Read Murder in Belleville Online
Authors: Cara Black
Murder in Belleville (31 page)
“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.” Dede 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 voices came from a nearby gravestone.
She started screaming but her voice came out only a low croak.
Dede 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.
Aimee 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 Dede caught her ankles. Her body slapped the ground. She came face-to-face with a hole, her neck stinging.
“Look what you’ve done!” Dede hissed, pointing at his ripped jacket.
She’d almost gotten away!
“Kaseem used you,” she said. “Like he uses everyone.”
Dede 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.
Aimee looked up, her hands shaking on the side of the ladder.
“But I’m afraid of heights.”
“Too bad,” Dede 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, Dede—”
“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?” Dede 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 Dede. 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 Dede lay still.
Aimee collapsed and grabbed her gun from the dirt. She tried not to look at his face.
“I told you I’m afraid of heights.”
“Y
OU STILL LOOK LIKE
you’ve been hit by a truck,” Rene said.
“Just got slammed into the back of one, like I told you,” Aimee said as she limped into her office.
Miles Davis scampered beside her and jumped onto Renews chair.
“Why don’t you recover at home?” Rene’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.” Rene buttoned his Burberry raincoat. “Guess where Philippe’s money went.”
Aimee looked up.
“Into his vineyard,” Rene 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,” Rene said. As he opened the door, he paused, concern on his face.
“Ca va!”
“Fine, partner,” she said.
“Someone’s here to see you,” Rene 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.
“Enchante,
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.
Aimee 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, Aimee, 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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