickered, then emitted a feeble glow.

  She took his chipped Limoges bowl, spooned in the steak tartare, and set it down for him. After changing his water, she plopped her tartine down on the counter, too tired to feel hungry.

  Her thoughts turned to her last boyfriend. She pictured Yves, his large brown eyes and slim hips. When he’d accepted the Cairo correspondent post, she’d stuck pins in a Tutankhamen doll until it resembled a pincushion. Right now the only male in her life was on the floor at her feet with a wet nose and wagging tail.

  Aimée heard the cat door thump shut. The hairs on her neck stood up. Miles Davis growled but didn’t abandon his steak tartare. Who could that be?

  On her way to check the front door in the hallway, she smelled an odor. Had something died between her walls? Visions of decaying, rabid creatures in death throes wafted before her. She grabbed a broom and one of her boots as weapons, gingerly stepping down the hallway. The odor grew stronger.

  The ripe, sweetish tang alarmed her. A bulky envelope had been wedged through the cat door she’d installed for Miles Davis. She hadn’t noticed the envelope when she entered.

  She pulled on the first thing hanging from her coat rack, a blue faux-fur coat, then opened the door. Cold and musty drafts tunneled down the hallway. Her bare-legged reflection, in the worn mirrors opposite, stared back at her. Was she this rooster-haired, skinny creature armed with a broom and high-heeled boot?

  Miles Davis’s low growl amped to a high-pitched bark. With the broom she prodded the envelope, feeling around. “Back off’ was smeared in brown letters—a deep dark brown. She looked closer. Dried blood.

  She stepped back.

  Her poking had dislodged the contents of the unsealed envelope. Something gray slid onto the black-and-white diamond tiles. Mottled and furry. The odor, strong and rank, filled her hallway.

  At first she thought a stuffed animal had emerged, but it was the biggest gray rat she’d ever seen. At least it would have been if the head had been attached to a body.

  She turned cold inside. The head was as big as a kitten. She hated rodents, fat or skinny.

  She scanned shadowy corners but saw only the dusty niched statues that spiraled the wall of her staircase.

  No one.

  She had to get rid of it. The putrid stench filled the landing. She pulled a pink TATI plastic shopping bag from her coat rack and shoved the dripping head into it with a broom. Using the broom handle, she carried the bag at arm’s length down her marble stairs.

  She watched for an attacker but figured they’d gone—the “message” had been their goal. Miles Davis barked, keeping up the rear under the dim hall sconces. By the time she dropped the bag in the trash, a slow anger burned over her fear. Her thoughts skipped back over the events since Anaïs’s call. Did this have a link to Sylvie or Anaïs?

  Her evenings hadn’t been this eventful in a while, she thought. A dead woman and a dead rat all in one night.

  BACK IN her apartment the musty smell lingered. Outside her bedroom, at the far end of her hallway, stood a small yellowed statue. Beside it lay a pile of what looked like tea-stained bandages. She froze. Voodoo … evil spirits.

  The rustle behind her caused her to turn and swing.

  Yves jumped aside, wearing her father’s old bathrobe and a smile. She almost beheaded the marble Napoleonic bust in the hall beside him. He leaned against the door frame, his tan body and damp hair silhouetted in the bathroom light.

  “So that’s how you greet someone, after a long flight, who’s brought you priceless Egyptian artifacts?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Just unannounced ones,” she said, setting the broom against the wainscoting. “Did I give you a key?”

  “Your partner Rene had an extra one,” he said. “Maybe you should check your messages,” he said, coming closer. His dark sideburns snaked to his chin.

  “I’ve been a little busy,” she said, realizing she was still barefoot and in a faux-fur coat.

  “Something’s spoiled,” his nose crinkled.

  “Rat tartare,” she said. “Someone’s trying to scare me.”

  “Scare you?” he asked. “Aimée, what’s the matter?”

  She almost told him right then about the explosion and the rat. But she hesitated. He was dangerous to her psyche. A soul shaker and troublemaker.

  Yves searched her eyes, sniffed her breath. “Busy enough to have a drink around the corner?”

  She shrugged.

  “Why haven’t you come to Cairo?”

  “Ecoute, Yves,” she said, pulling her coat tighter. “Parts of Paris are Third World enough for me.”

  But that wasn’t totally true. It had to do with commitment. Her inability to commit made it difficult to visit another continent.

  “Et, voila.” He pursed his mouth. “I’m just another notch on your lipstick case.”

  “If I remember correctly, you moved, Yves. Not me,” she said. “Then you pop into my life and disturb my concentration.”

  “Maybe I need to disturb it more.”

  “I haven’t heard from you for ages,” she said, rubbing her legs in the frigid hallway. “Suddenly you appear. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  Yves turned away. There was a lot more she could say, but she didn’t feel like addressing his back.

  “Like you, I’ve been busy,” he said, turning around and edging closer. The fresh scent of her newly laundered towels clung to him. “Civil wars and guerrilla encampments in remote outbacks don’t leave me a lot of time for chitchat.”

  “Chitchat?”

  She’d dealt with a dead rat and found a live one in her apartment.

  “I’ve got no excuse,” he said. “Forgive me?”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “How sorry?”

  She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

  “Let me show you,” he said, with a small smile. “After all, I have a lot to make up for.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair. They came back sticky.

  “I need a bath. Want to scrub the motor oil off my back?”

  “Good place to start.” He took her in his arms, noticing the bloodstains and scrapes on her legs. “I suppose you’re going to tell me about it.”

  “Later,” she said with a half smile. “We better catch up first.”

  Tuesday Morning

  AIMÉE WOKE UP WITH a start to pounding on the door and Miles Davis barking.

  Alone.

  A sheet of papyrus was pinned to the pillow with “Charged your phone—try to keep out of trouble, Yv
es” written on it.

  She’d fallen into bed with him again. Sometimes she amazed herself.

  The pounding got louder. She pulled on a suede button-down shirt from the chair, grabbed a pair of black velvet jeans from her armoire, stuck the cell phone in her pocket, and stumbled barefoot to the door.

  “Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a smooth-faced plainclothes flic. His clear eyes and matter-of-fact expression contrasted with those of his partner, older and heavier, who paced the chill landing with a sour expression. His exhalations showed in breathy puffs. Both wore suits: cheap ones.

  Her heart pounded. Maybe this was a bad dream. She wanted to shut the door in his face, go back to bed.

  “You are Mademoiselle Leduc?”

  “I think so, but after coffee I’ll know for sure,” she said, scratching her head. “And you gentlemen might be …?”

  “Sergeant Martaud of the Twentieth Arrondissement,” he said. “But of course we’re happy to accommodate you at the Commissariat de Police.”

  Her words caught in her dry throat. A sinking feeling came over her. The talisman poked out of her backpack on the claw-foot marble table in plain view. She reached out and slipped it under her blue faux-fur coat which was lying on the chair.

  The sergeant opened his suit jacket with a flourish. In one fluid movement he removed his badge from a vest pocket, displayed his photo ID, then slipped it back in. She figured he practiced this in front of a mirror before work.

  “Identities are so important,” Sergeant Martaud said.

  “Sergeant Martaud, I’m particular about my coffee.” she managed a smile. “Almost obsessive, my colleague tells me, so you’d need a warrant to get me to Belleville without my customary cup.”

  His sour-faced partner returned the smile and waved a piece of paper. “Matter of fact, Mademoiselle, I happened to bring one with me.”

  Tuesday Midday

  BERNARD STOOD IN FRONT of Notre-Dame de la Croix Church. Chanting protesters in bright-patterned Mali cloth tried to block his way. The men, North African Tuaregs called “blue men,” for their traditional indigo blue veils and turbans, marched with women in black chadors and stout nuns in habits.

  Arms crossed, Bernard waited as the negotiator checked off concessions for the sanctuary seekers. Last night a group holding a candlelit vigil had refused him entrance. He’d been relieved when the minister told him to postpone meeting the leader. But when the car picked him up this morning, he’d felt the same dread. Only worse.