Murder in Belleville

account with Sylvie’s password, beur. She dug around for documentation used to establish the Credit Lyonnais bank account. After ten minutes she got excited when she pulled up Eugenie’s carte rationale d’identite photo.

“Look, Rene,” she said, printing the image.

For the first time she got a good look at the woman, not just her dismembered limbs.

“Parfait!” Rene said. “Knockout!”

“She’s good looking, striking—” She was about to add that no one, attractive or not, deserved to be torn apart by a bomb.

“Knockout’s a new program. An image-masking software,” he said, “which works for anything involved in digitally enhanced images.”

“Meaning?”

“Watch this,” he said, his eyes bright with anticipation.

Aimee slipped Sylvie’s photo onto the scanner.

At his terminal Rene drew selection lines defining the inner and outer boundaries of Sylvie’s face. Knockout outputted the processed foreground—the object with colors removed—and a grayscale alpha channel that preserved the transparency of the original.

“Short red hair?”

“Like mine,” she said, remembering the wig. “Make it a bit more shaggy in the back.”

He played around, then printed the image out. A seamless fit.

“You’re a wizard, Rene!”

“Try jogging people’s memory with that,” he said. “You know, for the right price the Maghrebin network performs similar functions. A gold Eurocard, driver’s license, even a Securiti socicde number.”

“Merci,” she said, again surprised by Renews depth of underworld knowledge. “I need to find out where this Duplo plastique comes from.” She pecked Rene on both cheeks. “Time to get busy.”

“Where are you going?” His green eyes widened.

“To jog Philippe’s memory,” she said. “Get his thoughts.”

Before she’d unzipped her leather jumpsuit, her cell phone rang again.

“Oui.” She caught herself before she blurted, “Leduc Detective.”

“I’m waiting for you,” Samia said.

She’d expected Anais but recovered quickly, “Samia, you’ve reconsidered?”

“There’s someone you need to meet.” Samia’s voice sounded strained, tight. “Hurry up.”

“What about Eugenie?”

“He knows,” she said. “I’m at the hammam. Can you meet me in fifteen?”

“I’m on the way,” she said, reaching for her jacket and tucking the Beretta in her pocket.

This could be the break she was looking for.

Friday Late Afternoon

INSIDE THE HAMMAM-PISCINE, SAMIA slouched by the ticket booth overlooking the L-shaped pool. A thirties-style vaulted ceiling and salmon tiles housed the humid, chlorine-laced air. In the shallow end an old woman, her bathing cap’s tight strap separating the fleshy folds of her neck, bobbed up and down.

Aimee’s eyes darted around the nearly empty pool. She preferred the piscine at Reuilly; cleaner, newer, and a short bike ride from her flat. A middle-aged man, kneeling with a long handled net, was fishing for something on the dark green bottom.

“Do you have a car?” Samia asked. She’d changed into a narrow black trench coat.

Aimee nodded. Rene’s Citroen sat parked nearby.

“Let’s go,” Samia said.

Wary, Aimee noticed her fluttery eyelashes, the orange-dayglo fingernails. Morbier was right. She was young. And Aimee was supposed to be protecting her.

“Tell me where.”

“The circus,” Samia said.

Aimee followed Samia’s leather mules as they scuffed down the dank-smelling stone passage into the street.

In the Citroen, Samia’s gaze wavered as Aimee adjusted Renews customized seat and pedals.

“Which circus?” Aimee said, turning on the ignition and hearing the powerful hum of the engine.

“Cirque d’Hiver,” she said. “If you don’t hurry up, we’ll miss him.”

“Who?” Aimee asked, shifting the car down rue Oberkampf.

“The man you’re dying to meet.” Samia’s full lips were set in a firm line. “He wants to see you, too. Just to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

Samia shrugged. “To see that his wholesale line goes to good hands.”

Aimee kept her surprise in check. Samia had found this connection fast.

Something about it made her uneasy, nervous. Didn’t Samia know about the explosion?

“What about Eugenie?”

“My feelers are out,” Samia said. “She owes me money.”

Aimee wondered why the Maghrebin network hadn’t spread the news about Sylvie/Eugenie’s death. Odd—were they cagey because they’d sold the plastiquel

Aimee found no parking spaces anywhere and klaxons blared in annoyance. She ended up parking under an ARRET GENANT towing sign, among several other cars on rue Oberkampf. They reached the Cirque d’Hiver, a circular nineteenth-century building resembling a tent, topped by a bronze statue of an Amazon on the roof and two bronze warriors on horses over the entrance. Circus posters proclaiming past glories— the Bolshoi Circus, Chinese glass balancers, Mongolian contortionists, Hungarian jugglers, and Canadian trapeze artists—were pasted outside.

The Cirque d’Hiver brought back memories to Aimee: traditional Christmas day visits with her grandfather, chewing the fluffy pink barbes a papa which turned fuchsia in her mouth. The monkeys sitting on the accordionist’s shoulder as he played while strolling through the audience, the spotlight’s glare on the rhinestone-studded trapeze artists. As a child she’d loved the ink-black darkness and heat from the spotlights trained on the big ring.

“Do what I say,” Samia said, jolting Aimee from her reverie. Samia pulled her coat tight around her and stared at Aimee.

“So if we pass the test, the big man gives us a contract?” Aimee asked. “My client’s picky. He wants Duplo plastique.”

Samia looked at Aimee’s wrist and grinned.

“C’est chouette!” she said tapping Aimee’s new watch. “I need one,” she said and strutted toward the red entrance doors.

Samia was a kid. Aimee didn’t like this, but then she didn’t like much of what had happened so far.

The Cirque d’Hiver nowadays rented the hall for everything from fashion shows to rock concerts in its one- ring circus. Aimee wondered why they kept the circus posters, mostly from the sixties and seventies, behind smudged glass in the carpeted lobby. Neglect or nostalgia for former glory?

Muffled laughter and applause came from behind greasy-looking doors. A private show of Stanislav the Stupendous—Budapest’s third natural wonder, his name framed by tiny lights—was scheduled for the evening.

“Auditions for new acts,” boomed a bored woman at the barbe a papa concession. She exhaled a funnel of smoke rings into the air and shook her head. “Sorry. Pas possible. Too many guests disturb the animals’concentration.”