Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

Aimée lowered her forehead onto the steering wheel. This stank. Samia had made a deal. Aimée felt it in her bones.

Here she sat at a taxi line outside Gare du Nord, the windows fogged, and no closer to Eugénie or the explosive suppliers than before.

Her gloom matched the gray sheeting rain whipping across the square. Extraordinary—she couldn’t remember when April had been this wet. It had rained incessantly all week. She took several deep breaths and thought. If those men were the explosive suppliers, why wait for Samia to get back?

She switched on the ignition and took off back down boulevard de Magenta. In record time, she parked in Cite de Crussol, on one of the passages branching from behind Cirque d’Hiver.

She punched in Morbier’s number. He answered after several rings.

“Morbier, call it intuition, but Samia’s playing me,” she said. “Your little friend got me shot!”

“Shot?”

“I pulled the shrapnel out but—”

“She’s young, Leduc,” he said. “And the young don’t know left from right.”

“No conscience, more like it,” she said.

“Bien sûr,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

She explained about Cirque d’Hiver and her abrupt departure at Gare du Nord. “I didn’t like the big guys in the circus.”

“Nice groundwork and setup,” he said.

She paused, surprised at his comment. He rarely said anything complimentary. “But I’m still in the dark. Samia became helpful too quickly.”

“She’ll come through,” he said.

She wondered why he kept excusing her.

“Why do you let her off the hook so easily?”

“No questions, remember?” he said. “Marcus must be six or seven, eh?”

His comment didn’t surprise her. Morbier had an immense memory, like her father and those of his generation possessed. No computer files or central storage systems; they kept it all in their head: a mec’s street record, an unsolved murder in their arrondissement years back, whose palm oiled the important palms, a pimp’s harem, and their children’s names.

“Where are you going now?” Morbier asked.

“To church,” she said. “Zdanine might be more helpful.”

“Will he talk to you?”

“I won’t know until I try.”

Saturday Afternoon

A LIGHT DRIZZLE BEADED Aimée’s glasses. The smell of wet wool rose from the damp pavement in front of Notre-Dame de la Croix.

In the midst of the rain, the noise, and pushing bodies, she felt someone staring at her.

Aimée’s throat tightened. Had someone followed her from the circus or was she some street mec’s target?

She looked up.

Yves stared across the barricade, his navy anorak glistening with rain droplets.

His gaze pulled her in as if it were a homing signal. Caught in his magnetic field, she was powerless to resist.

And then she was next to him.

“New perfume?” he muttered, as the police pointed them toward the barricade’s end.

“Does this have to do with the way I change the air?”

“The other night you wore lemon verbena,” he said, nodding at the other reporters.

“Quite a memory you’ve got,” she said.

“You’d be amazed,” he said, “at what I remember.”

She turned away.

“Slumming or trying to meet me?”

“Working,” she said.

“You ought to charge your cell phone,” he said, flashing his press pass at the barricade. “Makes it easier for people to reach you. I’ve been trying since this morning.”

“Other people can reach me, why not you?”

Dumb. Why let him know it bothered her?

She felt his hot breath on her earlobe, and his bristly chin brushed her neck as he turned back to a policeman. He smelled the same. The dusky Yves scent.

She had no time for someone who popped in and out of her life when it suited him. Most of all she didn’t want these feelings; couldn’t deal with them at the best of times.

But he could help her.

“Look, I need to get into the church,” she said. “Say I’m with you, just for now.”

“You want to use me,” he said. He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Make sure you abuse me later.”

“If you’re lucky,” she said, trying not to smile.

“Let me do the talking. Nice touch.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, pushing her feelings aside.

“The glasses,” he said.

She frowned and briefly felt disappointed.

He leaned over and whispered, “The police think you’re Martine’s assistant. Keep it that way for now.”

She followed him, threading past an old woman with ill-fitting dentures who yelled at a reporter waving a microphone. Shouts of “Let the sans-papiers stay!” arose from the swaying crowd contrasting with the CRS riot squad: silent impassive faces behind clear, shatterproof visors, hands clutching billy clubs. Legitimized by the press credentials and with Yves escorting her, Aimée crossed the wooden police barricades.

Once inside the church, Yves motioned for her to wait. He approached a bearded man guarding the confessional. Apprehensive, Aimée crouched by the marble holy water font. What if she couldn’t find Zdanine?

Incense mingled with sweat. Obsidian-faced men in bright pastel polyester shirts sprawled in the wooden pews. The whites of their eyes caught the gleam from dripping wax candles. Murmured conversations echoed off vaulting pillars. A plump, honey-colored woman in a maroon djelfoba wrote on a chalkboard. Teenagers in tracksuits sat before her on the stone floor. She admonished them in Arabic, and several raised their hands.

Aimée felt a tug at her elbow and turned. A longhaired man in a priest’s collar, corduroy pants, and worn loafers smiled at her.

“I’m Abbé Geoffroy,” he said. “My hope is that you report on the plight of these people.” He gestured around the gothic church.

“Bonjour, Abbé Geoffroy,” Aimée said, shaking his hand. “I understand a minister is negotiating, granting permission for these immigrants to stay in France.”

“I hope it’s not too late,” he said. The priest’s brow furrowed and he brushed a stray hair behind his ear. “The ten hunger strikers are in the twentieth day.”

She’d noticed how thin and listless the men were who lay on the pews. She and the priest walked toward high-backed dark wood stalls.

“Pacifists,” he said. “Many are political refugees from Algeria, Mali, and Senegal. To send them back would mean certain execution.”

“That’s what I don’t understand, Abbé,” she said. Ahead of them, the carved altarpiece lay bathed in a mauve glow from the stained-glass windows surrounding the nave. “Seems to me this goes against their philosophy.”

“I offer my prayers hourly for them.”

“Please don’t be offended, but isn’t there something more concrete that can be done?”

“Dissident factions took over,” he shrugged.

“Can you point out Zdanine for me?”

Abbé Geoffrey’s expression grew pained.

“Gone,” he said.

“Can I reach him somehow?”

“I can’t keep track,” the priest said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Aimée wanted to ask more, but Yves beckoned her. She excused herself and joined him.

“They’ve just finished their prayers,” Yves said, handing her a black veil. “Put this hijab over your head. Hamid’s like an imam, and this shows respect.”

She knew about imams, Muslim religious leaders or persons officiating in a mosque. Every bidonville, or shantytown, had one.

“Will this level the playing ground or score points?” she asked draping it over her and raising her eyebrows.