Murder in Belleville

true—if she had made Anais go to the flics—but then those men following them had diverted her. “I’ve been trying to reach Philippe and Anais for two days. They don’t return my calls!”

“The only favor I’ve ever asked you, Aimee,” Martine said, disappointment in her voice. “Couldn’t you have helped me once?”

“Mais, Martine, I helped Anais escape,” she said, exasperated.

“Escape?”

Aimee set down her bag and hit the light switch in her dark office.

“Sounds like Philippe neglected to mention the car bomb that exploded in front of Ana’ts and me,” Aimee said, sitting down at her desk, logging on to her computer. “The victim was his ‘former’ mistress.”

Martine sucked in her breath.

“Or so Anais said, but there’s more to it than that,” she said, checking her answering machine. “Things are smellier than the rat’s head delivered to my door on Monday. Are you sitting down?”

“I guess I better,” Martine said, her voice sounding worried but calmer.

Aimee told her what happened since Anais had called her: Sylvie’s possible red-haired alias as Eugenie, the Lake Biwa pearl, the Duplo plastique, and Sylvie’s lack of positive ID.

“Look, Philippe’s never been my favorite,” Martine said. “He loves Anais, granted, in his own way. But I know he wouldn’t put her or anyone else in danger. He’s the original aristocrat turned bleeding heart liberal. Since Simone was born—well—Anais says, he’s taken stock of his life, made changes.”

Aimee remembered Anais in the taxi speeding through Belleville. Her bloody leg and her calm acceptance of Philippe’s former infidelity.

“What charges did the flics pull her in on?” Aimee asked.

“I don’t know, but you’ve got to help her,” Martine said. “Please! We Sitbon sisters pick such winners, eh?” Her voice had grown wistful.

Was Martine thinking about Gilles, her former boss and lover at Le Figaro whose job she now held?

“My track record doesn’t rate any better,” Aimee said. “Yves returned unannounced, I let him spend the night, and then he disappears.”

“He’s in Marseilles, Aimee,” Martine said. “Covering Mustafa Hamid’s AFL branch in case of repercussions.”

Mustafa Hamid—Aimee remembered seeing that name from the AFL posters plastered around Belleville.

She heard Martine take a deep breath. Instead of reassuring words, Martine warned her. “Yves’s ex-wife’s back in the picture,” she said. “Seems she’s making big noises about their apartment.”

This surprised her. Yves had never mentioned it, but then again she’d never asked.

“How do you keep so informed?”

“Because he complained that going to Marseilles was going to get him into trouble with all the women in his life,” Martine said. “Eh, if that’s blunt, sorry. But I know you can take it. You don’t rely on men.”

Yves could have told her.

Next time he showed up she’d ask for her key back.

“Which commissariat’s holding Anais?” Aimee said, hoping her tone sounded matter-of-fact.

“In the quartier Charonne, rue des Orteaux,” Martine said.

“Good. I know someone there,” she said. “At least I used to.”

But she wondered why Anais was being held. Was this some kind of cover-up?

JOUVENAL, AN old colleague of Morbier and her father’s, manned the night-desk phone at the commissariat in Charonne. Had done so for twenty years. Too bad he hadn’t been on duty when Martaud had brought her in to the other station: She’d have called him instead of Morbier.

Jouvenal always kept anise pastilles from Flavigny Abbey, near his hometown of Dijon, in his desk. On the nights she’d done homework in her papa’s office, he’d fill her palm with them.

She called him at the commissariat.

“Philippe de Froissart, c’est lui” Jouvenal said, his voice raspier than ever over the phone. He coughed and hacked, still a pack-a-day man, she could tell. She visualized his kind blue eyes.

She wanted a cigarette. In the background she heard voices raised in heated discussion and the scraping of metal chairs over the floor.

“I need to talk with his wife, get her released,” she said.

“De Froissart’s attempting to get her out,” Jouvenal said. “Monsieur bigwig says his own recognizance should be enough even though she hasn’t been charged yet. The night is young, eh? His status will work in his wife’s favor.”

“She’s not involved, Jouvenal,” she said. “I ought to know.”

“How’s that?”

“She almost got blown up as well,” Aimee said.

“I know your old man trained you,” he said slowly. Aimee could almost see Jouvenal’s broad shoulders. When she was little, they’d seemed like blue mountains when he’d shrugged. “But even if that’s true, what can I do?”

“Let me speak with Philippe.”

“He’s busy. Looks like he’s going to smack the judiciaire in a minute if I don’t curtail matters.” Shouts erupted in the background.

“Jouvenal, I always liked you,” she said. “Please, get Philippe on the phone.”

“You only liked me for my candy,” he said.

“That too,” she said. “But after you explained long division to me, I finally got it.”

“Attends, Aimee,” he said. The phone scraped and she heard Jouvenal’s calming voice.

She had to meet Philippe, ferret out what he was hiding.

Finally, Jouvenal got Philippe on the line.

“Oui,” he said curtly.

“It’s Aimee Leduc,” she said. “I need to talk with you.”

“You! Were you born an imbecile or did you grow that way?” he shouted. “What did you get my wife involved in?”

“Me?” she asked surprised. “Sylvie Coudray blew up in front of us! Anais involved me, not the other way around.”

Muffled noises like a hand held over the phone interrupted her.

“Come to my office tomorrow.” he said. “We’ll talk.”

“Today. Now,” Aimee said. “You’re in the Twentieth Arron-dissement; so am I.”

She lied but she didn’t want to be put off any longer. A pause. She heard a woman crying in the background.

Was that Anais?

“What’s going on?” Aimee asked him.

“78 Place de Guignier in thirty minutes.”

He hung up.

AIMEE KNOCKED on the gate of number 78, a two-story house set back from the square surrounded by ivy- covered walls. Through the mail slot she glimpsed yellow roses and greenery bordering a path to the glossy dark green door. Bright lights shone on her.

“Who’s there?” asked a loud voice.

“Le Ministre de Froissart, please,” she said, blinking in the harsh beams.

A long-faced woman opened the gate. She looked Aimee up and down. “Tradespeople use the back door.” She jerked her head toward the side brick entrance, dripping with ivy.

“I’ll remember that,” she said. “Meanwhile, his wife might be framed for murder.”

The woman stiffened and let out a gasp. “He’s at the ministry.”

“He said to meet him here,” Aimee said. She looked around but didn’t see a mailbox. “Who lives here?”

“Come this way,” the woman said and led her inside toward the side door.