Murder in Belleville (2000)

by Cara Black

  “De Froissart’s attempting to get her out,” Jouvenal said. “Monsieur bigwig says his own recognizance should be enough even though she hasn’t been charged yet. The night is young, eh? His status will work in his wife’s favor.”

  “She’s not involved, Jouvenal,” she said. “I ought to know.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She almost got blown up as well,” Aimee said.

  “I know your old man trained you,” he said slowly. Aimee could almost see Jouvenal’s broad shoulders. When she was little, they’d seemed like blue mountains when he’d shrugged. “But even if that’s true, what can I do?”

  “Let me speak with Philippe.”

  “He’s busy. Looks like he’s going to smack the judiciaire in a minute if I don’t curtail matters.” Shouts erupted in the background.

  “Jouvenal, I always liked you,” she said. “Please, get Philippe on the phone.”

  “You only liked me for my candy,” he said.

  “That too,” she said. “But after you explained long division to me, I finally got it.”

  “Attends, Aimee,” he said. The phone scraped and she heard Jouvenal’s calming voice.

  She had to meet Philippe, ferret out what he was hiding.

  Finally, Jouvenal got Philippe on the line.

  “Oui,” he said curtly.

  “It’s Aimee Leduc,” she said. “I need to talk with you.”

  “You! Were you born an imbecile or did you grow that way?” he shouted. “What did you get my wife involved in?”

  “Me?” she asked surprised. “Sylvie Coudray blew up in front of us! Anais involved me, not the other way around.”

  Muffled noises like a hand held over the phone interrupted her.

  “Come to my office tomorrow.” he said. “We’ll talk.”

  “Today. Now,” Aimee said. “You’re in the Twentieth Arron-dissement; so am I.”

  She lied but she didn’t want to be put off any longer. A pause. She heard a woman crying in the background.

  Was that Anais?

  “What’s going on?” Aimee asked him.

  “78 Place de Guignier in thirty minutes.”

  He hung up.

  AIMEE KNOCKED on the gate of number 78, a two-story house set back from the square surrounded by ivy-covered walls. Through the mail slot she glimpsed yellow roses and greenery bordering a path to the glossy dark green door. Bright lights shone on her.

  “Who’s there?” asked a loud voice.

  “Le Ministre de Froissart, please,” she said, blinking in the harsh beams.

  A long-faced woman opened the gate. She looked Aimee up and down. “Tradespeople use the back door.” She jerked her head toward the side brick entrance, dripping with ivy.

  “I’ll remember that,” she said. “Meanwhile, his wife might be framed for murder.”

  The woman stiffened and let out a gasp. “He’s at the ministry.”

  “He said to meet him here,” Aimee said. She looked around but didn’t see a mailbox. “Who lives here?”

  “Come this way,” the woman said and led her inside toward the side door.

  More yellow roses climbed trellises in the manicured garden. A Renault pulled in at the small side drive. The chauffeur, blue cap cocked back on his head, stepped out scratching his temple. The backseat was empty.

  “Where’s de Froissart?” Aimee asked.

  The chauffeur looked askance at the maid, who shrugged.

  “Who wants to know?” he said.

  “Aimee Leduc,” she said.

  “You can prove that, I suppose?” He pulled the cap down over his forehead and leaned against the car.

  She handed him her card.

  “Get in,” he said, buttoning up his jacket and opening the Renault’s back door.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, suspicious. “Le Ministre de Froissart agreed to meet me here.”

  “Plans change,” he said, holding the door open for her. “Life offers chances for flexibility. One must take advantage.”

  She didn’t like the turn of events or his attitude. But she got in, secure in the knowledge that her Beretta was strapped to her shoulder.

  He sped out of the courtyard into sparse traffic. They passed the small darkened shops: a coiffeur, a Turc-Grec kabob restaurant, and a shuttered agence immobilier advertising apartments along tree-lined Place de Guignier.

  Soon the chauffeur merged into teeming rue des Pyrenees. He wove the Renault, downshifting among small trucks and latenight taxis.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The minister will inform me soon,” he said, casting a glance in the rear-view mirror at her. His car phone trilled. “That should be him.”

  She studied the black-coated throng crossing the street. A rain shower sprinkled the windshield and stopped before the chauffeur could switch on his wipers.

  De Froissart dictated the rules and remained in the shadows. She didn’t like that.

  The chauffeur murmured, then hung up the phone. He turned on rue des Couronnes. Aimee had forgotten the panoramic view afforded from the heights of Belleville on a damp April night. In the distance the lighted Eiffel Tower poked a few centimeters above the building horizon. Diminished and distant, just the way she felt at the whim of Philippe de Froissart’s agenda.

  “We’ll meet the minister shortly,” he said.

  The Renault glided down the steep, narrow streets of Belleville.

  A larger car with smoked windows pulled alongside, then took the lead. She noticed the government plates. The car turned onto quai Jenmapes, which fronted dark Canal Saint Martin.

  This cat-and-mouse game made her uneasy. Why couldn’t Philippe just meet her? The chauffeur braked, jolting her forward. Frightened, she threw her hands out to avoid smashing into the seat.

  Suddenly a heavy-set man opened her door. He cast a glance over the area, then jerked his thumb toward the canal. His manner, neither polite nor comforting, gave her little choice but to comply.

  He returned to the other car, leaned against the Renault’s hood, and studied his fingernails. The car that brought her took off toward Republique.

  A raw wind sliced through Aimee’s raincoat as she walked down the embankment. She pulled it around her leather-clad legs. She was cold, damp, and fed up with Philippe’s close-mouthed attitude—his mistress had been blown up, his wife and Aimee chased by big ugly thugs through the Metro, and that was just the top of the list. She needed him to illuminate what the hell was going on and where Anais was.

  Algae smells, mingled with the odor of refuse, wafted from the canal. Raindrops pebbled the water’s surface, then stopped. Quaiside lights reflected the metal of the locks on the narrow waterway.

  Aimee wished she could change what happened, rewind life—take it apart frame by frame as if editing a film, and stop Sylvie from entering that Mercedes. She also wished she was stretched in front of a roaring fire with Yves. But she wouldn’t hold her breath on that one. Yves couldn’t be counted on to be there, and besides, her fireplace had been bricked in after the war. So she had to get on with investigating.

  Shadows from the skeletal trees not yet dressed for spring waved above her. She crunched over the gravel toward a figure seated on a bench.

  Philippe sat, his eyes bloodshot, staring at the water.

  “Why all the secrecy, Philippe?”

  “Aimee, take my word,” he said. “Things are better this way.”

  “Where’s Anais?”

  “I’ve taken care of things,” Philippe said.

  “You seem very take-charge, Philippe” she said, sitting down next to him. “So take me with you—what the hell’s going on?”

  “She’s safe,” he said, standing up. He nodded to the chauffeur by the car. Immediately the engine started and the wheels moved, spraying gravel. “You don’t need to worry.”

  Men who condescended bothered her. A lot. She stood up and moved near him.

  “Anais hired me to find Sylvie’s killer,” she
said. “I took the job.”

  Aimee saw Philippe’s half smile in the dim lights.

  “Only Anais would do that, but it’s so typical of her,” he said. “And I love her for it.”

  Maybe it was how the shadows angled his face or how he leaned forward expectantly, but for a fleeting instant she saw Philippe’s vulnerability. She saw how it could appeal to women. Some women—not her.

  “Sylvie was trying to protect you, wasn’t she, Philippe?” Aimee continued, not waiting for an answer. “She used another identity, Eugenie, didn’t she?”

  His face darkened. “I’m late for ministry negotiations.”

  “Philippe, I’m not bothered by the fact that you don’t acknowledge me rescuing Anais,” she said. “I’m bothered by how you avoid telling me who got to Sylvie and why.”

  He walked away from her, his raincoat flapping in the wind.

  She followed him.

  Acacia wisps from the budding trees fluttered past in the wind. Philippe paused by the canal edge, staring at the eddying surface scum, dotted by furry blossoms and leaves.

  She got closer, stared into his face.

  “Did Sylvie get involved with the Maghrebins? Were you embarrassed your name would come up?”

  “Now I remember—you were a flic’s kid, a pain in the ass,” he said, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed.”

  And you’re still a rich kid, she thought, with socialist leanings and a ministry job. Didn’t he have a vineyard?

  “I know people,” he said. He looked at his watch, an expensive sports type, then gave her a meaningful look. “Leave this to me.”

  “Do you think calling the interministeriel hot line and pulling in favors will work?” Aimee asked, kicking a loose stone into the murky water. “You act as if this was some piece of legislation or trade bill.” The stone skipped wavelets midcanal, then sank.

  “You don’t understand how things work do you, Aimee?” Philippe asked, turning away, his tone even more condescending.

  “Have you ever seen a car explode, Philippe?” she asked, trying to stay calm. She didn’t wait for an answer but turned to him. “Have you felt clumps of tissue rain down on you, slipped on the bloody pavement, seen an arm fried crisp when it…” she stopped.

  He bent his head and had the grace to look ashamed.

  She hated bringing all this up, seeing those awful images again in her mind. But she had to prod him, make him tell her why.

  Silence, except for the slow gurgling of water.

  “So I knew,” Aimee said, letting her sentence dangle.

  “Eh, knew what?” he said, looking up. In the brisk night air, he removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed his thumbs together. “Look, before you speculate, you should know that Sylvie and I parted months ago,” he said. He waved his hands dismissively. “Anais knew everything was over.”

  “Sylvie’s murder could make sense if she’d got you by the privates.”

  She figured blackmail would give Philippe a motive to murder his ex-mistress.

  “Go back and do whatever it is you do.” Philippe scanned the apartments across the canal, he chewed his lip. “Leave your ideas for fantasyland.”

  “What if Sylvie felt spurned, maybe hurt and angry?” Aimee continued as if he’d never spoken. She knew she was pushing his buttons; if she tried hard enough he’d reveal something. Sylvie had cared for him and he for her. She stepped closer to him. “So when she finally realizes the affair is over, she blackmails you with pillow talk.”

  “That’s not very nice, Aimee,” he said, snapping his fingers. His mood changed. Instead of revealing anything he looked angry.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. She turned to see a man, his head shaved, wearing rimless glasses and the distinctive bulges of a bulletproof vest under his dark blue sweater. The man’s eyes, glassy and emotionless, reminded her of a dead fish. His gaze focused on her. She returned his look, hoping he didn’t notice her shiver.

  “Meet Claude,” Philippe said.

  Claude’s gaze never wavered.

  Aimee shifted her boots on the gravel. Her throat tightened. She should have met Philippe on her own terms. Insisted on it.

  “Claude pays great attention to detail,” he said. “And he’s turning his attention on you. I wouldn’t want him to find something irregular and close down your business,” he said. His eyes hardened. “Stay out of things you know nothing about.”

  Aimee heard the two-way radio squawking from the car. Philippe looked over, his attention taken by a police dispatcher announcing, “Fracas at the sans-papiers hunger strike at Notre-Dame de la Croix.”

  “Merde!” he muttered.

  “Does Sylvie have something to do with that?” she asked.

  She saw shock in Philippe’s eyes. “I’m not the bad guy,” he said.

  “Prove it,” she said.

  But Philippe had turned, hurrying to the car, Claude behind him. The car sped off, popping gravel before the passenger door had even shut.

  She didn’t realize how much Claude’s eyes bothered her until she climbed the humpbacked bridge over Canal Saint Martin, and calmed down enough to think.

  If Philippe killed his mistress, pinned the murder on his wife, then tried to cover it up—that made no sense. He would bring disgrace on himself.

  Whatever deal Philippe de Froissart had cut, and with whom, had to be dirty. She could smell it.

  She thought back to Philippe’s reaction at the car radio announcement of Mustafa Hamid and the AFL. Aimee paused on the metal bridge, above the swirling canal. She remembered seeing Hamid’s hunger strike posters blanketing Belleville. Plastered over walls near Sylvie’s/Eugenie’s apartment. Coincidence or connection, she had to find out. Gaston, she figured, could be a mine of information.

  She found the number for Cafe Tlemcen and called from her cell phone.

  “Bonsoir, Gaston,” she said. “Have you got some time for conversation about Mustafa Hamid and the sans-papiers?”

  She heard Gaston suck in his breath. The hum of voices filled the background.

  “Full house right now,” Gaston said. “Where are you?”

  “Canal Saint Martin,” she said.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Not a nice place at night.”

  The whir of the espresso machine competed with the loud voices speaking guttural Arabic. She heard what sounded like a chair scraping back then hitting the floor.

  “Tempers rising, a bit of turmoil here,” he said. “I can’t talk. Come tomorrow. Early.”

  Returning home, Aimee crossed Pont Marie, her frosty breath punctuating the night. Her apartment lay dark, no windows lit, no rooms warm or Yves waiting. Face it, she thought, she had been convenient, a pit stop for him coming from Cairo.

  Her head down, intent on hurrying to walk Miles Davis before the rain started, she barreled into a figure.

  “Pardon!” she said, looking up.

  “In a hurry?” Yves said, standing on the quaiside wall opposite her apartment. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, traced her eyes. Below them, the Seine gurgled. “Where were you?” he asked, his coat bundled around him.

  Her delight melted. Hadn’t he been to Marseilles and neglected to tell her?

  “You don’t want to know,” she said, her mind back on the Canal Saint Martin, Philippe’s threat, and Claude’s dead eyes.

  His feet shuffled the wet leaves.

  “Someone else, Aimee?”

  She wanted to laugh. However, the benefits of keeping a straight face outweighed the truth. There were a lot of other things she wanted to talk about.

  “Where have you been, Yves?”

  “Editorial meetings,” he said, his eyes not leaving hers. “Lots of dissension, jockeying for position. The usual.”

  Her face felt warm. She liked his fingers on her cheek. “Aren’t you getting along with Martine at Le Figaro?.”

  He shrugged.

  For a moment the streetlight on the quai haloed his head, thr
owing him into shadow. She couldn’t read his face.

  “We’re two different sides of the coin, Aimee,” he said, “but that makes it interesting.”

  “You’re undercover again, aren’t you?” Her uneasiness warred with a desire to burrow inside his coat.

  He put his finger over her lips. “Let’s say Martine and I agree to disagree.”

  “So she wouldn’t like—” she said.

  “Work’s over,” he said, tapping his watch. “I already took Miles Davis for his walk. Why don’t we warm up together with this?” He pulled a bottle from a paper bag, then a champagne glass from his overcoat pocket. Slants of light angled across his face. “I only found one glass.”

  “We can share,” she said, hooking her arm in his. “A sommelier taught me the secret of popping corks. May I demonstrate?”

  “Your talents never cease to amaze me.” He grinned.

  They walked down the stone steps to the embankment. Yves spread his coat for them to sit on under the arched bridge. A lone family of ducks swam in silent formation before them, rippling Vs in the smooth water.

  “Veuve Cliquot eighty-nine, nice year!” She used her thumbs and with two twists uncorked the champagne.

  “To the ducks!” Yves said. He hooked his arm around her shoulder and they drank soldier style, sipping together. The champagne slid down her throat, giggly and velvet. Yves’s body heat warmed her.

  As they stared into the water, he told her about Cairo. His face changed recounting a motorcycle trip into the desert on an archaeological dig.

  “You like it there, don’t you?” Aimee asked, huddling closer.

  “You would too, Aimee,” he said. “The play of light on the dunes, the stillness …” his voice trailed off.

  She poured more champagne into their glass.

  “I’m not very good at relationships,” she said.

  “Makes two of us,” he said. “Let’s drink to that.”

  And they did.

  She stood up, gripping the bottle. “Last one upstairs—”

  “Opens the next bottle,” Yves interrupted, “but first things first.” He leaned against the arch and pulled her close. “I can’t get you out of my mind.”

  They kissed for a long time under the bridge. Not even the toot of a barge or an old chchard straggling by disturbed them. They were laughing together as he gave her a piggyback ride all the way up to her apartment. And they spent an even longer time in a hot bath with the next bottle.