Murder in Belleville

The toddler let go and took a few lurching steps, then crumpled, landing upright with a surprised smile on his face.

“Akim’s first steps, Monsieur,” said a chador-clad woman. At least he thought those words came from behind the black mask. He turned around to see a dark-eyed young woman, with a scarf tied around her face, addressing him.

“I speak for his mother, who may not address you without her husband,” she said bending down and helping Akim.

Akim grinned and pointed at Bernard.

A salvo of Arabic erupted behind the chador. The young woman nodded. “His mother asks, Monsieur, if you could please help her. Akim was born in Paris but not she or his father. They are political refugees from an oppressive regime.”

More torrents poured forth, and the young woman bent forward to listen.

“If they are forced to go back, they face prison and Akim an orphanage. He has”—she stumbled in French —'how do you say it?—un coeur fragil, a weak heart.”

Bernard wished he could back out the way he came in, pretend he never heard this story and find safety behind his Regency office desk overlooking the Elysee Palace. But he couldn’t. He stood rooted to the spot.

Akim crawled over to Bernard’s leg and started the laborious process of standing again.

“Monsieur, Amnesty International isn’t allowed to visit prisons in their country,” she said, looking up, her dark pupils reflecting the flickering votive candlelight. “His mother begs you to help them. Akim is their only child to survive infancy.”

Bernard couldn’t avoid Akim, who clung to his trouser legs. Maybe he could help, he thought, find Akim a decent children’s home with a medical facility. And then he saw the line forming behind the mother, stretching from the nave along the full length of the church.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“They all want to tell you their story,” the young woman said. “Akim’s family is… comment?” she searched for the words. “How do you say, the tip of the iceberg?”

Bernard wanted to tell her it didn’t matter anyway. Everyone had to leave. He wished he were made of the stone that lay below his feet.

“Mademoiselle, I’m representing the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t make the decrees, but I’m here to speak with Mustafa Hamid,” he said, trying to affect a sincere tone. “We have much to discuss.”

He heard little Akim’s whimper as he was shown the way to Hamid. Suddenly Bernard was transported to his own childhood, trudging knee-deep through the charred timbers of the souk, stung by the blowing sand, and smelling seared flesh. His feet so heavy and tired, the waiting boat at the port so far away, the sky stainless steel, and the wind whistling through the barbed wire.

“Bonjour, Directeur Berge,” said Walid, a bearded man, interrupting his thoughts. “Come this way. Mustafa Hamid wishes to present demands to the ministry. Reasonable and just.”

“I’m here to open negotiations,” Bernard said.

“Meet our terms,” he said. “I’m sure time, stress, and police power will be saved.”

Tuesday Afternoon

“NO STIFFS SINCE LAST Saturday,” the morgue attendant told Aimee, stifling a yawn.

“Are you sure?” Aimee asked. “Would you mind checking again?”

He looked her up and down, lingering on her long legs, then ran his pudgy finger down the entry ledger. “Try the lab. Sometimes they’re slow with the Yvettes if we’ve had an HP.”

“Meaning?” She felt as if he were waiting for her to ask.

“High-profile death.”

Once she’d arrived at the police lab, she found the carved doors padlocked and a small sign indicating that the facility had relocated due to retrofitting. That meant more walking.

She’d gained more than a kilo recently, and her Chanel suit knew the difference. The waistband cut into her and she wished she had worn jeans and hightops. She also wished she had a cigarette. En route she’d checked her machine, but no voicemail from Yves.

After an hour she ended up back in Belleville, the lab’s temporary space on the edge of Bastille, where the quartiers joined. She recognized the building as her cousin Sebastien’s former lycee from ten or more years before. Turreted and medieval, the surrounding wall crumbled in bald spots, revealing naked stone. She’d often met him here after class when they took fencing lessons together.

There was something appealing, she thought, about the quiet air of neglect. Inside the courtyard hung peeling school posters of tutorials. Behind cobwebbed plate glass were the weekly luncheon menus. Aimee had always preferred to eat at home, as her friends did, so she could be with her grandfather. But since her grandmother died, he’d taken to eating out. Every day. He’d also acquired a younger girlfriend, whom she suspected fed him.

At the vacant meshed window of the concierge’s loge, she saw a hand-lettered sign instructing her to ring. She put her finger on the buzzer. A loud echoing trill reverberated off the stone. Pots of budding red geraniums leaned against the rusted bicycle rack.

No one.

Silence except for the high beep of a truck backing up in the distance. Suddenly the gush of water, from the bouches d’igouts, startled her. The egoutiers, sewer men, had diverted the flow with their sewer rags.

Then a face in shadow appeared behind the window. She couldn’t decipher the gender.

“Oui?”

“Have the criminology personnel transferred here?” Aimde asked.

“Depends,” the person said, “on which branch.”

“Tiens, I’m looking for Serge Leaud, the Luminol expert.”

“Aha,” the person said, warming up. “Name sounds familiar. Let me search.”

The loge light flicked on. Inside stood a blue-uniformed flic, “Police Nationale” stitched on her lapel. A lollipop stick poked from the side of her mouth.

“You know half the lab moved to Bercy,” the flic said. “Ask me why, and I’ll tell you I don’t know. No one else does either.”

The usual bureaucracy screw-up between the branches, Aimee figured. She heard papers rustle as he turned pages.

“Why move the other half here?” Aimee asked.

“These days,” said the flic, who’d grown quite chatty, “much of the work’s on contract. Several labs operate here, so it’s easier to move the stiffs from floor to floor rather than across the Seine.”

“Good point,” Aimee said, wishing the flic would get to the point.

A gray-spotted cat slinked behind the geraniums.

“According to the new renseignement, Leaud operates offices in both buildings.”

Aimee groaned. She’d counted on Serge to show her the report on Sylvie’s explosion. Informally, with no fuss, no paperwork. He owed her big-time from the Marais, where, with her help, he’d leaped up several notches in his criminology career.

“So Leaud’s working today?” she asked.

“You’re in luck, he’s here, and he’s there,” the flic chuckled, opening her mouth. Her tongue was blue. “Wouldn’t you know it, he’s also scheduled at the same time for an inquest in quai des Orfevres—the Brigade Criminelle screws up again!”

“I’ll find him later,” she said, exasperated. “Seems you’re backed up, and the Yvette I’m looking for—”