AL02 - Murder in Belleville Page 6

  Someone once told her the Buddhists believe if you helped someone you were responsible for them. But she wasn’t a Buddhist. She just hated the fact that someone could blow a woman up and get away with it, and put a little girl’s mother in peril. And for what or why she didn’t know.

  At the shop next to the florist, she bought an umbrella and then entered a nearby café. She used the rest room, washing her face and hands, to try to get rid of the jail cell odor—a mix of sweat, fear, and mildew. Refreshed after a steaming bowl of café au hit, Aimée boarded the bus for the apartment on rue Jean Moinon.

  The cold wind slicing across lower Belleville didn’t feel welcoming. Nor did the gray mesh of sky.

  Through the bus window Aimée saw the store with a hand of Fat’ma talisman in the window. She stood, gripped by the image of the small metal hand with turquoise stones and Arabic sayings to ward off evil words.

  Just like Sylvie’s—the one Anaïs gave her.

  Hopeful, Aimée got off the bus and went into the store. Maybe she would find an answer about Sylvie’s Fat’ma.

  The crammed store was lit by flickering fluorescent light strips.

  Her heart sank.

  Hundreds of Fat’mas lined the back wall. They hung like icons, mocking her.

  The owner sat on the floor. He ate his lunch off a couscous platter shared with several other men, who appeared disturbed at her entrance.

  Aimée pulled the hand of Fat’ma from her bag.

  The owner stood up, wiped his hands on a wet towel, and slid behind the counter.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Monsieur,” Aimée said. “Do you recognize this Fat’ma?”

  He shrugged.

  “Looks like the ones I carry,” he said.

  “Perhaps this one is distinctive. Could you look?”

  He turned it over in his palm, then gestured toward the wall.

  “The same.”

  “Perhaps you remember a woman who bought this—long dark hair?”

  “People buy these all the time,” he said. “Every other shop on the boulevard carries them as well.”

  Her hopes of finding out more about Sylvie had been dashed.

  Aimée thanked him and went out into the rain.

  She crossed Place Sainte Marthe, the small, sloped square with dingy eighteenth-century buildings. Wind rustled through the budding trees. A knot of men clustered near the shuttered café, smoking and joking in Arabic.

  Blue-and-goldenrod posters plastered over abandoned storefronts proclaimed: FREE THE SANS-PAPIERS—JOIN HAMID’S HUNGER STRIKE PROTESTING FASCIST IMMIGRATION POLICIES. Behind Place Sainte Marthe seventies-era housing projects loomed, jagged and towering.

  She walked over the same route she’d driven with Anaïs. The April wind, raw and biting, pierced her jacket. Her ears felt numb. As she entered rue Jean Moinon, she curled her hands inside her pockets, wishing she’d worn gloves.

  Pieces of blackened metal bumper and a charred leather armrest remained from the explosion. Almost everything else had been cleaned up from where Sylvie Coudray had gone up in a shooting ball of white fire and flames. The only other evidence was the oily, blackened residue filming the cobblestones. But after a wet spring that too would be washed away.

  A dark curly-haired custodian swept the Hopital St. Louis side entrance near the apartment. His plastic broom, like those used by street cleaners, had known better days. Wet leaves clumped together, refusing to budge over the cobble cracks. He wore a woolen turtleneck and headphones, the wires trailing to his blue work coat pocket. He seemed oblivious as she approached. Something familiar—what was it?—stuck in the back of her mind; then it disappeared.

  “Pardon, Monsieur,” she said, raising her voice, stepping into his line of vision.

  He looked up, his prominent jaw working in time to what she imagined was the music beat. She saw the name, “Hassan Ely-mani,” embroidered in red on his upper pocket.

  “Monsieur Elymani, may I have a moment of your time?”

  He pulled out his headphones, set the broom against the crook of his arm, and lifted a bracelet of worry beads from his pocket. Brown and worn, they slid through his fingers.

  “You a flic?” he asked.

  “My name’s Leduc; I’m an investigator.”

  “Tiens, they don’t do business there anymore,” he interrupted. “Scattered. I told the police,” he shrugged. “Like the clouds on a windy day.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Monsieur Elymani.”

  “Over there,” he said, pointing beyond the day-care center to the narrow passage jutting into rue du Buisson St. Louis, with buildings slated for demolition.

  “Voila. The slime hung out near rue Civiale,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Catch me up, Monsieur,” she said, scanning the street. The view from Sylvie Coudray’s window, she imagined, looked over those rooftops dotted with pepper-pot chimneys. She wanted to know what he saw.

  “Who exactly are you referring to?”

  “Les droguées,” he said, his cork-colored fingers coaxing the worry beads through his hands.

  Junkies? Parts of the area, she knew, held pockets of them. Morbier, a commissaire, had told her flics often let junkies carve out a corner for themselves. “For efficiency,” he’d said. “We keep tabs on them, and they don’t venture further for clientele. Designer drugs come and go, but there’re always addicts with habits who work, pay bills, and stay afloat.” His tolerant attitude surprised her. “Fact of life,” he continued. “When they wash up on my turf, I put them back out to sea.”

  Elymani ran his eye over her clothing. “You undercover?”

  “You might say that,” she said, realizing her appearance could give rise to that conjecture. “I’m interested in Sylvie Coudray,” Aimée said pointing to the first-floor windows.

  “I’m not a betting man,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “But does this have to do with the explosion?”

  The rain had ceased, and weak sunlight filtered through the seventeenth-century hospital arches.

  “Sylvie Coudray’s murder—” she began.

  His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Who do you mean? They said Eugénie was killed.”

  “Eugénie?” Aimée paused. Had Elymani gotten her confused with someone else? “Monsieur, can you describe her?”

  Ahead, opposite them, a car pulled up.

  “My hours change a lot,” Elymani said. “I’m not sure who you mean.”

  A stocky man in a tight double-breasted suit alighted from the car and waved at Elymani.

  Elymani slipped the worry beads back in his pocket and began sweeping. “Excuse me, but the patron’s here, and I haven’t hosed down the lockers.”

  “Monsieur Elymani, does she live at number 20?” Aimée asked. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “Look, I’m working,” he said bending down, scooping a clump of leaves into a plastic bag. “I need this job.”

  “Monsieur Elymani, who’s Eugénie?” Aimée said. “Please, I’m confused.”

  Elymani shook his head. “Lots of people come and go,” he said, motioning her toward the gate. “I get mixed up.”

  Fine, she thought. Clam up when it suits you. She’d follow up later. She’d often found that witnesses who grew uncommunicative turned helpful later.

  “May I talk with you after work?” she said, handing him her card.

  “Don’t count on it,” he said.

  “Please, only five minutes of your time.”

  “Look, I work two jobs,” he muttered, glancing at the man who’d motioned to him a second time. “I’m lucky to do that.”

  Aimée decided to cut her losses. She turned and walked over to the entrance of 20 bis and studied the nameplate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elymani in conversation with the man. He tossed her card into his garbage bag.

  She ran her fingers over the name E. Grandet. Her mind teemed with questions. Why would Sylvie Coudray insist on meeting Anaïs here? Had Elymani
mistaken Sylvie for Eugénie? Too bad the building had no concierge whom she could question. Concierges were a vanishing breed in Paris these days, especially in Belleville.

  She had ventured one door down when a young woman with a stroller burst from the doorway. Empty string shopping bags twined around the handles.

  “Excuse me,” Aimée said. “I’m investigating the death of a woman next door. Did you know her?”

  The baby’s coo escalated to a higher pitch, and the woman’s mouth formed a moue of distaste. “I work the night shift,” she said glancing at her watch. “My husband too. We don’t know anyone. Or see anyone.”

  The sky darkened, and a light patter of rain danced on their umbrellas.

  “I’m sorry, I must bring the baby to the creche, give my mother-in-law some peace. Talk with her; she’s home all the time. Bellemtre, some flic wants to talk with you.”

  She punched in the four-digit code, the door clicked, and she motioned Aimée inside.

  “First floor on the right.” And the woman was gone.

  The foyer, similar to next door’s, held piles of bundled circulars and newspapers in the corner. Aimée stuck her umbrella in a can with the others and tramped upstairs. A stout woman, her grizzled gray hair in a hairnet, beat a small carpet on the landing. The dull, rhythmic thwack-thwackl raised billows of dust. From the apartment interior, Aimée heard the Dallas theme song blaring from the television.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” Aimée smiled, pulling out her ID. She felt the chill from her damp boots rise up her legs.

  “You don’t look like a flic,” the old woman said, scanning Aimée up and down.

  “You’re perceptive, Madame, I can tell,” Aimée said, edging up the stairs toward the door, trying to ascertain the view from inside her apartment. “I’m a private detective, Madame …?”

  “Madame Visse,” she said, drawing out the s, her tone rising. “God’s got chosen helpers. Those he uses in emergencies.”

  Aimée nodded. The old woman seemed a slice short of a baguette.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Edouard—that’s my son—says people will think I’m folk, they’ll put me away,” she said, showing Aimée the way inside. “But that’s their problem, eh. I know what I know.”

  Aimée looked around, noticing the boxlike front hall with rain boots, a crowded coatrack, and a crushed box of Pampers.

  She moved into the kitchen. On the left a row of spice jars ringed the galley-style kitchen. Pots bubbled on the cooktop, curling steam fogged the only window. Rosemary and garlic aromas filled the air. Aimée’s stomach growled in appreciation—all she’d eaten today was a croissant. A patched lace panel hung over the open window, fluttering in the wind. To the left, inside a dark room lined with bookshelves, toys littered the floor. Cardboard boxes were piled everywhere.

  “My son and daughter-in-law’s name are near the top of the housing list,” she said, her thin mouth curling as she frowned. “When they get the call, they’re packed.” The woman returned to her cooking and stirred the pot.

  “Madame Visse, did you know the woman killed in the car bombing?” she asked, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. She wanted to see if Madame Visse’s window looked into her neighbor’s courtyard. The window was to the left of the cooktop. It overlooked number 20’s back courtyard.

  “Edouard’s eyes will open up,” the old woman said, lifting the lid on a pot. She smiled knowingly. “Yolande can’t cook to save her life.”

  Why did Madame Visse ignore her question? The woman’s left hand shook with a slight, constant tremor Aimée hadn’t noticed before.

  “That smells wonderful,” Aimée said, sidling toward Madame in the narrow kitchen. “Were you home when the car exploded last night?” She asked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

  “Monday-evening rosary, dear,” Madame Visse sighed.

  “Did you see anything happen in the courtyard last night?”

  “All I saw was that idiot man across the courtyard exercising his cockatiel comme d’habitude, like he does every night.” She lifted a lid and stirred a simmering cassoulet. She controlled her tremor well.

  “Did you notice anything unusual on the street?” Aimée asked. “Any strangers?”

  “You look hungry,” Madame said, filling a bowl and thrusting it at her. “Sit down. Tell me if it needs more herbes de Provence. I have recipes I can share with you.”

  “Nan merci, Madame,” Aimée declined, perching on a stool at the narrow table. Exasperation was creeping up on her. It had been a long day. She was in no mood for this woman.

  She was sure the steaming cassoulet would melt in her mouth. A crusty baguette poked out of a bread basket.

  “Try this,” the old woman said, proffering a bit of stew.

  Aimée shook her head. “I’ll just take a bit of baguette.”

  “Ah, you’re just like Eugénie. Too polite,” she said.

  Aimée sat up, alert. First Hassan Elymani and now this old woman had mentioned Eugénie.

  “We look alike too, eh?” Aimée said, in what she hoped was a tone inviting conversation.

  Madame Visse crinkled her eyes, surveying Aimée from the stove. “That wouldn’t have been my first comment.” She set the lid down with a clang on the pot. “Your face and big eyes are similar, but Eugénie’s hair was…” she stopped and reached for a spice jar.

  Aimée remembered Sylvie’s hair as long and dark, when she stood by the Mercedes.

  Madame unscrewed the lid, sniffed, and slowly put the cap back on. “Stale.”

  “You were describing Eugénie’s hair?” Aimée let the question dangle.

  “Red, bien sûr,” she said. “And short like yours.”

  Aimée gripped the tabletop. Red. Had Sylvie worn a wig? Or was this another person?

  “Now I’m confused,” Aimée said, “Did Eugénie live in number 20?”

  “Everyone had moved,” Madame said. “Eugénie was the only one left.”

  If Sylvie lived a double life, it could have been a rendezvous spot with Philippe. However, she doubted that this part of Belleville was to his taste.

  “Why would someone get murdered here?”

  “Good question,” Madame said, slamming the baguette on the table, attacking it with a steak knife, and carving uneven slices. “Never seen her before. No one had.”

  “Who?”

  “The dead woman, God rest her soul.”

  “Madame, you said you never saw the murdered woman!”

  “Why should I?” she said. “But people who live here don’t drive Mercedes!”

  The woman had a good point, Aimée thought.

  Madame opened the silverware drawer, pulling out a long-handled serving spoon. Amid the cutlery Aimée saw a distinctive silver box with “Mikimoto”—the famous pearl store on Place Vendôme—embossed across the top. She doubted Madame Visse would own expensive pearls.

  Then she remembered the odd-shaped pearl she’d found in the mucky passage. When Anaïs had denied it belonged to her, Aimée had slipped it in her pocket and forgotten about it.

  “I love pearls,” Aimée said, inclining her head toward the drawer. “I see you do too.”

  Madame glanced at the box.

  “Just the boxes,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. She picked up the distinctive rectangular box, surveyed it. “Eugénie was throwing some away. I kept this one.”

  Owning Mikimoto pearls and living in Belleville didn’t add up, Aimée thought, unless one was a wealthy mistress.

  Mikimoto was in Place Vendôme near the bronze-spiraled column melted from cannons Napoleon captured at Austerlitz. Again the carnage of her father’s explosion revisited her. She pushed those thoughts away. Reliving the past would get her nowhere.

  “Pearls aren’t cheap, Madame,” she said. “Eugénie has expensive taste, wouldn’t you say?”

  “She kept to herself,” Madame Visse said.

  Madame motioned her to the door. “My boy will be home so
on. He doesn’t like me to have guests. It’s up to God, my dear,” she said. “Good day.”

  At least she’d found out Madame Visse knew Eugénie, corroborating Elymani’s comment. And she liked pearls. But was Eugénie Sylvie? Eugénie lived in a building ready for the wrecking ball and had expensive tastes. That’s if Elymani and Madame Visse were telling the truth.

  Back on rue Jean Moinon, Aimée buzzed the remaining apartment buildings. No answer. Most had bricked-up windows. She figured soon they would all be gone and the area would look like the day-care center nearby: concrete, squat and ugly.

  Several more attempts at ringing doorbells on the back street brought no luck.

  Aimée tried reaching Anaïs again to check on her health, but the person who answered stonewalled her, saying Anaïs couldn’t be disturbed. Why hadn’t Vivienne answered the phone? she wondered.

  Since she’d discovered Madame Visse’s box she felt it all connected. She decided to call Mikimoto.

  Monsieur Roberge, the Mikimoto appraiser, declined to answer her questions or give an appraisal over the phone. “Liability,” he’d sighed. “Bring the piece in.” Aimée had wanted no part of Place Vendôme or the memories it carried for her.

  But she’d made an appointment for later in the day, picked up her partner Rene’s car and driven the winding Belleville streets. She parked by Leduc Detective on rue du Louvre.

  State-of-the-art computer monitors and scanners lined their art deco office walls. Sepia-tinted Egyptian excavation photographs and digitally enhanced African maps hung beside a poster of Faudel, a French-born star of Algerian descent, Rene’s favorite. Beside that was a Miles Davis poster, her favorite, from his performance at the Olympia.

  “What happened to you last night?” Rene asked as she burst through the door.

  A handsome dwarf with large green eyes, black hair, and a goatee, Rene enjoyed comparisons to Toulouse-Lautrec. The hem of his Burberry trenchcoat, tailored for his height, had dripped a puddle on the parquet floor under the coatrack by the door.

  “Sorry, Rene,” she said. “I had guests.”

  “I’ve refined our Electricite de France systems vulnerability scan,” he said. He sat on his customized orthopedic chair, clicking on his keyboard, eyes fastened on the flashing screen in front of him.