Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“I’ll try,” she said, aglow with the sudden sparkle of circus wonder. It was the same way she’d felt sitting with her grandfather, who’d whispered “Watch, Aimée … look at the magician’s sleeves… can you see how he does it?” But she never had, could never see the sleight-of-hand trick.

He brandished an iridescent scarf, waved it in the air, and balled it up. He clapped his hands and showed her. Empty.

“Smoke and mirrors, right?” she asked.

“I have no smoke,” he said. “And at my age—no mirrors, please!”

His black satin cape flashed as he pulled the scarf from behind her ears.

Her mouth fell open. How did he do that?

He grinned at her reaction.

“Stanislav the Stupendous?” she said.

He bowed. “The third wonder of Budapest is available for parties, business luncheons, or that special affair needing just the right touch.”

“You’re not part of the cirque?”

“My act requires a more intimate surrounding,” he said, gesturing toward the tiered red velvet seats. “We close off part of the cirque, making a half circle, and I perform on that platform.”

A workman hammered ringside.

“Those men who sat over there,” she said, gesturing toward the spot where the military types had sat. “Know where they are? I’m supposed to meet them …” she trailed off, hoping Stanislav would finish it for her.

“The General?” he said.

Aimée nodded.

“Funny bird, that one,” Stanislav said. “My following is loyal.”

“The General’s a fan of yours?”

“I’m big with the Algerians.”

Algerian military? Aimée held her surprise in check.

The workman appeared and tapped his wrist, vying for the magician’s attention. “You’ve been a delightful assistant, Mademoiselle, but I must rehearse, if you’ll excuse me,” Stanislav said in a practiced breathless tone, indicating that he was too busy and rushed to have even a smidgen more time.

Aimée stepped from the sawdust over the raised ring, puzzling how to elicit information about the General.

“You’ll think me helpless, but the purse with my address book was stolen, and I’m at sea how to find him,” she said stepping back into the ring.

“I wish I could be more helpful,” Stanislav said, following the carpenter.

She sniffed around backstage, but no one knew of the General—or if they had, they wouldn’t tell her. Even the grinning horse trainer who said, “I keep my eyes on beautiful females.” He winked. “Like you.”

AIMÉE DROVE to Samia’s apartment. No answer. The ham-mam was closed, and it began to rain. Her head ached, and her spirits matched the grey drizzle. She sat in René’s car near Place Jean Timbaud, the rain spattering on the windshield. People emerged from the Métro, turning up their collars, and running down the street. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, there was a loud tap on the passenger window.

“Allez-y!” A green-suited égoutier shouted, his dark face beaded with rain. “Move along. Quit blocking the truck.”

“Pardon,” she said, turning on the ignition. The Citroen roared to life, and she hit the wipers.

That’s when she saw Samia, scurrying out of the dingy hotel on Impasse Ouestre. She shifted into first and cut Samia off before she could enter Jean Timbaud.

“Get in!” Aimée said, leaning over and pushing the door handle open.

Samia blinked, like a deer caught in the headlights. She tried to back up, but her heels slipped and she grabbed the door.

“I can’t—”

The garbage truck’s horn blared.

“Hurry up, we need to talk,” Aimée said.

Samia looked for an escape. The rain beat harder. Her only option was the passage she’d emerged from.

“Now!” Aimée yelled.

Either the rain or Aimée’s voice convinced her to get in and slam the door. They took off down Jean Timbaud. Aimée reached Passage de la Fonderie, a narrow ivy-walled lane, and pulled in. She parked and turned off the ignition.

“You don’t look too good,” Samia said.

“Smart girl,” Aimée said, reaching for Samia’s bag. She turned the beaded pink bag upside down. “Considering I got shot, I don’t think I look half bad.”

Samia’s eyes widened.

“Smart girls don’t betray their friends.”

“You’re not my friend,” Samia said, but she winced when she spoke. She brushed her shoulders, sending a wet spray over the upholstery.

“Even for an acquaintance, that’s not very nice.”

Samia looked down, “I’m sorry. They just said … well, you weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing you?”

“Just warn you off, they said,” she said, her voice sullen.

“Who?”

“Let me out.”

The passage was quiet except for occasional footsteps. The fogged Citroen’s windows shielded them from prying eyes.

Aimée had to get Samia to talk.

“What does bent al haram mean?”

“Bent al haram?” Samia said, closing her eyes as if in deep thought.” ‘Interfering slut’ comes pretty close.”

Great.

“Doesn’t the General like me?”

Samia reached for the door handle, but Aimée pulled out her Beretta.

“It’s been a rough afternoon, Samia,” she said. “Time for you to brighten my day.” With her other hand she poked around the strewn items from Samia’s bag. A package of pink condoms, hotel keys, an illustrated ten-franc pocket romance, and a pearl hair clip. Aimée shook the bag again, and a hand of Fat’ma tumbled out. Just like Eugénie/Sylvie’s.

“Where did you get this?”

“The Fat’ma?” Samia asked.

Aimée nodded.

“Belonged to my mother,” she said. “Lots of people have them.”

“Like who?” Aimée asked.

“You probably can’t even use that,” Samia said, looking in the visor mirror at the Beretta, and ignoring the question.

“Even if my aim was bad, it’d be hard to miss with you so close,” Aimée cocked the trigger. “Want to find out?”

Samia flinched.

“Some flic taped us talking,” Aimée lied. Anything to get Samia to talk. “He’s watching you on video surveillance. He wants my hide, but I think he’s nailed yours already. He’s just waiting, Samia.”

Samia’s bravado shriveled.

“Sergeant Martaud?”

Aimée nodded. The stale air inside the car and Samia’s perfume were getting to her.

“Is the General’s number in here?” Aimée asked, holding up a pink fur address book. “I’ll deal directly with him.”

Samia blinked in fear. “They’re big—”

“Who?”

“Leave it alone,” she said.

“Samia, don’t you see my finger’s still on the trigger?” she said.

“You don’t know about—” she stopped.

“About what?”

Samia’s lips tightened.

“Fine, I’ll let Martaud know Zdanine supplies the plastique” Aimée sighed, pocketing the address book. “That will get me off his hook.” She turned the ignition key. “Since Zdanine’s claiming sanctuary in the church, you’re the perfect connection.”

It was a guess, but by the look on Samia’s face it hit home.

“Attends,” Samia said. “I called a number. That’s all.” Her chest heaved. She faced Aimée, her eye makeup smeared. “You leave my kid out of it, comprisl”

Aimée wondered why Samia would say that—was her young son used to keep her in line? A pang of remorse hit her for using Samia, a mother who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

“Zdanine used you, didn’t he?”

“Only two times,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t believe you.”