Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

The phone rang, startling her. Miles Davis snorted awake.

“Aimée,” René said, his voice tight with excitement. “Hold on to your laptop.”

“Did you find out what I just did?” she asked.

“Sylvie was born in Oran,” he said. “That’s why the identification from the Fichier in Nantes took time.”

Surprised, Aimée hit Save on both her laptops, then stroked Miles Davis.

“Bravo, René,” she said. “Go on.”

“Get this,” he said. “Her real name is Eugénie Sylvie Cardet, her family left Algeria at the exodus. She ended up at the Sor-bonne, in one of Philippe’s classes.”

“I’m impressed, René,” she said. “Did you crack the Fichier code?”

“A few hours ago,” he said. “They’re a storehouse of information. Seems she joined the Socialist Party then the Arab Student League, which according to my Arab friends on the net later became the AFL.”

Aimée grabbed her notebook. She filled the gridblock sheet diagramming Sylvie’s connections to Hamid and Philippe.

“So there’s her connection to Hamid,” she said. “She’s known him since the late sixties. Her address is 78 Place du Guignier, right?”

“Fast work, Aimée,” René said. “But the most interesting item was her father,” René said. “Leon Cardet, a caporal with the OAS.”

Miles Davis nestled in the crook of her arm, his ears perking up at René’s voice. She sat up straighter.

“ Attends , René, wasn’t there a Cardet in the coup to oust de Gaulle?”

“One of many attempted coups.” René chuckled. “But you’re right, Cardet got caught. Very nasty mec.”

“So if Sylvie had a father like that and joined Hamid, then became Philippe’s mistress, she could have been rebelling against her father and what he stood for,” she grew excited. “Sylvie could have been helping the underdog!”

“Exactly,” René said. “Seems Cardet and his OAS cronies liked the Canal Saint Martin for body dump-offs in the sixties.”

Aimée shivered. She pictured the narrow tree-lined canal, the metal locks, and eddying scum on the surface.

“There’re some problems with that theory, RenéY’ she said. “Gaston told me that warring Algerian factions dumped bodies there. Those helping the French or not contributing to the FLN got a watery grave.”

A pause on the other end.

“Cardet could have played both sides,” René said slowly. “Or he used the cover to dispose of OAS targets, attributing them to the FLN.”

“Good point,” she said. “You could be right.” She remembered the grainy photos of Cardet at his trial, a sneering arrogance even on sentencing. “But if Sylvie was helping Hamid, why does she have millions in an offshore account?”

René whistled when she told him what she’d found in the Channel Island account. Miles Davis yelped at the sound.

“Wait a minute,” René said. “What if Sylvie received funds in an offshore account in the Channel Islands and passed it to the AFL?”

“Hold on,” Aimée paused. “The AFL connection isn’t clear,” she said, racking her brains to think of what was eluding her. “The AFL seems more of a grassroots, shoestring operation. They address issues of all immigrants, not just those from Algeria.”

She stepped into her black leather pants, “René, let me try something. I’ll call you back.”

“Bien,” René said. “I’ll dig for more links from the Fichier.”

After pulling on her oversize wool sweater, she carried the laptops, individually, to her home office. Her desktop computer held more memory and within thirty minutes, she had all three computers working on projects. Both laptops steadily ran software encryption programs to access the link bank that paid into Sylvie’s offshore account.

Aimée sat at the large computer, delving into the AFL’s financial source. The only account she located was an AFL business account in the Crédit Agricole for less than a quarter of a million.

Early Monday Morning

“AFL’S ACCOUNT IS CHUMP change compared to Sylvie’s!” René said thirty minutes later on the phone. His voice rose. “Why don’t you talk with Philippe?”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” she said.

“Can you hyperlink it over to me?” he asked. “I’d like to try something.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

Miles Davis growled and pawed at her window frame.

The sun had risen in golden glory over the Seine. Dawn painted the rooftops. Below her window she saw several men in blue jumpsuits with German shepherds along the quai. Her heart raced. They watched her window.

“René, I don’t like what’s happening outside my window,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you meet me in the office?” she said. “I’m leaving now.”

She E-mailed Sylvie’s and the AFL’s account information to her office, called a taxi, and put her laptop in her bag. She left the lights on and a bowl of food for Miles Davis, put on a black curly wig, and a long raincoat over her leather one. As the taxi pulled up on the curb of quai d’Anjou, she ducked into the taxi’s backseat.

SHE WANTED a cigarette desperately. Instead she entered the Pont Marie Métro, slid her ticket into the turnstile, and marched toward the nearest platform. Before the stairs, she pulled off the wig, slipped out of the raincoat, and dumped them in the trash bin.

She joined the early Monday morning commuters riling past her. The voices of panhandlers singing for a handout echoed off the tiled walls.

She sat down on the plastic molded seat, watching and thinking. Were those Elymani’s cohorts outside her window or men sent by Philippe?

She leaned against the Métro wall map, the station names erased by the rubbing of countless fingers. A shiny red Selecta vending machine on the platform blocked her view of the other end. But after five minutes she figured she’d lost the men tailing her.

She punched in her office number.

René’ answered on the first ring.

“You might want to get over here, Aimée,” he said.

“I’m doing my best,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Things have gotten dicey,” he said, his voice low. “Thanks to Philippe.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a big mec sitting here who says we’re out of compliance.”

“Compliance?”

“Some ordinance infraction,” René said. “Has to do with the space we rent and the tax we pay.”

“Tell me, René,” she said. “Does the mec have a shaved head and fish eyes?”

“Exactly,” René said.

“Tell him our last adjustment should suffice,” she said. “Matter of fact, let me tell him.”

She heard the muffled sound.

“Allô?”

“Claude, what’s the problem?”

“I represent the tribunal verifying rent according to space and convenience,” he said. “Your last surface corigée assessment is invalid.”

“Not according to their report,” Aimée said. “Take it up in the appeals section.”

“I already have,” he said.

Her reply caught in her throat.

Dédé marched along the opposite Métro platform, his boots echoing off the tiled walls with their giant arching posters. Muk-tar’s clones eased among the commuters. Coming right toward her.

“Claude, this is between Philippe and me,” she said, scanning the crowds. “Tell René I might be held up, but I’m on the way.”

She clicked off. She sat in the middle of the platform, a few seats taken up by an older woman and high school students. Commuters in business suits clustered around her but would board the next train. Granted, they’d be looking for a black-haired woman first, but Dédé and the other mecs knew her face. If she stood up she’d be seen.