AL02 - Murder in Belleville

by Cara Black

  Patrons milled around the busy Kabyle Star restaurant on rue de Belleville. Aimée threaded her way past diners to the back banquet room. From inside she heard traditional music accompanied by a tambour coming from the private wedding reception.

  “I’m with the in-laws on the groom’s side,” she said to the curious bouncer.

  Kaseem stood by the buffet, his arm around a uniformed man, laughing and toasting with a glass of juice. A furious gaiety spilled over the room of a hundred or so guests. Small children ran between the tables, old men in caftans scooping them up every so often.

  “There, see him.” She pointed, and waved at Kaseem, knowing he couldn’t recognize her from the darkened distance. “Kaseem Nwar, my sister’s brother-in-law …” but the bored bouncer was already waving her inside.

  Aromas of mutton and cloves from the steaming clay tajines tempted Aimée from the buffet. She saw platters of bistilla, flaky spiced pastry frosty with sugar and shaded by cinnamon. The air was dense with perfume, sweat, and orange blossom water.

  Aimée hugged the wall, melting into the draperies as she surveyed the room. She saw the bride and groom spotlighted on the dance floor. The bride wore an ornate blue-and-gold caftan, her neck shimmering with gold necklaces. As the wedding couple danced by, guests stuck money in the laughing bride’s hair and around her shoulders.

  “Such a gorgeous ta’shi ka” said a heavily kohl-eyed woman who’d appeared next to Aimée. “The gold sets off her hair and the blue highlights her eyes.” She eyed Aimée knowingly. “The third day of the wedding fite is always the best. The best spread!”

  Aimée nodded, trying to move away from the woman.

  The woman elbowed Aimée in the ribs. “Just like I told Latifa the other day, don’t worry. Everything will be perfect, everyone will come, the buffet will be wonderful, and your baby will pass the virginity test!”

  Aimée wished the woman would shut up. Her voice kept increasing in volume.

  “The groom’s family is so traditional.” The woman leaned forward, her tone becoming confidential. “What can they expect from girls born over here, eh? But they can hope, I say.”

  “May I ask you a tremendous favor?” Aimée said, feeling out of place. She didn’t wait for the woman to answer. “Hand this to Kaseem, please!” she said thrusting the paper into the woman’s jeweled fat fingers. “That man there.”

  She pointed toward Kaseem, who was seriously stuffing franc notes in the giggling bride’s hair. “He’s my friend’s uncle, and he wanted the paper for some reason. I’ve got to go back out and park the car. It’s on the curb and I’ll be towed. Please!”

  The woman shrugged. “Why not? I want to find out if he has a son my daughter’s age anyway.” She let out a loud laugh, nudged Aimée in the ribs again, and worked her way to the other side of the room.

  Aimée thought Kaseem might want that money back when he realized his bank account status. She’d enclosed a copy of his new statement as well. She edged along the velvet curtains dividing the banquet room from the dining area.

  Aimée never got to see the look on Kaseem’s face.

  She felt something stick in her spine. Pointed and sharp.

  Her heart pounded.

  She reached back for her Beretta but an iron grip imprisoned hers.

  She turned slowly. The knife edge grazed her skin. Dédé’s eyes locked hers. Cold and dead. Sweat prickled her spine.

  “Make a move,” Dédé whispered, “and I gut you like a fish.”

  “It’s over, Dédé,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Kaseem’s history. Read the paper.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kaseem holding the newpaper while the woman pointed toward where Aimée had stood. Several uniformed men had gathered, peering over his shoulder, yet agonizingly Aimée couldn’t see his face.

  “Quimporte?” Dédé said. “I always finish the job.”

  He hustled her through the swinging kitchen doors to the left. They followed a white-aproned waiter past bubbling saucepans in the hot steaming kitchen.

  Aimée wriggled, but every time she did, the knife came closer to her flesh. For a little man, Dédé had a grip like iron.

  “Tiens, you can’t come in here!” a waiter said, his arms laden with a huge couscous platter.

  “I know the chef,” Dédé said, barreling past him with Aimée.

  They stumbled past yelling waiters and sweating cooks who shook slotted spoons at them. Aimée grabbed at some knives on the chopping block but Dédé seized her hand, shaking them out one by one. One of the chefs rushed forward as the knives clattered to the floor.

  “Stand back,” Dédé yelled, waving the Beretta and letting go of her arm briefly.

  Aimée’s one thought was to grab another knife. Instead her hand came back with greasy steel kabob skewers. She worked them under her sleeve before Dédé caught her hand again.

  If only she could get away, escape out the back exit. But Dédé’s truck waited in the back passage, an old deux chevaux delivery truck, battered and rusty. He opened the back doors, slammed her inside.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he said.

  Dédé” whacked her again. This time so hard that she flew against the hard plastic cartons racked on the truck’s wall. White-hot pain shot through her body. Then he kneed her in the back, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped, trying to get air. The last thing she remembered was her head hitting the floor and seeing the blurry pavement through a rusted-out hole in the floorboard.

  SHE BECAME aware of her heels dragging over stones, gravel popping, and dirt. Everything was dark except for curiously shaped white slabs shining in the moonlight. Her head ached. Every breath was like the stab of a needle in her rib. Dédé’s voice came from somewhere.

  “Thought I’d save everyone the extra trip,” he said, huffing and setting her down. “Kill you here.”

  She realized she was in a cemetery. And Ded6 held her Beretta.

  “Cimetiere de Belleville,” he said. “Not many famous people buried here, and a little out of the way, but you’ll have a nice view.”

  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of whimpering, but her head felt ready to explode with pain.

  “Dédé, your contract’s over,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper. “Forget this.”

  “Maybe it’s my proletariat upbringing—some work ethic, but when I start a job, eh, I finish it,” he said sitting down on a low marble crypt. He smoothed down his short jacket, dusted off his pants. “That’s what they pay me for.”

  In the slants of moonlight she saw Dédé’s hands find the bald soccer-ball key chain in his pocket. He fingered it, worrying it nonstop through his fingers.

  “Please listen, Dédé. Kaseem’s finished,” she said.

  “Alors, my work is my life. There’s a pride and satisfaction in it. Eh, I like doing an even better job than my employer asked for. I make it personal. Kids today … just don’t have it.”

  Her hands shook, but she could hardly move them. He’d tied them up. How could she get away? She felt the kabobs jabbing her somewhere above her elbow. But couldn’t reach them.

  “After you screwed up the car bomb,” Dédé clucked his mouth, shaking his head, “I had to do a lot of work. But when you stole the pearl lighter and embarrassed me in front of my mecs—that did it.”

  Her mind grew clearer. The pain had receeded so she could think. She felt a metal cross behind her. She started sawing the rope that tied her wrists.

  “What about the other Lake Biwa pearls?” she said, remenv bering there’d been four of es Maudites. She wanted to keep him talking until her hands came free.

  “My collection has grown,” he said. “I have them all.” Dédé slipped the key chain back in his pocket and pointed the Beretta at her.

  Behind the dark cemetery wall two tall water towers loomed, standing outlined against the yellow glow of Belleville. In the moonlight she saw piles of dirt and pipe holes in the lot under the towers. Muffled voice
s came from a nearby gravestone.

  She started screaming but her voice came out only a low croak.

  Dédé stuck his sleeve in her mouth to shut her up. She bit as hard as she could. He yelped. And she bit harder.

  He tried to shake her off, swatting her head against the marble. She wouldn’t let go. Blood filmed one of her eyes, but she hung on like a pit bull until her hands came free. Then she shoved him over the wire cross, struggling to her feet.

  “Salope!” he swore, still gripping the Beretta.

  What sounded like a whistle came from the wall.

  Aimée started running, dodging the gravestones.

  Her head throbbed, but she could run. She skidded through an abandoned gate in the wall. Her labored breaths stung sharply, but she made herself gulp air, her mind clearer the more she did so. She made it halfway across the gravel lot between the water towers before Dédé caught her ankles. Her body slapped the ground. She came face-to-face with a hole, her neck stinging.

  “Look what you’ve done!” Dédé hissed, pointing at his ripped jacket.

  She’d almost gotten away!

  “Kaseem used you,” she said. “Like he uses everyone.”

  Dédé marched her to the nearest water tower, six or seven stories high. The tower loomed robotlike, with spindly legs webbed by ladders and pipe.

  “Climb!”

  The Beretta felt cold against her temple.

  Aimée looked up, her hands shaking on the side of the ladder.

  “But I’m afraid of heights.”

  “Too bad,” Dédé said. His gold chains glinted in the moonlight, his perspiring face glistening with sweat. “I need target practice.”

  He was going to pick her off like a fly.

  “Look, Dédé—”

  “This is taking too long, I’ve got other jobs.” He cocked the trigger, shoved her toward the ladder. “Move.”

  She took several steps, faltered. Her greasy hand slipped and she grabbed the railing. Her leather-soled boots slid down the steps.

  The heavy skewers rained from her sleeve, tinkling down the metal steps.

  Gone.

  Her heart sank as her last hope rained over the gravel.

  “What’s that?” Dédé grunted, leaning forward and grabbing them. He laughed, short and barklike. “Kabobs? You belong on these.”

  “No, you do!” She turned quickly, not caring anymore what he’d do.

  But she spoke to the air. She’d knocked into Dédé. His finger pulled the Beretta. Shots drilled into the concrete water tower supports. She ducked as he spun and staggered. In his other hand he held the skewers. He tripped into a hole. She saw him land with a loud ouff! then a piercing cry.

  A skewer rammed through his temple.

  He clutched his face in surprise, a skewer handle poking out above his ear. He convulsed in a burrowing motion. Trickles of blood pooled into the dirt, and then Dédé lay still.

  Aimée collapsed and grabbed her gun from the dirt. She tried not to look at his face.

  “I told you I’m afraid of heights.”

  Tuesday

  “YOU STILL LOOK LIKE you’ve been hit by a truck,” René said.

  “Just got slammed into the back of one, like I told you,” Aimée said as she limped into her office.

  Miles Davis scampered beside her and jumped onto Renéws chair.

  “Why don’t you recover at home?” René’asked.

  “Work heals me,” she said, hanging her leather jacket on the hook. “What’s the EDF status?”

  “Last night they talked about us doing a vulnerability scan of their software system,” he said, with a little smile. “Today they mentioned hardware. Tiens, no signatures on any dotted line yet.” René buttoned his Burberry raincoat. “Guess where Philippe’s money went.”

  Aimée looked up.

  “Into his vineyard,” René shook his head. “Chateau de Frois-sart turned into a veritable money pit. His vines have root disease.”

  No wonder he needed a lot of money.

  “Time for my practice at the dojo,” René said. As he opened the door, he paused, concern on his face. “Ça va!”

  “Fine, partner,” she said.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” René said.

  Morbier walked into her office, hand in hand with the boy from the photograph in Samia’s apartment.

  “Leduc, meet my grandson, Marc,” Morbier said.

  “Enchanté, Marc,” she said, rising to greet him. She wasn’t too surprised.

  Marc’s round black eyes shone in his honey-colored face when Miles Davis appeared.

  “Would you like something to drink, Marc?”

  Marc’s shy smile got hidden in the folds of Morbier’s coat. He leaned down to pet Miles Davis, who’d pranced up to sniff him.

  “We’ll take a raincheck, Leduc,” he said. “We can’t be late for the special event at the Vincennes Zoo. Just wanted to drop this off.” He thrust a grimy folder on her desk. “Now you know what I know,” Morbier said, giving her a meaningful look. “That’s if you want. Drop it off later.”

  After the door shut she sat down. She stared at the folder, dog-eared with a coffee stain on the cover.

  Her cell phone rang several times. Miles Davis barked and jumped on her lap. She ignored the phone. She reached for the folder, but her hands shook and she couldn’t grasp it. The shadows lengthened. She didn’t know how long she’d sat staring at it before she grew aware of the streetlights shining in from rue du Louvre. Miles Davis growled. Pounding sounded on her office door. Loud and insistent.

  Aimée opened the door.

  Yves stood on the landing, his suitcase behind him. Charcoal stubble shaded his chin. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and looked good enough to eat. And he was going away.

  “You stole my thunder, Aimée, grabbing the front page and bumping my Defense Ministry expose,” he said, coming in. He grinned. “But if anyone did, I’m glad it was you. Reuters seems interested. They’re making the appropriate noises.”

  “Is that why you disappeared?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you what I was doing, you were working for the minister’s wife. Martine wasn’t too happy with me either. She won’t run the story. But I understand, it’s family. She knows I’ll go elsewhere with it.”

  Before she could speak he handed her a thick envelope.

  “You could come with me,” he said, his dark eyes locking on hers.

  “It’s just not that easy.”

  “True. It’s very simple,” he said, brushing her spiky hair down. He ran his fingers along her chin. “There’s an open-dated ticket in there, departure and return good for a year.”

  She stiffened. “I’ve got a business… Miles Davis…”

  “There’s computer crime in Cairo. Matter of fact, all kinds of crime, too,” he said. He held out another ticket. “Miles Davis has a seat but he’ll have to spend some of the flight in a doggie carrier.”

  He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her hard. Hot and searching. She didn’t want him to stop, but he did. “My taxi’s waiting.”

  From her window she watched the red brake lights as Yves’s taxi pulled away on rue du Louvre. To the right the western palace of the Louvre lay dark and tomblike. But on the lighted quai the trees had flowered, fragrant and leafy.

  She set the tickets next to the folder on the desk and opened the window. As she sat down to ponder the course of her life, the late-night traffic hum reached her ears, Miles Davis nestled in her arms, and she inhaled the first breath of spring.

 

 

 
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