Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“Does the Algerian government disavow les barbes?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Of course, they accuse us journalists of oversimplifying political and religious connections. Like the secular structured state pitted against religious opponents.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Yves,” she said. “But hear me out.”

Swift-moving clouds obscured the sun again, throwing them into shadow. Chimneys dotted the rooftops. She had an idea.

“What if Hamid lost internal AFL control?” she said. “Say a rebel fundamentalist faction splinters off for recognition and publicity. But Hamid bows to the faction so the cause isn’t lost—after all, he’s on a hunger strike and has principles—so the fundamentalists get media coverage, and Hamid gets the immigrant deportations halted.” Aimée shook her head, “I don’t think it’s that simple, events stack up wrong.”

“Too simple,” he agreed.

“Could the crisis here mimic what’s happening in Algeria?” she said.

“Nice observation,” Yves said and shrugged. “Or it could all be smoke and mirrors.”

Again smoke and mirrors.

Something ran unspoken between them. His wife must be taking up his time, she figured. She had the terrible feeling things with Yves led to a brick wall. A dead end. She wished she didn’t want so much for him to come and spend the night again.

Act smart. Much better to cut her losses and walk away. Don’t wait for him to say he’s returned to his wife.

She turned and said, “Yves, I’ve got to go.”

“Are you playing hard to get, Aimée?” he said, grinning. “That will get you everywhere.” He pulled her close. She wished he hadn’t done that.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, struggling for words to express her feelings. Why couldn’t she say it? He kept rubbing her neck and being no help. Whatsoever.

A taxi screeched in front of them. Several correspondents and photographers yelled at Yves to hurry and get in if he wanted a ride to the airport. He kissed her hard.

Then he was gone.

He’d popped in and out of her life again. And she’d let him.

She went to the nearest café, set her bag down, and ordered a glass of vin rouge. Maybe it would help drown her indecision.

“Mademoiselle Leduc?” a voice with a light accent asked from behind her.

She turned to face Kaseem Nwar, smiling beside her at the counter. Several men and women stood there, and for a moment she couldn’t place where she’d met him. Then she remembered. He was more handsome than she recalled, in a long wool coat over a djellaba. As if it had been designed for him. The way he dressed revealed a pride in his heritage. She liked that.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he said, his smile turning sheepish. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Mais bien sûr, we met at Philippe de Froissart’s,” she said, saddened by the memory of her conversation with Philippe.

“You looked upset,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “Anaïs was ill, things were difficult.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Philippe and Anaïs have been my good friends since the Sorbonne.”

Aimée made space for Kaseem at the bar, taking a sip of wine.

“Wine?”

He shook his head and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll nurse a Perrier.”

She’d forgotten that Muslims took no alcohol.

“Do you live in the area?” she said, wondering why she’d run into him here.

His look turned serious at her casual question.

“Please understand, I have no political affiliation with the AFL,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “But some of my ex-wife’s family claimed sanctuary, so I brought clothes and food. It’s important to help them, person to person.”

Aimée wondered if he could do more than that.

“Can’t you help them stay?” she said, noting the muted café light playing on his features.

“Not with the present law,” Kaseem shrugged, a very Gallic response. “My wife was French, but I’m naturalized. I can’t help them anymore. That’s the trouble.”

Kaseem’s mineral water arrived, and he paid for both their drinks with an assurance that commanded attention. Kaseem appeared at ease in many worlds yet was not pompous.

“Merci,” she said. She enjoyed standing in a café with an interesting man and talking. Face it, she admitted to herself, Kaseem wasn’t hard on the eyes. And he wasn’t rushing off to the airport.

“Tell me about your project involved with the humanitarian mission,” she said.

“Mostly I export and import,” he said, waving his long-fingered hand. “Life in the countryside is stark,” he said. “We’re doing all we can.”

As Kaseem spoke his eyes lit up, and he gave her his complete attention. As if her every thought mattered.

“With feet in both worlds, I’m just a conduit,” Kaseem said. “But I feel a sense of responsibility. Especially since I know Philippe, maybe I can help in ways others can’t.”

She remembered the military types among the trade delegation at Philippe’s house. Broaching the subject indirectly seemed the only way.

Aimée said, “My nephew’s going through an army stage,” she grinned. “You know boys. You wouldn’t know anyone in the military?”

Kaseem returned her smile. “Sorry, I’m just a merchant.”

He laid his arm on hers.

“Right now I’m worried about Anaïs,” he said, interrupting. “Philippe acts stoic, but you’re her friend. Please, I want to help. But I don’t even know where she is.”

“Makes two of us, Kaseem,” she said, glancing up at the café clock. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

He offered her a lift to her office. Why not? He exuded an ease with himself, an elusive quality she didn’t see in many men. Except Yves. But Yves was gone, and she liked Kaseem’s attention. En route Kaseem said he knew where to get the best falafel in Belleville, so they stopped and ate on the street.

“Call me paranoid, but either Anaïs doesn’t like me anymore or something’s happened,” Kaseem said as they stood munching their overflowing falafels and tossing crumbs to the pigeons. “She’s never home, doesn’t return calls.”

Aimée knew the feeling.

“Did something happen?” Kaseem asked. “Tell me; I don’t want to pester.”

“Philippe’s the one to ask, Kaseem,” she said.

At the curb on rue du Louvre, she turned to thank him. Kaseem responded with a lingering bisou on both cheeks. Nice. In fact, quite nice. Her cheeks burned all the way up the stairs.

AS SHE opened her office door, the phone was ringing.

“Allô,” she said, hitting the light switch with her elbow.

“Anaïs’s all shaken up,” Martine said, her voice low.

“Where is she?” Aimée tossed her bag on the desk, switched her computer on, and threw herself in the chair.

“Philippe’s put her in a clinic,” Martine said. “And for once he’s done the right thing.”

Aimée doubted that.

“Look, Martine, Philippe threatened me,” she said. “Sicked a gorilla on my tail to make sure I don’t investigate further.”

“He did what?’ Martine said, sounding more indignant than surprised.

“And threatened my business,” Aimée said, turning toward her oval window. Rain had started to prickle the glass fronting rue du Louvre.

“Philippe’s protecting his family,” she said.

“Martine, he’s hiding something,” she said. “He’s afraid.”

Over the phone Aimée heard Martine sigh.

“Anaïs wants you to find out what he’s hiding,” Martine said. “Don’t stop. I’ll talk to him.”

“After being beaten and shot at the Cirque d’Hiver and finding no leads, maybe he’s right.”