Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

Dedicated to all the ghosts, past and present

Thanks to so many who helped: Karen Fawcett; Joanna Bartholomew and Gala Besson in Menilmontant; Bertrand Bache merci, soul-soeurs Dot Edwards and Marion Nowak; Latifa Eloual-ladi; Claude and Amina; Julie Curtet, agent de recherche privie; Jean-Jacques and Pascal; Jean Dutailly; the Saturday group; Andre Valat, Police Attache French Embassy Ivory Coast; Thomas Erhady, Police Attache French Embassy Washington DC; sgt. Mike Peck, Bomb Squad; Carla; Terri Haddix, MD, Forensic Pathologist; the Noe Valley librarians; Denise Smart, MD; Isabelle et Andi; encore Denise Schwarzbach Alice; Michael Harris of DRG Digital Resources Group for his patience; Jean Vargues and the Electricity de France group; Jane; the Bs; the woman on the Oujda train; Grace Loh for her generosity; James N. Frey toujours and without whom; Linda Allen for her encouragement; a deep thanks to Melanie Fleishman who makes it all clear; my son Shuchan who lets me; and always to Jun.

As welcome as a hair in ones soup

a French saying

PARIS

APRIL 1994

Computer security, Aimee had protested, was her fieldnot spousal surveillance.

The phone reception wavered and flared.

Right now its difficult, she said. Im working, Anas.

She didnt want to interrupt her work. Thanks to a client referral, she was dropping off a network systems security proposal at the Electricite de France. Aime prayed that this would get Leduc Detective back on its feet after a lean winter.

Please, we have to meet, Anas said, urgency in her voice. Rue des Cascades near pare de Belleville. Anass voice came and went like a piece of laundry whipping in the wind. I need you.

Of course, as soon as I finish. Im on the outskirts of Paris, Aime said. Twenty kilometers away.

Im scared, Aime. Anas was sobbing now.

Aime felt torn. She heard a muffled noise as if Anas had covered the receiver with her hand.

Birds scattered from hedgerows. Along the gully budding daffodils bowed, skirting a mossy barge canal. Aime pressed the Citroens pedal harder, her cheek reddening in the whipping wind.

But Anas, I might take some time.

Caf Tlemcen, an old zinc bar, Im in the back. Anass voice broke. get caught. Aime heard the unmistakable shrieking of brakes, of shouting.

Anas, wait! she said.

Her phone went dead.

MORE THAN an hour later, Aime found the caf with dingy lace curtains. She eased out of her partners Citroen, which was fitted to accomodate his four-foot stature, and smoothed her black leather pants.

Strains of Arab hip-hop remix drifted in from the street. The narrow caf overlooked rue des Cascades; no entrance to a back room was in evidence at first glance. Pinball machines from the sixties, their silvered patina rubbed off in places, stood blinking in the corner.

Aime wondered if shed made a mistake. This didnt seem the kind of place Anas would frequent. But she remembered the panic in Anass voice.

Apart from a man with his back to her, the cafs round wooden tables were empty. He appeared to be speaking with someone who stood behind the counter. Old boxing posters curled away from the brown nicotine-stained wall. She inhaled the odor of espresso and Turkish tobacco.

Pardon, Monsieur, she said, combing her fingers through her hair. Im supposed to meet someone in your dining room.

As he swiveled around to look at her, she realized that there was no one else behind the counter. He put down a microphone, clicked a button on a small tape recorder, and cocked a thick eyebrow at her.

Who would that be? he said, amusement in his heavy-lidded eyes. His thinning gray hair, combed across his skull, didnt quite cover the bald top of his head.

A long blue shirtsleeve pinned to his shoulder by a military medal concealed what she imagined were the remains of his arm. Behind the counter sepia photos of military men in desert jeeps were stuck in the tarnished, beveled mirror.

Anas de She stumbled trying to remember Anass married name. Shed been to their wedding several years ago. Anas de Froissartthats it. She said shed be in the back room.

The only back room here is the toilet, he said. Buy a drink, and you can meet who you like there.

A frisson of apprehension shook her. What was going on?

Perhaps theres another Caf Tlemcen?

Bien sr, but its three thousand kilometers from here, near Oran, he said. Outside Sidi-bel-Abbes, where I lost my arm. He nodded to his tape machine. Im recording the truth about the Algerian war, anticolorrial struggles from 195461, and how our battalion survived OAS friendly-fire bombardment.

Why had Anas suggested this place? Had she made a mistake?

Aime stepped closer to the counter. I might have misunderstood my friend. Did a woman use your telephone recently?

Who are you, Mademoiselle, if I may ask?

Aime Leduc. She pulled a damp business card from her bag and laid it on the sticky zinc counter. My friend sounded agitated on the phone.

He studied her, his hand wiping a falling strand of hair back over the bald dome of his head. Ive been busy with deliveries.

This isnt like my friend Anas, she said. She was very upset. I heard car brakes, loud voices. She searched his face, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth.

He hobbled out from behind the large chrome espresso machine to where she stood.

A blond, wearing designer clothes and gold chains, came in, he said. She looked like shed made a wrong turn coming out of the Crillon.

That must have been Anas. Aime maintained her composurethis man was proving to be a helpful observer.

Torn between searching for Anas and hoping shed return, Aime decided to wait. She drummed her chipped red nails on the counter. She remembered Martine complaining about her sister: It was always hurry up and wait.

Did you see her leave, Monsieur?

He shook his head.

She was dying for a cigarette. Too bad shed quit five days, six hours, and twenty minutes ago.

She told me to meet her here. Shell be back.

Doubt it, he said, studying her as if coming to a decision.

Why?

She gave me a hundred francs, he said. Said for you to meet her at 20 bis rue Jean Moinon.

Aime stiffened. Why didnt you say so?

Had to be sure youre the impatient one with big eyes, he said. She said to make sure it was you.

He nodded his head toward the street. She knew she was being followed.

Aime felt the first hint of fear.

The man gave a half bow. Retired Lieutenant Gaston Valat SCE, formerly with the intelligence branch of the Franco-Algerian police, he said. He stood to attention as much as a one-armed man with a limp could. He noticed her gaze. A votre service. Not half bad, eh?

Not all that surprised by his change of attitude, she figured an old vet like him would welcome action on his doorstep.

When did Anas leave, Gaston?

Close to an hour ago, he said.

She shouldered her bag.

And like I told her, Gaston said, studying her, adieu.

AIMEE HURRIED into the sheets of rain. Her edgy feeling had been growing all week. Paris was bracing itself for terrorist attacks, the radio warned, due to enforcement of the anti-immigration policy. The flics