Murder in Belleville

“Just remember we came to you first,” Aimee said. “Later on, don’t say Khalil didn’t offer his family a fat slice of the tart.” Aimee studied her nails, trying to remember graffiti slogans on the Belleville Metro. “Like he says, ‘Brothers of the bled ‘countryside’ should unite!’”

Samia snorted. “Bled!? The closest we’ve been to the countryside was when the colonials massacred those who couldn’t emigrate as servants. Khalil went back for his ‘roots,’ and now he can’t wait to get out.”

She had a point, Aimee thought.

“Am I too blanc for you, Samia, is that it?” Aimee asked.

Samia didn’t answer.

Frustrated, she didn’t know how to get information from Samia. So far she’d gotten zip. Aimee looked around, thinking furiously. She felt as if she’d gone north instead of south.

She ran her fingers over a small CD player on the counter, and noticed the big-screen TV in the next room. A red-bordered overdue France Telecom bill lay on the windowsill. Now she had an idea.

“You’ve got a nice life, Samia. Quite a class act.” Aimee strolled toward an open pantry lined with pate Turkish halvah, and Iranian caviar. “Better life than most. I’m a working girl. Hundred-franc uprights were all I knew, and burned-out cars were my place of business until I met Khalil. He became my patron, taught me things, showed me how to bleed the Johns and make more than my rent.” She looked meaningfully at Samia. “I’ll do anything the mec asks.”

Samia looked away. Maybe the affluence was hard to maintain. Aimee saw a framed photo of an almond- eyed boy with a serious expression, the honey patina of his skin like Samia’s. He wore the short pants of a Catholic-school uniform, a bookbag slung over his shoulder.

“He’s gorgeous,” Aimee said, and meant it. “Your son?”

Samia nodded, her eyes lighting up. “Marc after Marcus Aurelius,” she said, a winsome expression crossing her face.

“Catholic school?”

“He’s baptized,” Samia said, a hint of pride in her voice.

“Must cost,” Aimee said, rubbing her fingers together.

Samia stiffened and turned away. “Zdanine helps us; he furnished the flat.”

“But he can’t help you now, can he?” she said, not waiting for an answer. “He’s stuck in the church.”

She saw the struggle in Samia’s eyes.

Aimee knew she’d reached her when she’d talked about her little boy. And she knew Samia had money trouble.

“Look, if you’re not interested, at least help me connect with Eugenie,” Aimee said.

Samia’s blank look answered her.

“You’ve got to go, haven’t you?” Samia said, her veiled politeness strained. “I’m late.”

Aimee tore a paper sheet from her datebook and wrote her cell phone number down. “Think about what I’ve said. Call me in a few hours.”

Disappointed that Samia hadn’t taken the bait outright, Aimee went down the worn stairs, past the hammam, and onto the street. She hoped when Samia got desperate she’d call.

“HOW MUCH?” Aimee asked the man with the armful of watches on rue de Belleville.

“Fifty francs,” he said, brandishing his arm close to her nose. He jiggled a phosphorescent tangerine plastic band with a yellow happy face off his wrist.

“Not my style,” she said.

Her cell phone rang.

“Didn’t we have a meeting?” Rene asked.

She thrust fifty francs into the man’s palm, grabbed the watch, laced up her hightops, and took off running.

By the time Aimee returned to the office she’d convinced herself she’d find Sylvie’s killers through the Maghrebin network. However, at this rate it could take a year.

Rene looked up from his book, his large green eyes hooded. She didn’t like it.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, looking her up and down. “You’re supplementing our income?”

“Didn’t we get the EDF contract?” she said, sitting down heavily.

“Like I said, the nervous little manager liked us,” Rene said, leaning back in his orthopedic chair. “But the big EDF guy in the sky doesn’t want to ‘piecemeal’ the security system, or so they say. He’s got a point. The Seattle firm offered a bid on comprehensive services. Impressive.”

Aimee stood up, fire in her eyes. “So can we.”

“Already have,” Rene winked. “I roughed a basic package together,” he said, pulling out a thick folder. “A draft, of course. But I thought we might want to throw in something special. A little extra.”

“Exactly. Some piece de resistance,” she said, tossing her leather jacket on the coatrack. She scratched her head, then opened their office window overlooking the Louvre. The knock of diesel engines and the occasional cry of a street vendor competed with the roar of Paris buses.

“Let’s get to work, partner,” she said, unsnapping the studs on her sleeves.

After an hour they’d redone their network vulnerability scan and thrown in maintenance too. A realistic offer. And at lower than what they figured the other firm would bid. She felt good, at last, to work on something concrete. Aimee took a deep breath and faxed their offer to the EDF.

Her cell phone rang.

She prayed that Samia was on the other end.

“Allo?”

“Philippe denies e-e-everything,” Anais said, her voice thick and slurred.

Relieved finally to hear from Anais, she was startled at her tone.

“He won’t s-s-speak of her.”

“I’ve been worried, trying to reach you,” she said, terrified by the way Anais sounded. She grabbed a piece of paper. “Let me come and get you. Where are you?”

“Somewhere,” she said, her voice slipping away. “Martine and the housekeeper take Simone to preschool. But s-S’Something’s wrong. S-s-sent you a cheque. Philippe’s afraid. I didn’t tell you—S-Sylvie gave me the envelope—”

“I need to talk with you, Anais,” she said. “Where is that envelope—?”

But Anais hung up before Aimee could finish. Worried, she called Philippe. No one answered at the de Froissarts.’ She tried the ministry. Philippe’s cordial secretary had no idea where Madame de Froissart could be reached but again promised Aimee she’d see that the minister got her message.

Fat chance. She’d begun to feel the only way to bag Philippe would be to grab a rifle and haunt the ministry.

She searched the mail on her desk and slit open a letter addressed to her. She waved Anais’s check in the air.

“Our account’s ten thousand francs richer,” she said.

Rene blinked.

“Anais?”

She nodded. “Let’s eat while I fill you in on the latest.”

They ordered sushi from the new Japanese restaurant below their office, putting it under business expense.

Over a spider crab roll and saba marinated mackerel Aimee told Rene about Morbier’s agenda and Samia, who baptized her son and wanted him to be French, while his father, a pimp and explosives conduit, claimed sanctuary in the church.

“What about the Fichier in Nantes?” she asked. “Sylvie must have another address.”

“So far no luck, but I’ll keep trying,” Rene nodded. “My friend loaned me a new identity morphing software,” Rene said, rubbing his stubby hands together. “For now why don’t I try it out on Sylvie?”

“Be my guest,” Aimee said, putting down her chopsticks. “What does it do?”

“A slight hitch remains,” he said. “We need a photo.”

“I think I can do something about that,” Aimee said. She logged onto her computer, accessing the bank