Cara Black: Murder in Belleville

“Look what you’ve done!” Dédé hissed, pointing at his ripped jacket.

She’d almost gotten away!

“Kaseem used you,” she said. “Like he uses everyone.”

Dédé marched her to the nearest water tower, six or seven stories high. The tower loomed robotlike, with spindly legs webbed by ladders and pipe.

“Climb!”

The Beretta felt cold against her temple.

Aimée looked up, her hands shaking on the side of the ladder.

“But I’m afraid of heights.”

“Too bad,” Dédé said. His gold chains glinted in the moonlight, his perspiring face glistening with sweat. “I need target practice.”

He was going to pick her off like a fly.

“Look, Dédé—”

“This is taking too long, I’ve got other jobs.” He cocked the trigger, shoved her toward the ladder. “Move.”

She took several steps, faltered. Her greasy hand slipped and she grabbed the railing. Her leather-soled boots slid down the steps.

The heavy skewers rained from her sleeve, tinkling down the metal steps.

Gone.

Her heart sank as her last hope rained over the gravel.

“What’s that?” Dédé grunted, leaning forward and grabbing them. He laughed, short and barklike. “Kabobs? You belong on these.”

“No, you do!” She turned quickly, not caring anymore what he’d do.

But she spoke to the air. She’d knocked into Dédé. His finger pulled the Beretta. Shots drilled into the concrete water tower supports. She ducked as he spun and staggered. In his other hand he held the skewers. He tripped into a hole. She saw him land with a loud ouff! then a piercing cry.

A skewer rammed through his temple.

He clutched his face in surprise, a skewer handle poking out above his ear. He convulsed in a burrowing motion. Trickles of blood pooled into the dirt, and then Dédé lay still.

Aimée collapsed and grabbed her gun from the dirt. She tried not to look at his face.

“I told you I’m afraid of heights.”

Tuesday

“YOU STILL LOOK LIKE you’ve been hit by a truck,” René said.

“Just got slammed into the back of one, like I told you,” Aimée said as she limped into her office.

Miles Davis scampered beside her and jumped onto Renéws chair.

“Why don’t you recover at home?” René’asked.

“Work heals me,” she said, hanging her leather jacket on the hook. “What’s the EDF status?”

“Last night they talked about us doing a vulnerability scan of their software system,” he said, with a little smile. “Today they mentioned hardware. Tiens, no signatures on any dotted line yet.” René buttoned his Burberry raincoat. “Guess where Philippe’s money went.”

Aimée looked up.

“Into his vineyard,” René shook his head. “Chateau de Frois-sart turned into a veritable money pit. His vines have root disease.”

No wonder he needed a lot of money.

“Time for my practice at the dojo,” René said. As he opened the door, he paused, concern on his face. “Ça va!”

“Fine, partner,” she said.

“Someone’s here to see you,” René said.

Morbier walked into her office, hand in hand with the boy from the photograph in Samia’s apartment.

“Leduc, meet my grandson, Marc,” Morbier said.

“Enchanté, Marc,” she said, rising to greet him. She wasn’t too surprised.

Marc’s round black eyes shone in his honey-colored face when Miles Davis appeared.

“Would you like something to drink, Marc?”

Marc’s shy smile got hidden in the folds of Morbier’s coat. He leaned down to pet Miles Davis, who’d pranced up to sniff him.

“We’ll take a raincheck, Leduc,” he said. “We can’t be late for the special event at the Vincennes Zoo. Just wanted to drop this off.” He thrust a grimy folder on her desk. “Now you know what I know,” Morbier said, giving her a meaningful look. “That’s if you want. Drop it off later.”

After the door shut she sat down. She stared at the folder, dog-eared with a coffee stain on the cover.

Her cell phone rang several times. Miles Davis barked and jumped on her lap. She ignored the phone. She reached for the folder, but her hands shook and she couldn’t grasp it. The shadows lengthened. She didn’t know how long she’d sat staring at it before she grew aware of the streetlights shining in from rue du Louvre. Miles Davis growled. Pounding sounded on her office door. Loud and insistent.

Aimée opened the door.

Yves stood on the landing, his suitcase behind him. Charcoal stubble shaded his chin. He wore black jeans, a black leather jacket, and looked good enough to eat. And he was going away.

“You stole my thunder, Aimée, grabbing the front page and bumping my Defense Ministry expose,” he said, coming in. He grinned. “But if anyone did, I’m glad it was you. Reuters seems interested. They’re making the appropriate noises.”

“Is that why you disappeared?” she asked.

“I couldn’t tell you what I was doing, you were working for the minister’s wife. Martine wasn’t too happy with me either. She won’t run the story. But I understand, it’s family. She knows I’ll go elsewhere with it.”

Before she could speak he handed her a thick envelope.

“You could come with me,” he said, his dark eyes locking on hers.

“It’s just not that easy.”

“True. It’s very simple,” he said, brushing her spiky hair down. He ran his fingers along her chin. “There’s an open-dated ticket in there, departure and return good for a year.”

She stiffened. “I’ve got a business… Miles Davis…”

“There’s computer crime in Cairo. Matter of fact, all kinds of crime, too,” he said. He held out another ticket. “Miles Davis has a seat but he’ll have to spend some of the flight in a doggie carrier.”

He enveloped her in his arms and kissed her hard. Hot and searching. She didn’t want him to stop, but he did. “My taxi’s waiting.”

From her window she watched the red brake lights as Yves’s taxi pulled away on rue du Louvre. To the right the western palace of the Louvre lay dark and tomblike. But on the lighted quai the trees had flowered, fragrant and leafy.

She set the tickets next to the folder on the desk and opened the window. As she sat down to ponder the course of her life, the late-night traffic hum reached her ears, Miles Davis nestled in her arms, and she inhaled the first breath of spring.