Murder in Belleville

“Is the General’s number in here?” Aimee asked, holding up a pink fur address book. “I’ll deal directly with him.”

Samia blinked in fear. “They’re big—”

“Who?”

“Leave it alone,” she said.

“Samia, don’t you see my finger’s still on the trigger?” she said.

“You don’t know about—” she stopped.

“About what?”

Samia’s lips tightened.

“Fine, I’ll let Martaud know Zdanine supplies the plastique” Aimee sighed, pocketing the address book. “That will get me off his hook.” She turned the ignition key. “Since Zdanine’s claiming sanctuary in the church, you’re the perfect connection.”

It was a guess, but by the look on Samia’s face it hit home.

“Attends,” Samia said. “I called a number. That’s all.” Her chest heaved. She faced Aimee, her eye makeup smeared. “You leave my kid out of it, comprisl”

Aimee wondered why Samia would say that—was her young son used to keep her in line? A pang of remorse hit her for using Samia, a mother who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

“Zdanine used you, didn’t he?”

“Only two times,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t believe you.”

“You want to believe Zdanine instead of me …” Aimee let that trail in the air.

Silence except for the steady thrum of rain on the windshield.

“Something’s about to happen, isn’t it?”

Samia shrugged.

“What’s Eugenie’s connection?”

Samia rubbed the foggy window and turned away. “What time is it?”

“For a moment you were so helpful,” Aimee said. She leaned over, the Beretta still in one hand. “Who murdered Sylvie?”

“Sylvie … who’s that?”

Anger flared in Aimee, then died. Why would Samia know about her double life?

Aimee turned Samia’s chin toward her.

“Was it the General?” she asked.

“Who’s Sylvie?” Samia blinked several times.

Exasperated, Aimee pounded the steering wheel.

“What does Eugenie have to do with it?”

“She stayed at the apartment.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Who met her there?” Aimee said, knowing she had to pull information from Samia. Bit by painful bit.

“People dropped things off,” Samia said, wiping her face. “I’ve told you nothing. Nothing.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Aimee said soothingly. “Is someone making you afraid to tell me what you know?”

“The Maghrebins used that place. They scare me,” she said. “I told Zdanine, I don’t want to mix with them. He does.”

“What for?”

“They have places like that,” Samia said. “You know, all over. Like an octopus.”

Aimee remembered the flyer with “Youssef’ written on it. She felt as if she were grasping for straws.

“Did Eugenie mention Youssef?” she asked.

“Youssef? I think so: Someone called Zdanine while I was there. But I only met Eugenie once,” Samia said. “That’s all.”

“Did Eugenie give you this?” Aimee asked, holding up the pearl hair clip.

“I owe her a hundred francs,” Samia said, her voice contrite. “Look, it’s Marcus’s birthday. He’ll be hurt if I don’t make the school party. Didn’t even have time to buy him a present.”

Samia looked as if the world had fallen on her shoulders.

Aimee slipped the Beretta into her bag. She looked at her watch.

“Here,” she said, unstrapping the happy-face watch. “This suits you more than me. Give it to your son.”

Samia blinked and looked unsure.

“Take it,” she said. “Just don’t set me up again.”

“Chouette!” Samia’s face burst into a big smile. A big-kid smile, happy with a new toy, putting it on eagerly. “Merci!”

Aimee was amazed how childlike Samia seemed when her defenses were down. For a moment Aimee saw the young girl whose mother probably worked horizontak, who’d grown up in a housing project and then hooked up with a maggot like Zdanine. It reminded her of what Moliere had said about writing: First you do it because you like it, then you do it for some friends, then you do it for money.

Samia had pulled the visor down and begun wiping off her makeup in the mirror.

“I need to get to Gare du Nord,” she said. “Catch the 1:30 train for Marcus’s party.”

Of all the things Samia had told her, she believed this 100 percent.

“Tell me more en route to the station,” she said, turning on the ignition. “What’s your connection to Morbier?”

“Who?”

Surprised, Aimee kept driving. She decided to describe him, so if Samia had seen him she wouldn’t necessarily know he was a flic.

“Morbier’s an old mec, salt-and-pepper hair, moustache, and he wears suspenders over his big gut.”

“Sounds like one of my mother’s friends,” Samia said. “She knew lots of old farts.”

Aimee picked up on the past tense.

“Knew?”

“Passed away,” Samia said.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Curious, she wanted to explore more. At least find out why Morbier wanted her to protect Samia. She circled Place de la Republique, then gunned up boulevard de Magenta.

“What was your mother’s name?” she asked.

“Fouaz, like mine,” Samia said, her mouth crinkling in a sad smile.

Aimee was about to ask more when Samia turned to her.

“Keep this between us, but fifty thousand francs buys a hostage situation.”

Aimee’s heart skipped. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. “Go on.”

Samia’s face, now scrubbed clean of makeup, made her look younger than she probably was. A demure peach skirt and twinset emerged from under the black coat. Aimee wondered how Samia placated her conscience, if she had one.

“Who orders this plastique?”

“Zdanine says it’s Balkan crazies who like to blow each other up,” Samia said. “They do that shit all the time anyway.”

Aimee nodded. Too bad it wasn’t true in her case.

“Was it Duplo last time?” Aimee asked, hoping against hope that Samia knew.

“Semtex duds out sometimes, unreliable. The fundamentalists don’t seem to mind,” Samia said matter-of- factly. “Zdanine uses Duplo—only quality, he says.”

“What about the General?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“But why pick Eugenie?”

“That was a one-off.” Samia’s eyes slit in suspicion. “He sells to outsiders. No locals.” She shook her head. “Don’t look at me. Zdanine was in the church—he couldn’t have blown her up.”

Rain coursed down the windshield in silvered rivulets, like mercury. Aimee flipped the wipers faster. Samia’s