Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

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.

Morbier’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.