Murder in Belleville ali-2 Read online

  Too bad her kicks landed in the air, not in the groin of whoever or whatever gripped her in a headlock. She jacknifed her body, turning until her spike heels impacted hamstring hard muscle. She heard the growl of pain, and ground her heels in harder.

  Something glittered. For a brief moment she saw a huge hand, with a diamond ring shaped like a star. Then she twisted and kicked again. Anything to release that pressure on her head. She screamed, trying to get attention or help.

  She tried to roll, but her legs didn’t obey.

  And then she poked and jabbed back, flailing at the air until she hit something soft like tissue. A man’s cry reached her. She’d either gotten him in the eye or the nuts. Either way it had to hurt. But she was down on the floor, face to face with a hideous forties red floral carpet. Now her legs responded. She tried to push off the floor.

  “Bent al haram,” a voice hissed in her ear.

  With as much force as she had, she elbowed behind her and scrambled to her feet. She heard him crash into the metal pails and swear. Running and falling, she kept on going.

  A loud roar sounded, like a high-speed TGV. Her chest reverberated as something punched her in the back. And she knew she’d been shot. The bullet-proof vest hadn’t absorbed the whole of the bullet’s impact. A burning sensation stung her hip. She stumbled but caught herself.

  Wall plaster rained over her black leather. Don’t think about the bullets, she told herself as terror gripped her—keep running. Don’t stop. There were loud shouts, the sounds of someone running into the metal buckets. Applause reached her ears, the performance was over, patrons streamed into the lobby.

  Screaming and barreling past the velvet curtains, Aimée ran into something large and furry. The Siberian bear growled, and then all she heard was white noise.

  AIMÉE GREW aware of an odd taste in her mouth, grit on her face, and something wet on her chin. Drool. And slits of fractured darkness. Prickly stubs poked her ears and nose, sweet and crinkling. Hay.

  By the time she realized she was under a burlap bag, she was ripping her way out with torn red fingernails. Her head throbbed. The ground shook. The earth was moving—not the way she liked it to.

  At least the leather jumpsuit had protected her. The bear was gone.

  Then she remembered.

  She’d crawled into a feed trough for animals—the first thing she’d stumbled across after the stage entrance. She untangled her legs and reached for her bag, still strapped over her shoulder. Her side pulsed with pain. She took short breaths—big ones hurt—afraid to touch the spot where her bullet-proof vest had failed.

  Despite her sore head and body, the ground shaking helped her get up quickly. Grabbing a ledge beside her, she plowed into the tail of a wrinkled gray elephant. She scooted out before the stamping feet got any closer. The elephant’s trunk picked up the burlap, tossed, then stomped on it. Just in time, Aimée thought, trying to ignore her splitting headache.

  A trainer led a pair of chestnut mares over the cobblestones. He clucked and said some soothing words. She followed the trio past the sign ENTRÉE DES ARTISTES and nipped into the first empty stall. It had a waist-high wooden partition and was vacant except for a pile of fragrant hay.

  She knelt down and felt her head, gingerly. A bump had blossomed like a big onion. Carefully she smoothed her hair and unrolled a gray parachute silk raincoat from her bag. Her legs wobbled.

  From the neighboring stall, she heard a horse slurping water and flicking its wire-haired tail against the buzzing flies. She slid out of her slingbacks, which had somehow stayed on her feet, and into her red Converse hightops and laced them quickly. For the last touch, she donned a pair of large-framed horn-rimmed glasses. Before her head split in two, she was going to go back inside and find who’d whacked her. But first she needed to deal with the bullet throbbing in her side.

  At the Café des Artistes facing the cobbled back lane behind Cirque d’Hiver, she leaned against the bar. She ordered a pastis and aspirine from Inés, a pudgy woman, who sat doing a crossword in the corner.

  “Slice of horsemeat works better on a shiner,” Inés said, shoving two white pills across the soggy bar.

  Aimée popped the pills and took a big swig of pastis, not feeling convinced.

  Inés stared at Aimée. “Trapeze artists swear by it,” she said. “Order steak tartare and I’ll throw in the frites.”

  Soon she had a horse steak on her temple and the cell phone in her other ear.

  No answer at Samia’s. No Yves at her apartment.

  She hobbled into the small bathroom, rolled down her jumpsuit, and assessed the damage. The Kevlar vest had absorbed most of the bullet, except for the painful shrapnel embedded a centimeter or so in her hip. The hollowed-out bullet had fractured on impact. Blood oozed stickily, making her feel faint in the close-quartered bathroom. She had to pull it out.

  Her tweezers were history, lost at the yard getting the moped started. The only tool she could think of was the sugar tongs on the zinc counter. She had to do better than that.

  Aimée stuck her head out.

  “Would you have a first-aid kit?” she asked, her smile weak.

  Inés took one look at Aimée and said, “Stay there.” She came back with a first-aid kit and a small shot glass.

  “Drink this,” Inés said.

  Aimée gulped and felt the malt whiskey burn down her throat, scalding and welcome.

  “Would a doctor help—?”

  Aimée reached for the kit. “I can handle this.”

  Inés nodded, her expression unchanged as she took in Aimée’s bloody condition. “How about I catch you if you fall over?”

  “Deal,” Aimée said. “But only if you give me another shot of whatever that was.”

  Inés brought the bottle, another shot glass, and joined her. They stood in the small rest room, Aimée perched against the old marble sink and Inés leaning against the wall.

  “During the battle for Paris, there was street-to-street fighting here,” Inés said, watching Aimée pull out the cotton and antiseptic, then dab the blood away. “The circus animals had been slaughtered for food long before, but my mother refused to kill our ferret.”

  “Ferret?” Aimée asked, sticking the long-handled tweezers into alcohol. She liked hearing Inés talk; it helped keep her mind off what she had to do.

  “Funny little thing,” she said. “But for my mother it was kind of a principle. She’d be damned if she’d let the boches eat it or tell her to get rid of it. That simple!”

  “What happened?” Aimée asked, dabbing alcohol around the ugly chunk of shrapnel protruding from above her hip, where her Kevlar vest had stopped.

  “Stupid thing got incinerated by a panzer with a flamethrower,” Inés winked. “Maman was mad for days. I think she’s never forgiven the boches for that.”

  “Where was your father?” Aimée asked, gripping the chunk with her tweezers and taking as big a breath as she could. She pulled, and gasped at the searing pain.

  “Never came back from the work camp near Dusseldorf,” Inés said. “We’re not really sure where he ended up. That had something to do with Maman’s anger.”

  Aimée didn’t get it out on the first try. Or the second. The stubborn thing had lodged deep from the force of a Magnum. The searing pain would be nothing, she knew, compared to the infection if she couldn’t get the thing out in one piece.

  “You’re feisty, I can tell,” Inés said. “And you act tough. Weren’t you watching your tail?”

  Thanks for rubbing it in, Aimée wanted to say.

  Determined this time, she caught the piece and pulled it out slow and straight, trying to last through the knife-edge pain.

  Right away Inés slid a large gauze wrap around it. “Tape it closed, and you’ll be fine,” she said. “I only helped because you looked like you might topple.”

  “Right.” Aimée leaned against the cold marble wall until she’d stopped shaking.

  “All kinds come here; the mecs, th
e scammers, small-time hus; tiers,” Inés said. “For a smart-looking one, seems like you made a mistake.”

  Inés had a wealth of information and advice.

  “I trusted the wrong person,” Aimée said.

  Samia had set her up, and she, a stupide, had walked right into it. Eagerly. She was supposed to protect Samia, but she was the one who got shot with a bullet in her hip.

  Inés nodded. “See,” she said, pointing in the mirror. “No trace.”

  The lump had gone down. And the pounding in her head had subsided to a reasonable ache. She’d taped her side tight, wrapping several strands of tape back and forth. She retired the glasses, pulled out her makeup, and did a repair job on her eyes. Kohl and lots of concealer.

  Aimée noticed Inés watching her. Back in the café Aimée sat down and tried Samia on the cell phone again. No answer.

  “Magnesium,” Inés said, slipping her a green salad. “You need it.”

  “Merci,” Aimée said. She picked at the salad and Frites and kept trying Samia’s number. She was thinking of the elephants. One of whom could have crushed her into burlap pulp.

  “How about the General?” Aimée asked. “Have you heard of him?”

  “How about you’re out of your league?” Inés said, grinning.

  Was the pastis clouding her perception or had Inés turned more smartass?

  Not to mention the downright humiliation. First she got ambushed; then a woman old enough to be her mother reiterated how dumb she’d been.

  “Make that out of your division,” Inés said, her eyes crinkling.

  Now Inés was making fun of her.

  Pathetic.

  She closed her eyes and laughed.

  “Speaking of the General, he’s way out of my universe,” she grinned. “But if I don’t find him, he’ll do this again.”

  Inés brought her crossword and sat down next to her.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “He comes in those cars with the special license plates—”

  “Diplomatic plates?” Aimée interrupted.

  “No one likes him,” Inés shrugged. “That’s all I know.”

  Aimée wrote down her number on a napkin, then stood up to leave. “Call me if he comes again, please.”

  “Watch your tail,” she replied.

  AIMÉE WAS feeling better. “Feeling better” was a relative term, but the painkiller was taking effect. She crossed the narrow street and entered the back of the cirque.

  In the circus ring she passed a fire-eater using his toes to adjust the blaze angle on a gasoline can pump. Heat emanated, and he sucked the air. She stood back in awe as the fire-eater blew billowing yellow-white flames over the sawdust. As he turned she saw a hose snaking up the back of his skinny T-shirt.

  The rehearsal audience had thinned to technicians. Aimée searched for the licorice-chewing man and his crew but was disappointed. Gone. She walked amid the red velvet seats where they’d sat. Nothing. Not even a cigarette stub.

  “I need an assistant,” said a deeply accented voice from the small stage.

  She looked up to see the speaker’s lined face, caked with flesh-colored makeup. Tall and gaunt, he wore a turban with a gleaming cabochon in the center and a black satin cape. He cocked his large head, fixing his gaze on her. “Will you assist me?”

  “I’ll try,” she said, aglow with the sudden sparkle of circus wonder. It was the same way she’d felt sitting with her grandfather, who’d whispered “Watch, Aimée … look at the magician’s sleeves… can you see how he does it?” But she never had, could never see the sleight-of-hand trick.

  He brandished an iridescent scarf, waved it in the air, and balled it up. He clapped his hands and showed her. Empty.

  “Smoke and mirrors, right?” she asked.

  “I have no smoke,” he said. “And at my age—no mirrors, please!”

  His black satin cape flashed as he pulled the scarf from behind her ears.

  Her mouth fell open. How did he do that?

  He grinned at her reaction.

  “Stanislav the Stupendous?” she said.

  He bowed. “The third wonder of Budapest is available for parties, business luncheons, or that special affair needing just the right touch.”

  “You’re not part of the cirque?”

  “My act requires a more intimate surrounding,” he said, gesturing toward the tiered red velvet seats. “We close off part of the cirque, making a half circle, and I perform on that platform.”

  A workman hammered ringside.

  “Those men who sat over there,” she said, gesturing toward the spot where the military types had sat. “Know where they are? I’m supposed to meet them …” she trailed off, hoping Stanislav would finish it for her.

  “The General?” he said.

  Aimée nodded.

  “Funny bird, that one,” Stanislav said. “My following is loyal.”

  “The General’s a fan of yours?”

  “I’m big with the Algerians.”

  Algerian military? Aimée held her surprise in check.

  The workman appeared and tapped his wrist, vying for the magician’s attention. “You’ve been a delightful assistant, Mademoiselle, but I must rehearse, if you’ll excuse me,” Stanislav said in a practiced breathless tone, indicating that he was too busy and rushed to have even a smidgen more time.

  Aimée stepped from the sawdust over the raised ring, puzzling how to elicit information about the General.

  “You’ll think me helpless, but the purse with my address book was stolen, and I’m at sea how to find him,” she said stepping back into the ring.

  “I wish I could be more helpful,” Stanislav said, following the carpenter.

  She sniffed around backstage, but no one knew of the General—or if they had, they wouldn’t tell her. Even the grinning horse trainer who said, “I keep my eyes on beautiful females.” He winked. “Like you.”

  AIMÉE DROVE to Samia’s apartment. No answer. The ham-mam was closed, and it began to rain. Her head ached, and her spirits matched the grey drizzle. She sat in René’s car near Place Jean Timbaud, the rain spattering on the windshield. People emerged from the Métro, turning up their collars, and running down the street. She must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, there was a loud tap on the passenger window.

  “Allez-y!” A green-suited égoutier shouted, his dark face beaded with rain. “Move along. Quit blocking the truck.”

  “Pardon,” she said, turning on the ignition. The Citroen roared to life, and she hit the wipers.

  That’s when she saw Samia, scurrying out of the dingy hotel on Impasse Ouestre. She shifted into first and cut Samia off before she could enter Jean Timbaud.

  “Get in!” Aimée said, leaning over and pushing the door handle open.

  Samia blinked, like a deer caught in the headlights. She tried to back up, but her heels slipped and she grabbed the door.

  “I can’t—”

  The garbage truck’s horn blared.

  “Hurry up, we need to talk,” Aimée said.

  Samia looked for an escape. The rain beat harder. Her only option was the passage she’d emerged from.

  “Now!” Aimée yelled.

  Either the rain or Aimée’s voice convinced her to get in and slam the door. They took off down Jean Timbaud. Aimée reached Passage de la Fonderie, a narrow ivy-walled lane, and pulled in. She parked and turned off the ignition.

  “You don’t look too good,” Samia said.

  “Smart girl,” Aimée said, reaching for Samia’s bag. She turned the beaded pink bag upside down. “Considering I got shot, I don’t think I look half bad.”

  Samia’s eyes widened.

  “Smart girls don’t betray their friends.”

  “You’re not my friend,” Samia said, but she winced when she spoke. She brushed her shoulders, sending a wet spray over the upholstery.

  “Even for an acquaintance, that’s not very nice.”

  Samia looked down, “I’
m sorry. They just said … well, you weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

  “Why do I have a hard time believing you?”

  “Just warn you off, they said,” she said, her voice sullen.

  “Who?”

  “Let me out.”

  The passage was quiet except for occasional footsteps. The fogged Citroen’s windows shielded them from prying eyes.

  Aimée had to get Samia to talk.

  “What does bent al haram mean?”

  “Bent al haram?” Samia said, closing her eyes as if in deep thought.” ‘Interfering slut’ comes pretty close.”

  Great.

  “Doesn’t the General like me?”

  Samia reached for the door handle, but Aimée pulled out her Beretta.

  “It’s been a rough afternoon, Samia,” she said. “Time for you to brighten my day.” With her other hand she poked around the strewn items from Samia’s bag. A package of pink condoms, hotel keys, an illustrated ten-franc pocket romance, and a pearl hair clip. Aimée shook the bag again, and a hand of Fat’ma tumbled out. Just like Eugénie/Sylvie’s.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “The Fat’ma?” Samia asked.

  Aimée nodded.

  “Belonged to my mother,” she said. “Lots of people have them.”

  “Like who?” Aimée asked.

  “You probably can’t even use that,” Samia said, looking in the visor mirror at the Beretta, and ignoring the question.

  “Even if my aim was bad, it’d be hard to miss with you so close,” Aimée cocked the trigger. “Want to find out?”

  Samia flinched.

  “Some flic taped us talking,” Aimée lied. Anything to get Samia to talk. “He’s watching you on video surveillance. He wants my hide, but I think he’s nailed yours already. He’s just waiting, Samia.”

  Samia’s bravado shriveled.

  “Sergeant Martaud?”

  Aimée nodded. The stale air inside the car and Samia’s perfume were getting to her.

  “Is the General’s number in here?” Aimée 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.