Murder in Belleville

Puzzled, she stepped out into the hallway.

Out by the dark stairwell, she ran into a figure who rounded the corner at the same time.

“Merde!” he murmured, flicking away a cigarette.

“You’re a hard criminologist to find,” she said, staring into the bearded face of Serge Leaud.

“And I like to keep it that way, Aimee,” he said with a half smile. “I’m doing two jobs and filling in for someone on leave.”

“Which you thrive on,” she grinned. She looked down. “Smoking in the lab?”

“Ever since I published the Luminol paper about that fifty-year-old blood, I’ve had no peace,” he said. His full face, pinkish and scrubbed shiny, was framed by the beard flowing from his curly hair. “I’ve started smoking again. Tiens, my wife won’t let me near the twins when she smells smoke on me.”

“Sometimes the gods punish us by giving us what we want, as Oscar Wilde pointed out,” Aimee said. “In your case, making police bulletins around the world.”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re after me?”

“But I am,” she said, tugging his sleeve and pulling him toward a slitlike basement window. “Just as a bad centime you throw away keeps coming back. Tell me about Duplo plastique.”

Serge’s pager beeped.

“I’m late,” he said, glancing down and reading the message. “What’s your interest in it?”

“The victim got blown up in front of me,” she said. “I’ve been hired to find who did it.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Serge said, shaking his head. “You know I can’t say anything.”

“Don’t speak,” she said. “Just let me see the report when you’re finished.”

“I’m due at quai des Orfevres,” he said, rolling his eyes. “There’s another inquest in an hour, and I promised my mother-in-law I’d pick her dog up from the groomers’.”

“I think we can work something out,” Aimee said, taking his arm. “What’s your mother-in-law’s address?”

Tuesday Late Afternoon

BERNARD STUDIED MUSTAFA HAMID. He marked Hamid’s large black eyes, sallow complexion, and the dried lace of spittle on his beard. Took in his hollow-cheeked profile and bone-thin arms.

The cold and damp called for Bernard’s lined winter coat, not the skimpy suit jacket he wore. He wondered at Hamid’s simple white cotton knee-length shirt and his smocked leggings. He wore a Chechia, a white crocheted cap, and a prayer shawl covered his shoulders.

The old familiarity gnawed at Bernard, intrusive and intimate. Memories of what he’d tried to forget came back to him. The wild-eyed holy man proclaiming doom in the deserted streets of Algiers. How a sniper’s bullet silenced him at Bernard’s mother’s feet in the long lines snaking to the port of Algiers.

Bernard watched Hamid’s hands trace worry beads as he sat on a thin mattress. With a deft movement Hamid touched Bernard’s hand then his own heart.

“Salaam aleikum, Directeur Berge,” Hamid said, addressing him formally, his voice deep. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you.”

“Aleikum es-salaam,” Bernard replied. That much of the Arabic greeting Bernard remembered. “Monsieur Hamid, I appreciate your time and hope we can arrive at fruitful negotiations.”

“Please excuse my appearance,” Hamid said. He gestured toward a tray laden with a teapot and mint sprigs in thin gold-rimmed glasses. “You are my guest. May I offer you tea?”

Bernard nodded. “Monsieur Hamid, won’t you join me?”

“Unfortunately my fast allows only weak tea.”

Not wishing to tower over Hamid, Bernard sat down on a nearby tattered cushion.

“Monsieur Hamid,” he said, “my ministry wants to provide for your people. We wish to work with you. After the dust settles, so to speak, we’ll make sure provisions allow for their return.”

Bernard had spoken quickly, dropping the bad news. He clung to the idea that Hamid would hear the sincerity in his voice. Somehow miraculously believe him and shuffle the sans-papiers down the aisle and into the planes.

Hamid shook his head. His eyes mirrored the sadness Bernard felt. “I apologize in advance for whatever happens,” Hamid said, bowing his head, flecked with gray under the Chechia. “Violence is never called for.”

“I’m sure you’re not threatening retaliatory force, Monsieur Hamid,” Bernard said, recovering quickly. “That would surprise me, coming from a leader and a man known for peaceful negotiations.”

“I speak not so,” Hamid said. “The teachings of Allah embrace the family of man, evidenced by those you see around us. Not distinguishing us as Hindu, Muslim, or Christian.”

Hamid raised his arm, then dropped it. The effort of exertions appeared to tire him.

A man with a heavy beard, dressed in the same style, appeared. “Monsieur Hamid’s health bears watching,” he said. “I’m sorry, he’s very weak. Please discuss with him later.”

“Bien sur,” Bernard agreed. “A very delicate situation.”

The last thing Bernard wanted was for Hamid to become a martyr. Visions of the Ivory Coast Bureau, manned by disgraced bureaucrats at half their pension, danced in his mind.

He retreated to the vestibule, seeking a silent spot.

What had Hamid insinuated by mentioning violence? The hidden fundamentalist cells dotting Paris and their retributions loomed in his mind … Metro bombings, explosions in department stores … innocent people commuting to work, families buying school clothes, killed due to fanatics. His heart hardened. He’d thought Hamid was different, from a peaceful sect.

“Get me access to le Ministre” Bernard said, eyeing the buses lining rue de la Mare. Their rumbling engines and exhaust fumes filled Place de Menilmontant.

“As you wish,” the lantern-jawed CRS captain said.

By the time le Ministre came on the line, Bernard had rehearsed his plan mentally several times. He’d avert a crisis the only way he could think of and get Hamid out of the church. Hopefully the sans’papiers would follow.

“Hamid’s weakened condition demands attention,” Bernard said to le Ministre. “Setting him up as a martyr, canonized by the immigrants, is the last thing we want.”

“And what do you propose to do about that?” le Ministre asked.

A rustling came from the minister’s end as he put his hand over the phone. Bernard heard applause and murmuring voices in the background.

“A tactic to diffuse his power,” Bernard said.

He explained his plan.

Three minutes later the minister agreed, with one caveat. “He’s out, Berge. Or you are.”

Tuesday Early Evening

AIMEE HAD DEPOSITED MOMO, a well-coiffed shih tzu, at Serge’s mother-in-law’s, declining tea despite the insistent invitation. More than a month had passed, she realized guiltily, since she’d taken Miles Davis for a trim.

In her office, she rang Philippe again, but he was out. His secretary promised to reach him and have him get back to her. She worried. Anais hadn’t returned her calls either.

Aimee stood reading Serge’s unfolding fax over Rene’s shoulder.

“The Yvette’s identity hasn’t yet been established,” Aimee said as she read the report. “But Anais identified her as Sylvie Coudray. Yet the neighbor and the custodian referred to her as Eugenie. According to this the