“But I talked with someone—”
“Orders come in all the time,” the woman said, turning away. “You must have misunderstood.”
This woman was scared, Aimee thought, hiding something.
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” she said, thinking fast, “I’m terrible with names. A man helped me, he seemed about my age. He limped.”
Loud buzzing erupted from the back of the lab. Lights blinked green. “You’re in the wrong lab, I think,” the woman said, gesturing toward the rear. “Try the one on rue de Belleville.”
The woman headed quickly toward the back.
“But please, can’t you—”
“Excuse me,” the woman said, her mouth tight and compressed. “I’ve got a production schedule to meet.”
By the time Aimee made her way toward the back near the van, she’d come up with a plan. She jiggled the van door open, grabbed some large boxes of photographic papers, then entered the back.
Loud arguing in Arabic reached her ears. The scarf-clad woman stood by another stocky woman, pointing toward the front counter. In front of Aimee a massive printing machine spat out large-format posters, shooting them onto a spinning wheel. Aimee knew she had to move quickly. The women would throw her out before she found Youssef.
Men filled cartons as the posters came off the wheel. None of them sported spiky hair like Denet had described, so she kept going. Mounting the spiral staircase in back, leading to more of the lab, she discovered a warren of cluttered offices.
“Youssefs supposed to check this order,” she mumbled to an older man busy working an ancient adding machine.
“Let me see,” he said, pushing his glasses up his forehead.
Aimee leaned the carton on the edge of his desk, making a show of how heavy it was.
The man’s phone rang; he picked it up and immediately began punching the adding machine.
“Sorry, but I’ve got more deliveries,” she said, tapping her nails on the box.
He looked up, then motioned Aimee toward a long hallway.
“Down there. I don’t recognize the order,” he said. “Check with me on your way out.”
Aimee shot ahead before he changed his mind. She figured that this nineteenth-century building joined apartments in the back. Below her the floor vibrated from the machines.
After checking four dusty offices in the next wing, she saw a figure hunched over a photo layout, marking shots with red pen.
“Youssef?” she asked, setting down the cartons.
A young short-haired woman in her mid-twenties looked up, her eyes unsure.
“I’m Youssefa,” she said. “What do you need?”
Now it made sense. No wonder the women downstairs had told her there was no Youssef here.
Denet had mistakenly taken Youssefa for a man in Eugenie’s courtyard. Youssefa looked young, Aimee thought. Her dark skin stood out against her chalk white hair. Half-moon scars crossed from her temple to her left eye.
“Where’s Samia?”
“She left,” Youssefa said, her look guarded. “Who are you?”
“Her friend.”
Youssefa’s eyes flicked over her outfit. “You don’t seem her type,” she said.
“Samia left a message. She sounded frightened,” Aimee said.
Youseffa shrugged.
“Can you tell me about the ‘ST196’photos?”
Youssefa’s brown face passed from curiosity to terror in seconds. She dropped the pen, backed into a chair.
“I know you went to Eugenie’s apartment—did you develop those photos for her?”
Youssefa moved fast, around the corner of the table. She started running, her limp noticeable, out into the hall.
“Please, Youssefa, wait!” She shoved the carton on the floor and took off after her.
Aimee barreled into a stack of old film cans, sending them shooting across the wooden floor. She slipped and fell over the metal canisters, wincing as she landed on her aching hip.
Youssefa was gone.
Aimee got up slowly. She figured Youssefa could only have gone into the warren ahead of her, since the hall dead-ended behind her. The windows overlooking the courtyard parking area were open. She heard an unmistakable voice from below. She stopped and listened. A voice described her hair, her jacket, and how she owed his boss.
How could he have found her, unless he’d seen her leave from the back of her office. Or—her heart quickened. She didn’t like to think of it. Unless he’d gotten to Rene and threatened him. But Rene didn’t know where she was going—she hadn’t told him.
She heard scuffling down the dark hallway. That was the only direction Youssefa could have gone. She followed the noise.
Youssefa was pounding on a fire exit door, but it was jammed. When she saw Aimee, she reared back like a cornered animal about to attack.
“Let me help you, Youssefa,” she said. “Someone’s after me too.”
“I destroyed the negatives,” she said, her voice cracking. “Leave me alone.”
Why destroy the proof?
“I’m on your side, but as soon as we get out of here, I will,” she said. “A
Youssefa blinked her good eye.
“Look out the window, check for yourself,” she said. “Dede’s determined to find me, but he’s not my type either.”
She figured if they got out of here, she’d corner Youssefa and sit on her chest until she told her what the photos meant and why she’d destroyed the negatives.
She aimed several heel kicks until the exit door sagged open.
“Lead the way,” she said.
“Dede’s a piece of shit,” Youssefa said, hesitating, then limping ahead.
“No argument there,” Aimee said, following her.
She wondered why the sign said EXIT when this web of narrow halls, roofed by skylights, clearly led to another building instead of outside.
Youssefa opened the last door at the end. They entered a hallway, yellowed and scuffed, passing a dim stairwell. She took out a key and unlocked a door.
Uneasiness washed over Aimee but she figured this had to be better than what lay behind her. They entered the back rooms of a small apartment.
Red-flocked wallpaper, old gas sconces, and small upholstered chairs gave the rooms a busy appearance. But the huge black-and-white photos of Edith Piaf on stage and candid shots, filling the walls, lent the rooms a 1940s feel. A scratchy recording of Piaf played from another room. In the corner, tacked onto a dressmaker’s dummy about shoulder height, hung an old-fashioned black dress. Bizarre.
Everything was on a smaller scale, as if made for a little person. Rene’ would feel right at home, she thought.
“Where are we?”
“At my friend’s,” Youssefa said.
“What is this place … a shrine to Piaf?”
“Close,” Youssefa said. “It’s the Edith Piaf Museum.” She motioned her toward the back, putting her finger on her lips.
She followed Youssefa into a small modern kitchen, all white and stainless steel.
