Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

“Philippe, there was a car bomb,” she said.

“Car bomb—Anaïs?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing. He started for the door.

“Hear me out. Sylvie Coudray’s dead.”

Philippe paused. “Sylvie … No, it can’t be,” he blinked several times.

Aimée read shock on his face. And sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Aimée said. “Sylvie turned on the ignition and then—”

He sat down heavily, shaking his head. “Non, not possible,” he said, as if his words would negate what happened.

“Philippe, her car blew up right in front of us.”

He sat, stunned and silent.

“Do you understand?” Aimée said, her voice rising. “We were thrown by the blast; Anaïs might have internal injuries.”

He looked as if he’d hit a cement wall. Full force.

“What does it have to do with you, Philippe?”

“Me?” Philippe rubbed his forehead.

The clink of melting ice cubes accompanied the hum of voices from the other room. Platters of wilted salad sat by the sink.

“Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs something.”

Philippe stood up, anger flashing in his eyes.

“So?”

She wondered why Philippe was reacting this way.

“Anaïs could have been in that car,” she said.

“Never,” he said. “They didn’t get along.”

What an understatement.

“I helped Anaïs escape—”

“Escape? What do you mean?”

“Some men followed her,” Aimée said. “They came after us when your mistress was murdered.”

“But Sylvie’s not my mistress,” he cut her off. Philippe paced past the stainless-steel refrigerator. Preschool paintings with ‘Si-mone’ scrawled in pink marker covered most of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“But Philippe,” she said, “Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs—”

Aimée was interrupted by two men, their arms around each other, who burst through the kitchen doors.

“Why all the secrecy, Philippe? Eh, hiding in the kitchen,” said a smiling man with curly hair and flushed cheeks, pushing up the sleeves of his djellaba. He had laughing eyes and cinnamon skin. He saw Aimée and his brows lifted.

“Call me a party crasher,” Aimée said, wishing they would leave. “Excuse my appearance, I’m in rehearsals,” she said to explain her outfit. She wanted to keep it vague. “A German miniseries—a Brecht adaptation.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the man. Of the two, he appeared the more personable.

“My wife’s friend, Aimée Leduc,” Philippe said reluctantly. “Meet Kaseem Nwar and le Ministre Olivier Guittard.”

Both men smiled and nodded to Aimée. Guittard gave her a once-over. Already she didn’t like him. It had nothing to do with his Cartier watch or perfectly brushed hair. She imagined him having a matching blond wife and 2.5 blond children.

Kaseem turned to Philippe. “Of course, you’re announcing the joint venture with continued funding of the humanitarian mission tonight?” He spoke with a slight Algerian accent and seemed intent on cornering Philippe.

She saw Philippe stiffen.

“Tiens, you’re impatient, Kaseem!” Philippe said, his tone even. He put his arm around Kaseem and shot a look back at Aimée that read, Keep your mouth closed.

Aimée didn’t like this, but she gave Philippe the benefit of the doubt. No reason to blurt out what had happened to these men.

“You know that’s a quality I admire, but the Assembly thinks along different lines,” Philippe said. “Last night we recommended that the delegation count on next year.”

“Kaseem’s plan depends on the dry season, Philippe,” Guittard said. “We don’t want to disappoint him or his backers.”

“Social gatherings require wine, Olivier, don’t you agree?” Philippe said, reaching to uncork a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage on the counter. “Or juice for Kaseem?”

Aimée couldn’t see Philippe’s face while he redirected the conversation. Or tried to.

“What about your wine, Philippe,” Olivier said. “Has Chateau de Froissart yielded a good vintage yet?”

“Soon,” Philippe said. “Winemaking takes time, everyone struggles the first few years.”

“So you keep your women in the kitchen like we do, Philippe?” Kaseem grinned. He turned to Aimée. “Don’t be offended, I’m joking. Some women feel more comfortable.”

Aimée gave a thin smile. She didn’t think she looked like the domestic type.

Philippe rubbed his white, fleshy thumbs together. A bland, masklike expression came over his face.

“Excuse us.” He motioned his guests in the direction of the dining area.

Philippe returned, his eyes dark.

“I’ll take care of Anaïs,” he said, guiding her toward the back door.

“Philippe, why are men after her?”

His face was flushed. “How do I know what you’re talking about? Let me speak with Anaïs.”

And he shut the door on her.

In the taxi on her way back, Aimée wondered what Philippe was hiding. And she realized she hadn’t seen one single woman at the reception.

ON ILE St. Louis, Aimée asked the taxi driver to stop around the corner from her flat. Dropping change on the floor, she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She needed a drink. The dim lights of the bistro Les Fous de L’lsle shone on rue des Deux Ponts. She tucked a hundred francs under his lapel.

“Call me next time,” the driver said, giving her his card, which read “Franck Polar.”

“Don’t log the fare, Franck,” she said. “That’s if you want me to call you again. Merci.”

She got out and inhaled the crisp air, her bruises and cuts smarting. Dankness emanated from the leaning stone buildings and she pulled her sweater tighter. Ahead, leafy quaiside trees rustled, and the Seine lapped below Pont Marie. She narrowly missed stepping on dog droppings, which reminded her of Miles Davis, her bichon frise—time for his dinner.

She heard strains of music wafting over the narrow, wet street. Outside the bistro a blackboard announced in blue chalk, QUINTET JAZZ! She opened the glass doors plastered with accepted bank cards and edged past the tall potted plants. The warm, hazy smoke hit her. She’d chew nails for a cigarette right now.

The quintet had paused while the female drummer did a solo. The piano player sat upright, eyes closed, with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, while the saxophonist, trumpet player, and contrabass player stood together, swaying to the notes. Every table was full of patrons eating. A standing crowd overflowed the bar. The beeping cell phones, blue cigarette haze, and familiar gap-toothed grin of Monique at the bar made Aimée feel at home.

She squeezed in at the counter between a Bourse stockbroker type with a nice profile and an aging longhaired man. He proudly told anyone who’d listen that his daughter Rosa played the saxophone, even though she was in the Conservatoire de Musique.

“Ca va, Monique?”

“Bien, Aimée. You working?” Monique eyed her, setting a glass of house red in front of her.

Aimée nodded.

“Et apres?” Monique asked.

“Steak tartare to go,” she said.

Monique nodded solemnly.

“Une tartare pour Meek Daveez,” Monique said turning to the chef, her brother, also gap-toothed. Maybe it was genetic.

“For me a cheese tartine,” Aimée said.

“Your usual, eh?”

Aimée nodded, sipping the heavy vin rouge and drumming her fingers in time to the beat.

The stockbroker lit a cigarette, talked earnestly into his cell phone, and smiled. He exhaled a snake trail of smoke near her ear. She wanted to grab his filter-tipped Caporal and suck the tobacco into her lungs, but instead she reached into her pocket for Nicorette gum.