Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“You want to believe Zdanine instead of me …” Aimée let that trail in the air.

Silence except for the steady thrum of rain on the windshield.

“Something’s about to happen, isn’t it?”

Samia shrugged.

“What’s Eugénie’s connection?”

Samia rubbed the foggy window and turned away. “What time is it?”

“For a moment you were so helpful,” Aimée said. She leaned over, the Beretta still in one hand. “Who murdered Sylvie?”

“Sylvie … who’s that?”

Anger flared in Aimée, then died. Why would Samia know about her double life?

Aimée turned Samia’s chin toward her.

“Was it the General?” she asked.

“Who’s Sylvie?” Samia blinked several times.

Exasperated, Aimée pounded the steering wheel.

“What does Eugénie have to do with it?”

“She stayed at the apartment.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Who met her there?” Aimée said, knowing she had to pull information from Samia. Bit by painful bit.

“People dropped things off,” Samia said, wiping her face. “I’ve told you nothing. Nothing.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Aimée said soothingly. “Is someone making you afraid to tell me what you know?”

“The Maghrébins used that place. They scare me,” she said. “I told Zdanine, I don’t want to mix with them. He does.”

“What for?”

“They have places like that,” Samia said. “You know, all over. Like an octopus.”

Aimée remembered the flyer with “Youssef’ written on it. She felt as if she were grasping for straws.

“Did Eugénie mention Youssef?” she asked.

“Youssef? I think so: Someone called Zdanine while I was there. But I only met Eugénie once,” Samia said. “That’s all.”

“Did Eugénie give you this?” Aimée asked, holding up the pearl hair clip.

“I owe her a hundred francs,” Samia said, her voice contrite. “Look, it’s Marcus’s birthday. He’ll be hurt if I don’t make the school party. Didn’t even have time to buy him a present.”

Samia looked as if the world had fallen on her shoulders.

Aimée slipped the Beretta into her bag. She looked at her watch.

“Here,” she said, unstrapping the happy-face watch. “This suits you more than me. Give it to your son.”

Samia blinked and looked unsure.

“Take it,” she said. “Just don’t set me up again.”

“Chouette!” Samia’s face burst into a big smile. A big-kid smile, happy with a new toy, putting it on eagerly. “Merci!”

Aimée was amazed how childlike Samia seemed when her defenses were down. For a moment Aimée saw the young girl whose mother probably worked horizontak, who’d grown up in a housing project and then hooked up with a maggot like Zdanine. It reminded her of what Moliere had said about writing: First you do it because you like it, then you do it for some friends, then you do it for money.

Samia had pulled the visor down and begun wiping off her makeup in the mirror.

“I need to get to Gare du Nord,” she said. “Catch the 1:30 train for Marcus’s party.”

Of all the things Samia had told her, she believed this 100 percent.

“Tell me more en route to the station,” she said, turning on the ignition. “What’s your connection to Morbier?”

“Who?”

Surprised, Aimée kept driving. She decided to describe him, so if Samia had seen him she wouldn’t necessarily know he was a flic.

“Morbier’s an old mec, salt-and-pepper hair, moustache, and he wears suspenders over his big gut.”

“Sounds like one of my mother’s friends,” Samia said. “She knew lots of old farts.”

Aimée picked up on the past tense.

“Knew?”

“Passed away,” Samia said.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Curious, she wanted to explore more. At least find out why Morbier wanted her to protect Samia. She circled Place de la République, then gunned up boulevard de Magenta.

“What was your mother’s name?” she asked.

“Fouaz, like mine,” Samia said, her mouth crinkling in a sad smile.

Aimée was about to ask more when Samia turned to her.

“Keep this between us, but fifty thousand francs buys a hostage situation.”

Aimée’s heart skipped. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. “Go on.”

Samia’s face, now scrubbed clean of makeup, made her look younger than she probably was. A demure peach skirt and twinset emerged from under the black coat. Aimée wondered how Samia placated her conscience, if she had one.

“Who orders this plastique?”

“Zdanine says it’s Balkan crazies who like to blow each other up,” Samia said. “They do that shit all the time anyway.”

Aimée nodded. Too bad it wasn’t true in her case.

“Was it Duplo last time?” Aimée asked, hoping against hope that Samia knew.

“Semtex duds out sometimes, unreliable. The fundamentalists don’t seem to mind,” Samia said matter-of-factly. “Zdanine uses Duplo—only quality, he says.”

“What about the General?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“But why pick Eugénie?”

“That was a one-off.” Samia’s eyes slit in suspicion. “He sells to outsiders. No locals.” She shook her head. “Don’t look at me. Zdanine was in the church—he couldn’t have blown her up.”

Rain coursed down the windshield in silvered rivulets, like mercury. Aimée flipped the wipers faster. Samia’s casual tone made her angry. But she had to play it cool or Samia would bolt.

“It’s scary,” Aimée said, staring meaningfully at her. “I mean, look what can happen.”

“Just don’t rub anyone the wrong way,” Samia said, but her lip quivered. She looked uneasy. “I called a pager number—that’s all I did.”

“When?”

“They said, ‘Call in four hours—if no answer, try in another two hours.’ Someone called back with a delivery location.”

Aimée pulled in to the taxi line. She had an idea.

“Contact Zdanine before you go.”

Samia took Aimée’s phone and called Zdanine.

Samia’s voice changed; not just the cloying, soothing line to a pimp but an earnest overtone as if convincing him. For a full two minutes she argued, her words a mix of gutter French, verlan, and Arabic.

Abruptly she snapped Aimée’s phone shut.

“What happened?” Aimée asked.

“He’ll come around,” she said.

Aimée didn’t care about Zdanine’s list of potential clients; she wanted the suppliers who’d been at the Cirque d’Hiver.

“Zdanine says it’s too dangerous, doesn’t he?”

Samia shook her head.

“What then?”

“He thinks your cut’s too big,” she said. “It should be split so he gets a nice slice. After all, he says, he’s Khalil’s cousin, and the contacts are his.”

Spoken like a true pimp, Aimée thought. If Samia translated correctly. Outside in Place Napoleon III, people emerged from Gare du Nord, opened their umbrellas, and ran to the taxi line.

“Nothing happens until I wire Khalil to front the money,” Aimée said. “How do I know your people can deliver the plas tique?

“They’re not my people,” Samia said, “I told you, I don’t like them. Zdanine does the connection.”

“Until you give me the supplier’s name, I don’t cough up the front money.”

Samia shrugged. She buttoned her coat and gripped the door handle before she turned back.

“What’s the number?”

Samia opened the car door. A sheet of rain sprayed in. “Marc’s school is outside Paris, not far. I’ll be back soon.” Samia slammed the door shut and disappeared toward the train platforms in the cavernous station.