Murder in Belleville

humanitarian mission tonight?” He spoke with a slight Algerian accent and seemed intent on cornering Philippe.

She saw Philippe stiffen.

“Tiens, you’re impatient, Kaseem!” Philippe said, his tone even. He put his arm around Kaseem and shot a look back at Aimee that read, Keep your mouth closed.

Aimee didn’t like this, but she gave Philippe the benefit of the doubt. No reason to blurt out what had happened to these men.

“You know that’s a quality I admire, but the Assembly thinks along different lines,” Philippe said. “Last night we recommended that the delegation count on next year.”

“Kaseem’s plan depends on the dry season, Philippe,” Guittard said. “We don’t want to disappoint him or his backers.”

“Social gatherings require wine, Olivier, don’t you agree?” Philippe said, reaching to uncork a bottle of Crozes-Hermitage on the counter. “Or juice for Kaseem?”

Aimee couldn’t see Philippe’s face while he redirected the conversation. Or tried to.

“What about your wine, Philippe,” Olivier said. “Has Chateau de Froissart yielded a good vintage yet?”

“Soon,” Philippe said. “Winemaking takes time, everyone struggles the first few years.”

“So you keep your women in the kitchen like we do, Philippe?” Kaseem grinned. He turned to Aimee. “Don’t be offended, I’m joking. Some women feel more comfortable.”

Aimee gave a thin smile. She didn’t think she looked like the domestic type.

Philippe rubbed his white, fleshy thumbs together. A bland, masklike expression came over his face.

“Excuse us.” He motioned his guests in the direction of the dining area.

Philippe returned, his eyes dark.

“I’ll take care of Anais,” he said, guiding her toward the back door.

“Philippe, why are men after her?”

His face was flushed. “How do I know what you’re talking about? Let me speak with Anais.”

And he shut the door on her.

In the taxi on her way back, Aimee wondered what Philippe was hiding. And she realized she hadn’t seen one single woman at the reception.

ON ILE St. Louis, Aimee asked the taxi driver to stop around the corner from her flat. Dropping change on the floor, she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. She needed a drink. The dim lights of the bistro Les Fous de L’lsle shone on rue des Deux Ponts. She tucked a hundred francs under his lapel.

“Call me next time,” the driver said, giving her his card, which read “Franck Polar.”

“Don’t log the fare, Franck,” she said. “That’s if you want me to call you again. Merci.”

She got out and inhaled the crisp air, her bruises and cuts smarting. Dankness emanated from the leaning stone buildings and she pulled her sweater tighter. Ahead, leafy quaiside trees rustled, and the Seine lapped below Pont Marie. She narrowly missed stepping on dog droppings, which reminded her of Miles Davis, her bichon frise— time for his dinner.

She heard strains of music wafting over the narrow, wet street. Outside the bistro a blackboard announced in blue chalk, QUINTET JAZZ! She opened the glass doors plastered with accepted bank cards and edged past the tall potted plants. The warm, hazy smoke hit her. She’d chew nails for a cigarette right now.

The quintet had paused while the female drummer did a solo. The piano player sat upright, eyes closed, with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, while the saxophonist, trumpet player, and contrabass player stood together, swaying to the notes. Every table was full of patrons eating. A standing crowd overflowed the bar. The beeping cell phones, blue cigarette haze, and familiar gap-toothed grin of Monique at the bar made Aimee feel at home.

She squeezed in at the counter between a Bourse stockbroker type with a nice profile and an aging longhaired man. He proudly told anyone who’d listen that his daughter Rosa played the saxophone, even though she was in the Conservatoire de Musique.

“Ca va, Monique?”

“Bien, Aimee. You working?” Monique eyed her, setting a glass of house red in front of her.

Aimee nodded.

“Et apres?” Monique asked.

“Steak tartare to go,” she said.

Monique nodded solemnly.

“Une tartare pour Meek Daveez,” Monique said turning to the chef, her brother, also gap-toothed. Maybe it was genetic.

“For me a cheese tartine,” Aimee said.

“Your usual, eh?”

Aimee nodded, sipping the heavy vin rouge and drumming her fingers in time to the beat.

The stockbroker lit a cigarette, talked earnestly into his cell phone, and smiled. He exhaled a snake trail of smoke near her ear. She wanted to grab his filter-tipped Caporal and suck the tobacco into her lungs, but instead she reached into her pocket for Nicorette gum.

He raised his wineglass in salute, his dark blue eyes holding hers. She raised her glass, then ignored him. Not her bad-boy type.

The solo ended; then the quintet resumed, with the piano player singing a smooth, unsentimental variation on Thelonious Monk’s version of “April in Paris.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

Aimee didn’t want to hear any more. She picked up her food, wedged the franc notes under her glass, and slipped into the crowd.

Miles Davis greeted her at the apartment door, his wet black nose sniffing her package of steak tartare. She kicked the hall radiator in her twenty-foot-ceilinged entryway twice until it sputtered to life, pulled her damp wool sweater off, and stepped out of her leather pants. She sniffed. Something smelled musty.

“Time for dinner, Miles Davis,” she said. She scooped him into her arms and carried him to the dark kitchen at the back of the apartment. The Seine flowed gelatinous and black below her tall windows. Lantern lights dotted the quai, their pinprick reflections caught in the heavy water. Almost as though they were drowning, she thought.

Bone weary, she peered outside to look at the quai, her nose touching the cold glass. The only person she saw was a figure walking a German shepherd. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt she wasn’t alone. Foreboding washed over her.

Miles Davis licked her cheek.

“A table, furball,” she said, and hit the light switch. The chandelier flickered, then emitted a feeble glow.

She took his chipped Limoges bowl, spooned in the steak tartare, and set it down for him. After changing his water, she plopped her tartine down on the counter, too tired to feel hungry.

Her thoughts turned to her last boyfriend. She pictured Yves, his large brown eyes and slim hips. When he’d accepted the Cairo correspondent post, she’d stuck pins in a Tutankhamen doll until it resembled a pincushion. Right now the only male in her life was on the floor at her feet with a wet nose and wagging tail.

Aimee heard the cat door thump shut. The hairs on her neck stood up. Miles Davis growled but didn’t abandon his steak tartare. Who could that be?

On her way to check the front door in the hallway, she smelled an odor. Had something died between her walls? Visions of decaying, rabid creatures in death throes wafted before her. She grabbed a broom and one of her boots as weapons, gingerly stepping down the hallway. The odor grew stronger.

The ripe, sweetish tang alarmed her. A bulky envelope had been wedged through the cat door she’d installed for Miles Davis. She hadn’t noticed the envelope when she entered.

She pulled on the first thing hanging from her coat rack, a blue faux-fur coat, then opened the door. Cold and musty drafts tunneled down the hallway. Her bare-legged reflection, in the worn mirrors opposite, stared back at her. Was she this rooster-haired, skinny creature armed with a broom and high-heeled boot?