Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

The phone went dead.

No one answered on her next three tries.

Had Samia given her the number to the explosives? She recognized the phone number. In her bag she checked the folder—“Youssef’ was written above the matching phone number. Her heart raced. And she remembered Denet’s words. On her minitel she searched under EuroPhoto. She found the same number with an address for a lab on rue de Menilmontant. So now she knew that they connected.

She redialed the number. The same voice answered.

“Please don’t hang up, listen to me,” she said. “I think you have something I want to see.”

“Who are you?” the voice said.

“I found your name in the ‘ST 196’folder,” she said. “Did you take the photos?”

The phone slammed down.

She stuck the Beretta in her waistband, pulled on her gloves and long wool scarf.

In the hallway she climbed down the back fire escape and made her way to the Métro.

EURO PHOTO’S GRIMY lab entrance stood in the rear of a courtyard filled with trucks and vans.

Inside Aimée leaned on the Formica counter. She smelled the acidic photographic chemicals and heard the chomp of print machines. On the office walls hung huge photos of white marble mosques and shots of sugar-sand beaches with sapphire slivers of the Mediterranean.

Through an open grime-stained window, Aimée noticed a company van pulling into the courtyard.

“Dropping an order off?” asked a smiling dark-eyed young woman, her head covered by a scarf. From behind the counter she passed an order form toward Aimée.

Aimée returned her smile.

“Actually I need to talk with Youssef about some processing,” she said. “Does he have a moment?”

She backed up, shaking her head. “There’s no Youssef here.”

“But I talked with someone—”

“Orders come in all the time,” the woman said, turning away. “You must have misunderstood.”

This woman was scared, Aimée thought, hiding something.

“Yes, of course, you’re right,” she said, thinking fast, “I’m terrible with names. A man helped me, he seemed about my age. He limped.”

Loud buzzing erupted from the back of the lab. Lights blinked green. “You’re in the wrong lab, I think,” the woman said, gesturing toward the rear. “Try the one on rue de Belleville.”

The woman headed quickly toward the back.

“But please, can’t you—”

“Excuse me,” the woman said, her mouth tight and compressed. “I’ve got a production schedule to meet.”

By the time Aimée made her way toward the back near the van, she’d come up with a plan. She jiggled the van door open, grabbed some large boxes of photographic papers, then entered the back.

Loud arguing in Arabic reached her ears. The scarf-clad woman stood by another stocky woman, pointing toward the front counter. In front of Aimée a massive printing machine spat out large-format posters, shooting them onto a spinning wheel. Aimée knew she had to move quickly. The women would throw her out before she found Youssef.

Men filled cartons as the posters came off the wheel. None of them sported spiky hair like Denet had described, so she kept going. Mounting the spiral staircase in back, leading to more of the lab, she discovered a warren of cluttered offices.

“Youssefs supposed to check this order,” she mumbled to an older man busy working an ancient adding machine.

“Let me see,” he said, pushing his glasses up his forehead.

Aimée leaned the carton on the edge of his desk, making a show of how heavy it was.

The man’s phone rang; he picked it up and immediately began punching the adding machine.

“Sorry, but I’ve got more deliveries,” she said, tapping her nails on the box.

He looked up, then motioned Aimée toward a long hallway.

“Down there. I don’t recognize the order,” he said. “Check with me on your way out.”

Aimée shot ahead before he changed his mind. She figured that this nineteenth-century building joined apartments in the back. Below her the floor vibrated from the machines.

After checking four dusty offices in the next wing, she saw a figure hunched over a photo layout, marking shots with red pen.

“Youssef?” she asked, setting down the cartons.

A young short-haired woman in her mid-twenties looked up, her eyes unsure.

“I’m Youssefa,” she said. “What do you need?”

Now it made sense. No wonder the women downstairs had told her there was no Youssef here.

Denet had mistakenly taken Youssefa for a man in Eugénie’s courtyard. Youssefa looked young, Aimée thought. Her dark skin stood out against her chalk white hair. Half-moon scars crossed from her temple to her left eye.

“Where’s Samia?”

“She left,” Youssefa said, her look guarded. “Who are you?”

“Her friend.”

Youssefa’s eyes flicked over her outfit. “You don’t seem her type,” she said.

“Samia left a message. She sounded frightened,” Aimée said.

Youseffa shrugged.

“Can you tell me about the ‘ST196’photos?”

Youssefa’s brown face passed from curiosity to terror in seconds. She dropped the pen, backed into a chair.

“I know you went to Eugénie’s apartment—did you develop those photos for her?”

Youssefa moved fast, around the corner of the table. She started running, her limp noticeable, out into the hall.

“Please, Youssefa, wait!” She shoved the carton on the floor and took off after her.

Aimée barreled into a stack of old film cans, sending them shooting across the wooden floor. She slipped and fell over the metal canisters, wincing as she landed on her aching hip.

Youssefa was gone.

Aimée got up slowly. She figured Youssefa could only have gone into the warren ahead of her, since the hall dead-ended behind her. The windows overlooking the courtyard parking area were open. She heard an unmistakable voice from below. She stopped and listened. A voice described her hair, her jacket, and how she owed his boss.

Dédé.

How could he have found her, unless he’d seen her leave from the back of her office. Or—her heart quickened. She didn’t like to think of it. Unless he’d gotten to René and threatened him. But René didn’t know where she was going—she hadn’t told him.

She heard scuffling down the dark hallway. That was the only direction Youssefa could have gone. She followed the noise.

Youssefa was pounding on a fire exit door, but it was jammed. When she saw Aimée, she reared back like a cornered animal about to attack.

“Let me help you, Youssefa,” she said. “Someone’s after me too.”

“I destroyed the negatives,” she said, her voice cracking. “Leave me alone.”

Why destroy the proof?

“I’m on your side, but as soon as we get out of here, I will,” she said. “A mec called Dédé’s after me.”

Youssefa blinked her good eye.

“Look out the window, check for yourself,” she said. “Dédé’s determined to find me, but he’s not my type either.”

She figured if they got out of here, she’d corner Youssefa and sit on her chest until she told her what the photos meant and why she’d destroyed the negatives.

She aimed several heel kicks until the exit door sagged open.

“Lead the way,” she said.

“Dédé’s a piece of shit,” Youssefa said, hesitating, then limping ahead.

“No argument there,” Aimée said, following her.

She wondered why the sign said EXIT when this web of narrow halls, roofed by skylights, clearly led to another building instead of outside.

Youssefa opened the last door at the end. They entered a hallway, yellowed and scuffed, passing a dim stairwell. She took out a key and unlocked a door.