Murder in Belleville (15 page)

“The appointment,” Yves said. “At
Le Figaro.”

“Sorry, but we never reconfirmed,” she said, keeping the disappointment out of her voice.

She didn’t remember saying this, but she’d said a lot things the other night after the champagne. She’d even told him about the explosion and Anais. Is that all Yves wanted?

“But on my voice mail messages, which you don’t seem to have listened to,” Yves continued, “I indicated I had meetings in Marseilles.”

“Meetings?” Was he undercover or working on something Martine didn’t agree with—or both?

“I also mentioned how amazed I was by the way you changed the temperature, how you altered the color of things. And how I’d like more of that,” He paused. “That’s if I remember correctly.”

She cleared her throat. “I’ll have to check on that and get back to you,” she said, quickly gulping the rest of her coffee, aware of Morbier’s gaze.

“You do that,” Yves said. “I’ll be waiting.”

They hung up.

“You’re blushing,” Morbier said, cocking his eyebrows.

“I do that when I drink fast,” she said, rooting in her bag for a tip.

Morbier grinned and said nothing.

“Here’s Samia’s number. She lives above the
hammam
near the Couronnes Metro,” he said. “Pack your swimsuit, there’s a
piscine
adjoining the steam rooms.”

Tempted for a moment, she paused. She hadn’t swum her regular lap quotas for several days.

Morbier nodded. “Like I said, little fish lead to big fish.”

“I don’t have time for swimming, Morbier,” she said. “Or to chase the Paris periphery for pond scum.”

What was she doing at a cafe with Morbier wasting her time? She pushed back her chair, scraping the sidewalk, and tossed her phone into her Hermes bag.

“Don’t go rushing off, Leduc,” Morbier said, wagging his nicotine-stained finger at her. “Last time you did that you had more broken bones than usual, remember?”

She flinched, fingering her throat at the memory of the rooftop in the Marais. The concussion, the lacerations needle-like over her skin …

A glass was knocked to the floor at the next table, jerking her back to the present.

“Think of it this way, Leduc,” Morbier said, lighting another cigarette from the smoldering butt in the ashtray. “If you trace the
plastique
to the source, you might nab the mistress’s killer.” He shrugged. “Get some shitheads off the street. The murderer could be, as de Gaulle said,
‘Chier dans son propre lit,’
shitting in one’s own bed. Criminals often do. A common mistake.”

“I think de Gaulle was referring to the Algerian crisis in that instance, but you’ve got a point,” she said, a smile fighting its way over her mouth. “But like Papa used to say, things don’t always seem as they appear or he would have been out of business.”

“Keep an eye on Samia, that’s all,” he said. “Samia grew up in the housing projects with gangs, Rai’ music and tattooed bleakness. But trouble, like Zdanine, tends to follow. Far as I’m concerned, Zdanine is scum, but he’s connected.”

“D’accord,
I’ll call and meet her,” she said, “but I’ve got to change.”

“Make sure,” he said, wagging his finger, “you dress appropriately.”

She walked toward the Metto. On the corner the outdoor tables at Chez Mireille Bistrot were full. The
hcdah boucherie
Is
lamique
held a steady stream of shoppers. Petulant whines of tired toddlers in their strollers, and the rumble of the Metro below greeted her accompanied by fumes from the 95 bus, direction Austerlitz. She wondered how Sylvie could have hidden in this dense
quartier,
where a woman would be noticed. Especially a good-looking woman. She shouldered her bag for the Metto ride to Rene’s.

Aimee paused at the stairs of the Couronnes Metro. She felt someone’s eyes sizing her up. The bearded men wearing
chechias
and flowing white
habayas
stared at her from the Abou Bakr Mosque entrance. Her shoulders tensed.
Les barbes
—the Islamic fundamentalists she’d read about. Their staring disturbed her, rattling in her brain all the way to Rene’s.

R
ENE’S
H
AUSSMANN-ERA
building fronted rue de la Reynie—a tree-lined strip Aimee regarded as a minioasis from the nearby Les Halles, with its cheesy clothing shops, discount CD stores, and young crowd. His apartment overlooked a quiet, geranium-lined walkway wedged between buildings.

Rene’s parking space was the same size as his studio apartment. But it certainly had more room, she thought, considering Rene’s obsession with the latest computer equipment.

Computers and monitors, raised a cushion’s height from the carpeted floor, lined two walls. Books covered another wall. His window looked onto a hulking gray building, draped and scaffolded for renovation. From the stereo a voice rasped, “Serves you right to suffer” accompanied by a guitar riff filling the room.

“James Lee ‘ooker,” Rene grinned.
“Les blues.”

Aimee smiled. Last time Rene’s infatuation had been Django Reinhardt.

Two futons were piled in the corner. A poster showing the 417 types of French cheeses hung on the wall of his cockpit-size kitchen. Bodybuilding weights sat on the low counter specially designed for Rene’s height.

Miles Davis sniffed her with his wet nose from his pillow beside Rene.

“So far, looking for Sylvie I’ve hit the
Fichier
firewall,” Rene said. “But this new software should help.” He pointed to several zip disks, stacked between the monitor screens filled with encrypted algorithms.

“You’re a genius,” she said.

He nodded, his eyes bright as his fingers danced over the keyboard. “Tell me that after I crack the code.”

He was in his
metier.
No one she knew came close to his expertise.

“What about the Swiss electronic switch on the explosive?” she asked.

“Curious, that one,” Rene said, hitting Save. He stood up and stretched. He wore a grey tracksuit, the top fitting his long torso but the pants shortened. “Seems that circuit board hooked up to a relay—you know the kind in the movies where the
mecs
set the device to explode in ten minutes? Meanwhile they’ve driven five miles away and have an alibi.”

She made a face, pursed her Chanel-red lips. That would complicate things.

“However, reading the report,” Rene said, packing his practice bag for the dojo, “that doesn’t seem to fit. Seems they activated it from nearby, like you suggested, from the ‘fake’ SAMU van.”

She picked up Miles Davis. But her edgy feeling remained.

“Can you watch him some more?”

Rene’s eyes narrowed. “What’s up?”

She told him about Morbier’s lead.

“Call me if you need backup,” he said. “I’ve got another bag of shank bones in the fridge,” he said as she made for the door. “You’re welcome to hit the dojo with me.”

“Next time.”

“Be careful,” Rene said, giving her a meaningful look.

A
IMEE HAILED
a taxi at the roundabout that dropped her at her rue du Louvre office. By that time she’d arranged a rendezvous with Samia within the hour.

Inside her once elegant nineteenth-century office building, with the ancient dark green water spigot in the foyer, she was tempted to take the birdcage elevator. But the tightness in her leather trousers told her no. She hiked the three steep flights. On the landing opposite the smoky bevel-edged mirror, she unlocked her door.

She hurried past her desk, stacked with Paris
pages jaunes
and manuals on secure cryptosystems, to the back storage room. She never missed leaving criminal work, but the old regret hit her. To play it safe, she pulled on her bullet-proof vest, made especially thin, the spy-store clerk had told her, for those “special occasions.”

She rifled past hangers containing a blue rubber-strapped fishmonger’s apron, the traffic jacket with
SUBURBAINE
stencilled on back, her lab coat embroidered with “Leduc” from her premed year at Universite Rene Descartes, and an acid green sequined feather-boa affair from a defunct sex club in Pigalle.

After some deliberation and flirting with the boa, she chose a black leather jumpsuit, a relic of a friend’s drug-dealing days. The leather unitard, composed of zippered pockets and quilted patches, fit skintight. She struggled into the legs and zipped it over her black lace bra. A zebra-striped
foulard
draped around her neck completed her ensemble.

After applying makeup she stepped into slingback black heels. She threw her red high tops into her bag in case she had to deal with more slick cobbles. Quickly she painted her nails so they could dry in the taxi.

Forty minutes later she’d emerged from rue du Louvre, hailed a taxi, and arrived at Samia’s.

The
hammam’piscine
turned out to be a bland, renovated eighteenth-century building with popcorn stucco facing the street. She handed the driver a hundred-franc bill and told him to keep the change, grinning at his comment on how well her business must be doing.

If only he knew.

She gave a small smile, bidding him
adieu
when he began offering to drop clients her way.

By the time she entered the courtyard of the
hamman-piscine,
she’d taken Morbier’s suggestion to heart. Right now Samia was her entree to the
plastique
and the
Maghrebins,
her only source other than Gaston in Cafe Tlemcen. Slim at best, but a start, she reminded herself. And more of a lead than she’d had a bit earlier when her only view had been seeing
les barbes
in front of the mosque.

A
tatouage
parlor stood next to a shop with dusty windows and a faded red sign with
BOUCHERIE-VOLAILLE
still visible. Besides the
hammam-piscine
in the
cow,
they were the only other occupants. There was something appealing about the quiet air of neglect, she thought. As if the buildings held together almost from force of habit.

Inside the unrenovated interior, the walls were covered with rainbow-colored graffiti of
Nique le flic
—screw the cops. Colored handprints were imprinted over doorways, in the Muslim style, to guard dwellings. A narrow winding staircase, the steps grooved and worn, mounted upward. She wondered what it would be like to live here. Or to grow up looking at this graffiti every day.

Samia Fouaz lived above the tiled
rex de chaussee,
on the first floor. A stroller, string shopping bag, and a shiny four-wheeled cart filled the landing. Once polished and exquisite, Aimee-imagined.

After several bouts of knocking, the door opened to a curvaceous figure in a peach lace teddy unself-consciously scratching her rear. Samia’s light-honey-colored face was puffy, her eyes bleary, and she yawned loudly.

“Sorry to disturb you, Samia—”

“Pas
de probleme,”
Samia said, eying her up and down.

Samia took a breath, pursed her mouth, then seemed to come to a decision. “Let’s make this quick.”

Nonplussed, Aimee recovered quickly. “Sounds good,” she said, aiming for casual.

Inside, trying to bury her nervousness, Aimee followed Samia’s sashaying down the yellowed hallway, its walls littered with calendars from local Arabic butchers on boulevard Menilmontant. Samia’s scent, a mixture of musk oil, sweat, and something by Nina Ricci, trailed in her wake.

Rai music pounded from a room in the rear. At the far end of the apartment Aimee saw violet gauze billowing from the ceiling, bordered by curtains embroidered with tiny mirrors.

Samia gestured to a chrome metal stool fronting a counter. A galley-style kitchen lay behind that, small, scrubbed, and spotless. On an upper shelf sat a glazed earthenware dish covered with a pointed lid, a
tajine.
Above that stood a
qettara,
a copper still for distilling rose- and orange-blossom water. Aromatics with rosewater, Aimee knew, drove away the dj’inn, protected against the evil eye, and attracted good spirits. Aimee hoped the good spirits were with her—she needed all the help she could get.

Against the gray linoleum, Aimee noticed Samia’s bare feet hennaed with intricate swirling patterns.

Aimee wondered about Samia’s connection to Morbier. Samia looked young and tired, like a housewife who’d tarted up for a husband with little result. She gestured again for Aimee to sit down.

“Tea?” She smiled, her face opening up like a flower.

“
Merci
,” Aimee said, accepting the
de rigeur
small glass of steaming mint tea, sweet and fragrant. Acustom, she knew, observed even among enemies at the Mideast peace talks.

The fading afternoon sun shone into an open window overlooking the courtyard. Several women, their Arabic conversation echoing off the stone walls, entered the
hammam
door below.

“You mentioned Khalil when you called,” Samia said. She looked even younger in the kitchen’s light.

“True. And Eugenie, part of Khalil’s—”

“Tell him this for me,” Samia interrupted, turning and pounding her fist into her palm. Her gold bracelets jangled. “Zdanine’s doing all he can, eh?
Compris?”

Surprised at Samia’s change of manner, Aimee stopped short, her mind racing. She hoped Samia couldn’t check with Khalil about her. Why had she accepted Morbier’s story that he’d “fed Samia information?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Aimee barely kept her voice steady.

“Last month was the last time,” Samia said, determined. “No more. Lay off!”

For a vulnerable-looking thing she packed a punch, Aimee thought. Her friendly demeanor had vanished.

“
Tiens
, Samia,” she said, trying what she hoped was a winning grin. “I’m just the messenger. Don’t shoot me.”

Samia expelled a
whoof!
of air in disgust. She talked tough for eighteen, Aimee thought, or however old she was.

“Khalil isn’t patient,” Aimee said, improvising as she went along. “Poor
mec,
he’s stuck in Algiers.”