Murder in Belleville

He shook his head and got the bartender’s attention. “I’ll nurse a Perrier.”

She’d forgotten that Muslims took no alcohol.

“Do you live in the area?” she said, wondering why she’d run into him here.

His look turned serious at her casual question.

“Please understand, I have no political affiliation with the AFL,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “But some of my ex-wife’s family claimed sanctuary, so I brought clothes and food. It’s important to help them, person to person.”

Aimee wondered if he could do more than that.

“Can’t you help them stay?” she said, noting the muted cafe light playing on his features.

“Not with the present law,” Kaseem shrugged, a very Gallic response. “My wife was French, but I’m naturalized. I can’t help them anymore. That’s the trouble.”

Kaseem’s mineral water arrived, and he paid for both their drinks with an assurance that commanded attention. Kaseem appeared at ease in many worlds yet was not pompous.

“Merci,” she said. She enjoyed standing in a cafe with an interesting man and talking. Face it, she admitted to herself, Kaseem wasn’t hard on the eyes. And he wasn’t rushing off to the airport.

“Tell me about your project involved with the humanitarian mission,” she said.

“Mostly I export and import,” he said, waving his long-fingered hand. “Life in the countryside is stark,” he said. “We’re doing all we can.”

As Kaseem spoke his eyes lit up, and he gave her his complete attention. As if her every thought mattered.

“With feet in both worlds, I’m just a conduit,” Kaseem said. “But I feel a sense of responsibility. Especially since I know Philippe, maybe I can help in ways others can’t.”

She remembered the military types among the trade delegation at Philippe’s house. Broaching the subject indirectly seemed the only way.

Aimee said, “My nephew’s going through an army stage,” she grinned. “You know boys. You wouldn’t know anyone in the military?”

Kaseem returned her smile. “Sorry, I’m just a merchant.”

He laid his arm on hers.

“Right now I’m worried about Anais,” he said, interrupting. “Philippe acts stoic, but you’re her friend. Please, I want to help. But I don’t even know where she is.”

“Makes two of us, Kaseem,” she said, glancing up at the cafe clock. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

He offered her a lift to her office. Why not? He exuded an ease with himself, an elusive quality she didn’t see in many men. Except Yves. But Yves was gone, and she liked Kaseem’s attention. En route Kaseem said he knew where to get the best falafel in Belleville, so they stopped and ate on the street.

“Call me paranoid, but either Anais doesn’t like me anymore or something’s happened,” Kaseem said as they stood munching their overflowing falafels and tossing crumbs to the pigeons. “She’s never home, doesn’t return calls.”

Aimee knew the feeling.

“Did something happen?” Kaseem asked. “Tell me; I don’t want to pester.”

“Philippe’s the one to ask, Kaseem,” she said.

At the curb on rue du Louvre, she turned to thank him. Kaseem responded with a lingering bisou on both cheeks. Nice. In fact, quite nice. Her cheeks burned all the way up the stairs.

AS SHE opened her office door, the phone was ringing.

“Allo,” she said, hitting the light switch with her elbow.

“Anais’s all shaken up,” Martine said, her voice low.

“Where is she?” Aimee tossed her bag on the desk, switched her computer on, and threw herself in the chair.

“Philippe’s put her in a clinic,” Martine said. “And for once he’s done the right thing.”

Aimee doubted that.

“Look, Martine, Philippe threatened me,” she said. “Sicked a gorilla on my tail to make sure I don’t investigate further.”

“He did what?’ Martine said, sounding more indignant than surprised.

“And threatened my business,” Aimee said, turning toward her oval window. Rain had started to prickle the glass fronting rue du Louvre.

“Philippe’s protecting his family,” she said.

“Martine, he’s hiding something,” she said. “He’s afraid.”

Over the phone Aimee heard Martine sigh.

“Anais wants you to find out what he’s hiding,” Martine said. “Don’t stop. I’ll talk to him.”

“After being beaten and shot at the Cirque d’Hiver and finding no leads, maybe he’s right.”

“Philippe did that?”

“My top suspect is an Algerian who has links to plastique,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“It’s a long story,” Aimee said, not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation.

“Condense it and tell me,” Martine said.

“Now you sound like an editor,” Aimee said.

But she did.

She told Martine about how she’d tried to find the phstique source via Samia.

“What about this General?”

“He likes magic, and he’s not nice.”

“Don’t think I’m not concerned,” Martine said, “but at least Anais is safe.”

Aimee felt there was more to what Martine said. “What do you mean, Martine?”

“Now that I’m spending time with Simone,” she said. “Maybe I want my own.”

Caught off guard, Aimee heard wistfulness in Martine’s voice. She’d never heard Martine talk like this. Disturbing.

“Attends, Martine, it’s worse than having a dog,” she said. “You have to make them eat, and the vet bills are much higher.”

Martine laughed.

“Martine, Philippe acted strange when he heard about Hamid and the hunger strikers,” she said, “Sylvie had one of his flyers.”

“So you think there’s some connection?” Martine asked.

“We’ll find out,” Aimee said. “Do you still have your friend in Securite sociale?

“He retired,” Martine said.

Too bad. She could have found information about the AFL.

“Anais mentioned she’d given Philippe an envelope.”

“I’ll ask him. Look, Aimee, I’m helping take care of Simone. That’s all I can do for Anais,” Martine said, her voice pleading. “Find out what’s got Philippe by the balls, please. You can do this.”

“Get the goon off my tail,” Aimee said.

“D’accord,” Martine agreed. “You’re the only one I trust, Aimee. No matter what, I know you’ll come through. Please.”

By the time Aimee reached the crowded mouth of the Metro, she had a plan. She still hadn’t heard from Samia, but there was one person nearby whom she could ask about Eugenie.

Saturday Evening

THE DEAD HAD IT easy, Bernard thought, shuffling his files together on his office desk.