Murder in Belleville ali-2

by Cara Black

  On the way he’d heard the radio alerting the city to repercussions from the ministry’s decision finally to enforce last year’s anti-immigration laws. Had France’s recent triple-digit unemployment tipped the scales?

  Tension rippled, too, across the Mediterranean, from Algeria, where an undeclared civil war still simmered after the military’s cancellation of the 1992 elections. The military’s hold over the strong fundamentalist factions was tenuous at best.

  Bernard wondered again why he, and not his boss, stood in the drizzle to negotiate. Bernard’s sleep, his first in days, fitful and broken, hadn’t been restful at all. His left eye had begun to twitch, a sign of extreme fatigue.

  “We know Mustafa Hamid, the Alliance Federation Liberation leader, bowed to internal pressure in taking over the church,” said the sharp-nosed negotiator, studying Bernard. “He organized the sans’papiers, but he’s a pacifist leader from way back.”

  Notre-Dame de la Croix stood before them, an anomaly of vaulted stone and lead-paned windows in the heavily Muslim immigrant quartier. Around them the air was redolent with spices and Arab music.

  “Future residence priority—there’s your give point,” the negotiator continued. “If you get that far.”

  Now Bernard understood: Dangle the carrot of future residency before the immigrants. This disgusted him. Once the zealots agreed to leave the country, he knew they’d never be allowed back in. These people might be stubborn, but not stupid.

  “Where’s k Ministre Guittard?” Bernard asked.

  “Staying informed,” the negotiator said. In the glare of the police-car lights his crew cut glistened with tiny rain droplets. “Monsieur le Ministre awaits the negotiations breakthrough.”

  It made sense. Guittard would watch the outcome, then either step in to claim credit or remain on the sidelines if a bloody confrontation occurred. Having been a midlevel fonctionnaire for years, Bernard understood how the ministry worked.

  “Le Ministre Guittard hopes for your successful negotiations,” the man said, as if an afterthought. “The Naturalization Committee needs leadership.”

  Here were the wily workings of a modern-day minister, Bernard thought. Delegate the dirty jobs and offer higher rank if the job proved well done. If the dirty job backfired, so did the fonctionnaire. Last year one of his ministry counterparts had been banished to the Ivory Coast in a similar fracas.

  Bernard’s mother’s words played in his head as he entered the church. “These … Africains, these Arabes … they are just people, non?.… Like us, Bernard.”

  AIMÉE BANGED ON THE cell bars, demanding to speak with the commissaire. The blue-uniformed flic lowered the radio volume on his desk, smoothed the red hair under his kepi, then took his time walking to her cell.

  “Cool your heels,” the flic said. “Everyone’s busy right now.”

  “Monsieur, please let me talk with the commissaire.”

  “He’s dealing with the immigrants taking sanctuary in the church,” the flic said. “Too busy to take much interest in you right now.”

  “A bizarre mistake has been made,” she interrupted.

  “You’re a troublemaker,” the flic said, pushing the brim of his kepi back. His eyes were bloodshot. “We like things calm in here. Peaceful. And if you don’t shut up, there’s a a cell where types like you can meditate and reflect. It’s our premiere accommodation with no telephone privileges.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, no privileges at all.”

  “My father was a flic,” she said. “Those ‘meditation’ cells disappeared after the big reform.”

  “Care to find out?” he said.

  She’d like to report this tyrant. Flics like him gave the force a bad name; ones who enjoyed having suspects in pretrial detention and making them sweat before being charged. Procedure-wise, she knew that she could be held up to seventy-two hours, like suspected druggies or terrorists, with only the prosecuter’s signature. He seemed the type who’d take advantage of the penal code.

  Worried, she drummed her fingers on the bars. Why hadn’t Morbier come?

  “My godfather’s a commissaire in the Fourth,” she said. “He’s en route.”

  The flic stared at her, his eyes like hard green stones. “If you’re asking for special treatment, I told you, the ‘meditation’ cell can be arranged.”

  She shut her mouth.

  The flic grinned, “If you change your mind, let me know. We like to accommodate all our clients.” He strutted back to his radio. Only two cells in this criminal-holding commissariat, but he acted as if he presided over a private prison.

  Aimée tried to piece it all together: the explosion, Anaïs’s story, the moped escape, and the rat. She sat down on the wooden cot hanging from the brick wall by metal chains. A coarse institutional brown blanket was folded in a neat square in the middle. Not even a pissoir, Aimée thought. Sticky, smudged steel bars three centimeters apart were bolted into the stained concrete floor that angled into a drain. Her feet were wet, and her stomach growled. Her teenage cellmate wasn’t much of a conversationalist; she crouched in the corner, in black overalls and with needle tracks visible on her bony ankles, drooling and nodding off.

  How had she ended up in a vomit-laced cell with a junkie who couldn’t be more than sixteen?

  “Couldn’t you at least have waited until I finished my poker game?” Morbier grumbled, grinding out his Gauloise with his foot. “I’m on medical leave.”

  He nodded his salt-and-pepper-haired head to the flic, who got out his keys. The flic examined Morbier’s ID, then unlocked Aimée’s shared cell.

  “What’s the uproar about?” Morbier demanded.

  The flic handed Morbier a clipboard, and he scanned it.

  “Et alors?” Morbier asked. “Suspected robbery, télésurveillance photos, obstruction of RATP personnel, neighbors’grievance. You can’t hold her with this.”

  “The commissaire issued holding instructions,” the flic said, standing his ground.

  Morbier passed the clipboard to Aimée. She read it quickly.

  “Circumstantial evidence! My business card and smudged fingerprints won’t cut it with the police judiciare,” Aimée said, handing back the clipboard. “And you know it.”

  The flic squared his shoulders, his gaze rigid.

  “My commissaire’s instructions were specific,” he said.

  “The report indicates two women and a man,” Aimée said. “Where are they? Not only that, Sergeant Martaud failed to note I’m a licensed detective.”

  “Your commissaire might have misunderstood the report,” Morbier said, riffling through an empty pack of Gauloises. He shrugged. “Happens all the time with field reports—clarity issues.”

  The flic’s gaze wavered. Morbier was giving him a way out.

  “Let me talk with him,” Morbier grinned. “We handled a case last year, very confusing. I’m sure he’ll remember my cooperation in the Marais.”

  There it was—the old network—scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Now the flic had to give in or saddle his commissaire with a bad name.

  “Confusing, that’s the word I was searching for,” he said. “A confusing report.”

  “Put her on my tab,” Morbier said. “And lose the paperwork. Next time your commissaire’s on my manor, I’ll reciprocate. Comprendsl”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Commissaire!” The flic nodded and kept his eyes averted from Aimée’s.

  Aimée picked up her personal effects: her Hermes bag, a flea-market find, leather coat, and damp ankle boots.

  The other small holding cell around the next corridor was full of working girls from a roundup.

  “Your souteneur?” one of the girls said, adjusting her black garter belt and bustier for all to see. “Let me introduce you to mine. He’s younger, much better looking. Yours seems kind of long in the tooth, eh?”

  “Merci,” Aimée grinned. “Maybe next time.”

  She stopped to lace her boots and Morbier went ahead.

  Mo
rbier’s flesh-colored body brace was visible under the raincoat draped over his shoulders.

  “How’s the bébé? he said to a honey-skinned prostitute in the opposite cell combing out her blond wig.

  “Merci bien, Commissaire,” she smiled. “He’s making his first communion soon! I’ll send you an invitation.”

  “Norn de Dieu—how time flies,” Morbier said wistfully as he walked stiffly to the foyer.

  “Haven’t seen you since Mouna,” the discharge flic said to Morbier.

  Aimée didn’t hear his reply.

  “Who’s Mouna?” she asked, standing near the discharge desk.

  Morbier didn’t answer.

  Aimée stared at him, “What’s the matter?”

  “Mouna helped me out,” he said, wincing and looked away. “You can handle yourself from here. I’m late for physical therapy.”

  By the look she’d caught, she realized he’d known her quite well. “You’re still friends with Mouna?” she asked.

  “Mouna’s gone.” His face reddened.

  Surprised, Aimée paused. She’d never seen Morbier react this way before.

  “What happened, Morbier?”

  “She happened into crossfire during the 1992 riots.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, watching his expression.

  “Mouna wasn’t the only one,” he said. “Events got messy.”

  For Morbier to even mention it, things must have been bad.

  She and Morbier stood filling the scuffed wood-paneled entrance of the Commissariat de Quartier on narrow rue Rampo-neau.

  Aimée hesitated, unsure how to respond to this new facet of Morbier.

  “You’ve never talked about her,” Aimée said, her voice tentative.

  “That’s not the only thing I keep to myself,” he said, irritation in his voice. “Don’t let me catch you behind bars again. What would—” he stopped the words catching in his throat.

  “Papa say?” she finished for him. “He’d say getting me from behind bars is my godfather’s duty.”

  “Leduc, stay out of Belleville. The Twentieth Arrondissement isn’t your turf,” he said. “And since when have you taken to riding a moped through the Metto, using it to rob people at the ATM, and ditching it around the corner?”

  She kicked a loose cobble on the curb. It wasn’t her fault the homeless guy used the bike to steal.

  “Morbier, the Métro was unavoidable but I never robbed—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to hear this,” Morbier said, covering his ears. “Heavy hitters play dirty here. They have their own rules.”

  “This concerns a minister’s wife.”

  “Tiens!” Morbier said, rolling his eyes. “With you, everything has to do with politics. Let the big boys handle it, Leduc,” he said. “Stick to your computer. Go home.”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said.

  “Consider this what I owe you,” he said. “Since I didn’t make it when you played footsies on that Marais rooftop.” He referred to her case last November, when an old Jewish woman was murdered in the Marais. Morbier glanced at his watch, an old Heublin from the Police Nationale graduation. Her father had kept his in the drawer. “We’re even.”

  “Morbier, let me explain—”

  “Leduc, you’re a big girl,” he interrupted, “I want a full pension when I retire. Comprends?”

  Arguing with him would get her nowhere.

  “Merci, Morbier,” she said, pecking him on both cheeks.

  She joined the crowd on boulevard de Belleville. At the Métro entrance, the cold spring rain pelted her black velvet pants and beaded her eyelashes. She debated, standing in the drizzle, while commuters veered around her, a wet island in a sea of umbrellas.

  The smart course of action would be to leave Belleville, escort Anaïs to a lawyer, and follow up on the Electricite de France job proposal. And she was smart. She had a business to run and a brilliant partner who more than helped shoulder responsibilties.

  Yet every time she closed her eyes she saw the burning ball of white-yellow heat, felt the clumps of flesh raining down on her, heard blood sizzling on a car door. Her hands trembled, though not as badly as last night. And she couldn’t get Simone’s voice or Anaïs’s white-faced horror out of her head.

  AIMÉE STEPPED into a phone cubicle on avenue du Pere Lachaise to save her cell phone battery. On her left a florist’s sign above baskets of violets promised tasteful funeral arrangements.

  “Résidence de Froissart,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Madame, please,” Aimée said. “Is this Vivienne?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Aimée Leduc,” she said. “I helped Madame last night.”

  A pause. Pots clanged in the background. The voice sounded different, unlike Vivienne.

  “How’s Madame feeling?”

  “Madame’s unavailable,” she said.

  She could understand Anaïs not feeling well, but she wouldn’t give up that easily.

  “Unavailable?”

  “I can take a message.”

  “Did the doctor visit?”

  “You’d have to speak with k Ministre about that,” she said.

  Most likely Anaïs had slept and recuperated. But the guarded tone bothered her. She heard a loud buzzing.

  “May I speak with Monsieur le Ministre?”

  “Not here,” the woman said. “Pardonnez-moi—someone’s at the door.”

  Before Aimée could ask her to have Anaïs call her, the woman hung up. She stared out into gray rue Pere Lachaise where rain pattered over shop awnings. She noticed a cat peering from a window. The cat looked dry and well fed. She tried calling again but the line was busy.

  Frustrated, Aimée punched in Martine’s number at Le Figaro.

  “Mais Martine’s at a board meeting,” said Roxanne, Martine’s assistant.

  “Please, it’s important,” Aimée said, “1 must talk with her.”

  “Martine left you a message,” Roxanne said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wrote it down,” Roxanne said, her tone apologetic. “I’m sorry to be cryptic, but Martine made me repeat this: ‘Start where Anaïs told you; there’s a lot more in the pot-au-feu besides vegetables.’ She said you’d understand.”

  Understand?

  Aimée thanked Roxanne and hung up.

  She didn’t like this. Any of this. She felt torn after vowing to stick to corporate work and build her computer security firm.

  The plastic surgeon who’d pieced her together after the Marais case told her to be careful—next time might not find her so lucky. Her stitches had healed nicely. He’d done a good job, she had to admit; no one could tell. He’d offered to enhance her lips gratis. “Like the German models,” he’d said. But she was born with thin lips, and figured she’d exit with them.

  Someone once told her the Buddhists believe if you helped someone you were responsible for them. But she wasn’t a Buddhist. She just hated the fact that someone could blow a woman up and get away with it, and put a little girl’s mother in peril. And for what or why she didn’t know.

  At the shop next to the florist, she bought an umbrella and then entered a nearby café. She used the rest room, washing her face and hands, to try to get rid of the jail cell odor—a mix of sweat, fear, and mildew. Refreshed after a steaming bowl of café au hit, Aimée boarded the bus for the apartment on rue Jean Moinon.

  The cold wind slicing across lower Belleville didn’t feel welcoming. Nor did the gray mesh of sky.

  Through the bus window Aimée saw the store with a hand of Fat’ma talisman in the window. She stood, gripped by the image of the small metal hand with turquoise stones and Arabic sayings to ward off evil words.

  Just like Sylvie’s—the one Anaïs gave her.

  Hopeful, Aimée got off the bus and went into the store. Maybe she would find an answer about Sylvie’s Fat’ma.

  The crammed store was lit by flickering fluorescent light strips.

  H
er heart sank.

  Hundreds of Fat’mas lined the back wall. They hung like icons, mocking her.

  The owner sat on the floor. He ate his lunch off a couscous platter shared with several other men, who appeared disturbed at her entrance.

  Aimée pulled the hand of Fat’ma from her bag.

  The owner stood up, wiped his hands on a wet towel, and slid behind the counter.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Monsieur,” Aimée said. “Do you recognize this Fat’ma?”

  He shrugged.

  “Looks like the ones I carry,” he said.

  “Perhaps this one is distinctive. Could you look?”

  He turned it over in his palm, then gestured toward the wall.

  “The same.”

  “Perhaps you remember a woman who bought this—long dark hair?”

  “People buy these all the time,” he said. “Every other shop on the boulevard carries them as well.”

  Her hopes of finding out more about Sylvie had been dashed.

  Aimée thanked him and went out into the rain.

  She crossed Place Sainte Marthe, the small, sloped square with dingy eighteenth-century buildings. Wind rustled through the budding trees. A knot of men clustered near the shuttered café, smoking and joking in Arabic.

  Blue-and-goldenrod posters plastered over abandoned storefronts proclaimed: FREE THE SANS-PAPIERS—JOIN HAMID’S HUNGER STRIKE PROTESTING FASCIST IMMIGRATION POLICIES. Behind Place Sainte Marthe seventies-era housing projects loomed, jagged and towering.

  She walked over the same route she’d driven with Anaïs. The April wind, raw and biting, pierced her jacket. Her ears felt numb. As she entered rue Jean Moinon, she curled her hands inside her pockets, wishing she’d worn gloves.

  Pieces of blackened metal bumper and a charred leather armrest remained from the explosion. Almost everything else had been cleaned up from where Sylvie Coudray had gone up in a shooting ball of white fire and flames. The only other evidence was the oily, blackened residue filming the cobblestones. But after a wet spring that too would be washed away.