Murder in Belleville

“ANAi’S, WHERE ARE YOU?” Aimée shouted. At least now she could hear herself. The intense heat drove her to move, to shake off the memories of her father.

She crawled along the cobbles, then pulled herself up. Someone was crying; she heard yelling in the distance. Her body felt as if someone had beaten her all over with a bat. Long and hard.

“Over here, Aimée,” Anaïs moaned, sprawled on the sidewalk. She was pinned down by a large appartement a buer sign, ripped from an adjacent building. The rental sign had probably saved her life, Aimée thought.

Aimée felt for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. Aimée shook Anaïs’s shoulders. She groaned. Strands of gold chain, muddied and twisted, drooped from her neck. Her pigeon-eye pink Dior jacket was dotted with bloody red clumps and her blond hair was matted. Black vinyl fragments littered the street.

“Can you hear me, Anaïs?” she asked, her voice soothing, as she pulled the sign away. She knelt down and took off Anaïs’s sunglasses. Luckily for her, they’d shielded her eyes from the blast.

Anaïs blinked several times, her eyes regaining focus.

“Where’s S-S-Sylvie?”

“Was Sylvie getting into the Mercedes?”

Anaïs nodded.

“She’s gone, Anaïs,” Aimée said, taking Anaïs’s chin in her hands and making her meet her gaze.

Anaïs blinked again and focused on her, growing lucid.

“Your hands are shaking, Aimée,” she said.

“Explosions do that to me,” Aimée said, aware of the burning car just meters away. “Let’s get out of here.”

Anaïs saw that there was blood on her skirt. She looked up, past Aimée, her eyes widening in alarm.

“They’re coming back,” Anaïs said.

Aimée scanned the street. People peered from their windows. Several men were running down the street.

“Who?”

But Anaïs had scrambled on all fours, pulling Aimée after her into the number 20 bis door, which had blown ajar.

“Close the door before they see us!” Anaïs panted.

Out of breath, Aimée crawled in, then pushed the massive door shut. Ahead, the red button of a timer light switch gleamed, and she pressed it. The damp floor and dented wall mailboxes were lit by a naked bulb overhead. Of the several mailboxes only one held a name: “E. Grandet.”

To the right of the staircase, a narrow drafty passage led to the rear courtyard. Newspapers, thrown in a dusty heap, sat under the spiral stairwell.

“Who are those men?” Aimée asked.

“The ones who followed me,” Anaïs said.

Loud shouting came from the street. What if the men broke down the door? Torn between confronting them or looking for an escape, Aimée froze.

Now the voices came from outside the massive door. Loud whacks made the door shudder, as if they were attacking the door’s kickplate. Her fear propelled her to action.

“Let’s go,” Aimée said, pulling out her penlight.

“My legs … don’t work well,” Anaïs panted.

Aimée helped her stand up.

“Put your weight on me,” Aimée said. Together they hobbled down the drafty passage leading toward the back.

Her thin beam flickered off the dripping stone wall; moss furred in green patches. The walls reeked of mildew and urine.

April in Paris wasn’t like the song, Aimée thought, and couldn’t remember when it had been.

Something glinted in the cracks, where stone joined the gutter. She bent down, shined her penlight. In the yawning crevice, an indecently large pearl shimmered.

She pried it out and rubbed the slime off with her sleeve.

“Anaïs, did you drop this?”

“Not my style,” she said, breathing hard.

Aimée slipped the pearl into her back pocket. As she edged past the rotted wooden door, she was glad she’d worn leather boots. Too bad they had two-inch heels.

“Who are they, Anaïs?”

“Just keep going, Aimée,” Anaïs said, panting.

She headed for an old metal fonderie workshop in the courtyard. The fluttering of disturbed pigeons greeted them.

The building smelled of garbage. Her small penlight beam revealed several blue plastic sacks of trash. Unusual, she thought. The building appeared deserted. Not only that, but the garbage in Paris was collected every day.

Slants of moonlight illuminated part of the rain-slicked cobbles and wet walls inside. Empty green Ricard bottles lay strewn in what appeared to be the main part of the old workshop.

She helped Anaïs sit down.

“Let me check for a back exit,” Aimée said. “Take a rest.”

On Aimée’s left, twisted pipes and a network of frayed electric lines trailed up the building interior to the remaining bit of black roof.

Through the hole above loomed the dark dome of the sky, and a yellow glow outlined the rooftops of Belleville. Aimée stumbled on the slippery concrete, caught her heel and lurched outside. She grabbed hold of something rusty that flaked in her hands. Straightening up, she took another step. She skidded and lost her balance but held on to her penlight, shining the beam ahead.

A stone wall five or six feet high stood in front of her. Jagged glass, like a string of grinning teeth, lined the top.

No exit.

Aimée tried not to panic.

Returning to Ana’fs, she noticed the buttery leather Dior bag strap tangled around Anaïs’s shoulder. The last time Aimée had seen Anaïs she’d also been in Dior, radiant and walking down the steps of St-Severin on the arm of her new husband, Philippe, as the cathedral bells chimed over the square on the rive gauche. Aimée remembered dancing with Martine and her father at the candlelit reception at the Crillon, and Ana’fs giggling while Philippe drank champagne from her silk shoe.

She shook Anaïs’s shoulder. “Please, Anaïs, tell me what’s going on,” Aimée said. “Were these men trying to kill you?”

Anaïs gagged, turned, and threw up all over the empty Ricard bottles in the fonderie. The delayed reaction worried Aimée—had the realization just hit Anaïs, or did she have internal injuries?

Anaïs wiped her jaw with her sleeve and nodded. Then she burst into tears, sobbing.

“I wish to God I knew,” she said.

Aimée pulled out her phone to get help, but her battery was dead. They were stuck.

“Nom de Dieu!” Anaïs said. “That pute Sylvie, she’s the cause—” Anaïs choked.

“How—who is she?”

“The sow my husband slept with,” Anaïs said, catching air. She straightened up, then took deep breaths through her nose. “On a regular basis. Sylvie Coudray. It was over. But I think she blackmailed him.” Anaïs began sobbing again. “Philippe, he’s such a weakling.”

Aimée wiped Anaïs’s mouth clean and smoothed her hair back. She knelt closer, trying to ignore the stench.

“What did Sylvie give you?”

“Who knows?” she pleaded, her eyes wide in terror. She reached inside the handbag. Her hand came back with something metal, the size of a makeup brush, and passed it to Aimée.

Aimée recognized the five-fingered brass hand covered with Arabic writing, a good luck ‘hand of Fat’ma’ strung with hanging blue beads and a third eye. A talisman to ward off evil spirits.

Sirens sounded in the distance; the hee-haw got closer. Aimée figured they came from the boulevard. More pounding came from somewhere outside the building. Louder and stronger. Startled, Aimée almost dropped the Fat’ma symbol.

“Open up!” shouted a loud voice.

Aimée stuck the charm back in Anaïs’s purse.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Anaïs said.

Aimée steadied her hand on Anaïs.

“What kind of hell is this?” Anaïs said, covering her ears with her blood-spattered hands, and rocking back and forth. “You’ve got to help—so sordid,” she gulped, grabbing Aimée’s arm.

Aimée brushed Anaïs’s skirt off and helped her to stand.

“Philippe’s a minister. I can’t let them find me here!” Anaïs’s knees buckled.

“Can you walk?” Aimée asked.

Anaïs nodded.

From the passage, she heard scraping metal noises and footsteps.

Aimée looked around the courtyard. They were hemmed in by the U-shaped building and stone wall.

Behind Aimée and Anaïs, the passage’s wooden door banged. The footsteps pounded closer. Aimée figured the only way for them to escape was over the stone wall topped by jagged glass.

Aimée helped Anaïs to the wall, then cupped her hands. “Climb. Be careful of the glass.”

Aimée winced as Anaïs stepped a high heel on her hands. She heaved her up and heard Anaïs groan. Aimée braced herself and pushed Anaïs’s slender frame over the wall. For a small woman, Anafe felt heavy.

“Go on,” Aimée hissed. “Let yourself drop to the other side.”

She heard wood splintering and figured Anaïs had landed.

“Run toward the boulevard. Whatever happens, just get to the Métro,” Aimée said. Getting back to the car would be impossible.

Aimée climbed and gripped the jutting stone. She shimmied herself up trying to find footholds, afraid to cut herself to shreds on the glass if she got stuck. Her fingertips had just reached the ledge with broken glass when she heard voices. She had to move and forget the pain.

Stretching her leg as far as she could and scraping her heel across the stone, she hit something flat and pulled herself up.

She took a deep breath, then pushed off the wall into the yard of the next building. She landed on her feet. No Anaïs. Aimée took off, running, into a disused garage lot, but slowed down to avoid banging into something and alerting the neighbors. A heap of rusted bicycles and once-chrome car bumpers were piled close to each other.

“Over here,” Anaïs whispered.

Aimée narrowed her eyes and saw Anaïs crouched on her knees in the mud behind a faded Pirelli tire sign.

“Let’s go,” Aimée said.

Anaïs crawled on her hands and knees, low moans escaping from her. When Aimée reached to help her, she realized that Anaïs’s legs were cut to ribbons from the glass.

“I tried to walk, but my legs won’t hold me,” she said, her face a chalky white in the moonlight.

Aimée looked again and saw blood oozing from Anaïs’s thigh, soaking her skirt. If she didn’t stop it, Anaïs would pass out. She couldn’t get Anaïs this far and leave her. Aimée quickly looked around—why didn’t Anaïs wear a silk foulard around her neck, like every other Parisienne? She grabbed the closest thing—a deflated tire tube—and looped it around Anaïs’s leg as a tourniquet. She tightened it, and the bleeding stopped.

Anaïs managed a weak smile. “Forgive me, Aimée, for pulling you into this.”

“You’re being really brave,” Aimée said, hoisting her up and linking her arm around Anaïs. She brushed the hair from Anaïs’s eyes. “I know it hurts. Try to walk; we’ll get to the Métro. It’s not far.”

“But look at me! What will people think?” Anaïs asked, gesturing toward her leg and blood-spattered suit.

She was right, Aimée thought. But what choice did they have?

Aimée half dragged and half carried Anaïs several meters through the abandoned lot, puddled and muddy, past the semi-roofed garage. She couldn’t keep this up all the way to the Métro, and she doubted the chances of catching a taxi here. Not to mention staying out of the sight of curious neighbors. Running away from an explosion wouldn’t look good to the flics.

Anaïs grew heavier, more like dead weight. Aimée noticed that Anaïs’s eyes were closing, and her body went limp.

Aimée set Anaïs down under a corrugated overhang jammed with old bikes and mopeds. They were stuck in a muddy garage lot.

She couldn’t leave Anaïs here. She tried to think, but her shoulders ached, her legs were scratched with glass cuts, and she wondered what in hell she was doing with a minister’s wife who was being chased by men who’d probably planted the car bomb under his mistress’s car.

What could she do now?

Barbed wire crested the chain-link fence. But only a Bricard lock held the gate. She kept Anaïs’s bag around her, then reached for her makeup bag inside her backpack. She found the Swedish stainless-steel tweezers. Within two minutes she’d jimmied the lock open, muffling the clinking sounds with her sweater sleeve. That done, she wiped the sweat off her brow with her other sleeve and surveyed the bikes strewn around Anaïs.

No way would she be able to pedal, steer, and grip Anaïs. She was exhausted. She noticed a beat-up but serviceable Motoguzzi moped by an oil can. It was like her own moped, but a lot older. And with more horsepower. One thing she knew about mo-peds—they could run on fumes for several kilometers, and if the spark plug was still good they might make an escape.

After unscrewing the spark plug, she blew on it to get rid of the carbon, scraped corrosion off the pronged head with her tweezers, and screwed it back on. She shook the body from side to side to slosh any gas around, pulled out the choke, and prayed. She started pedaling. Silence. She kept pedaling and was finally rewarded by a cough. Good, she thought. Temperamental as these Italian bikes might be, with patience and coaxing they would deliver. With much more encouragement, the cough had developed into a full-throated hum, and she hoisted Anaïs up and urged her tourniqueted leg over the moped’s passenger ledge. Anaïs’s eyes fluttered, then widened. She pushed Aimée’s shoulder and tried to get off.

“No!” Anaïs yelled. “I can’t do this.”

“Got a better idea?” Aimée asked.

In the distance the sound of a siren came closer.

“I hate motorcycles,” she wailed.

“Bien, this is a moped,” Aimée said, gunning the engine and popping into first. “Hold on!”

Anaïs grabbed Aimée’s waist.

“No matter what,” Aimée said, “don’t let go!”

Aimée reached rue Ste-Marthe as the SAMU emergency van turned into rue Jean Moinon. Odd. Why hadn’t the fire truck arrived first?

A black-and-white flic car cruised from rue de Sambre-et-Meuse, blocking the shortcut to the Goncourt Métro.

“Let’s ask them for help, Anaïs.”

“Non, nothing must connect to Philippe,” Anaïs said.

Aimée’s heart sank as Anaïs’s fingers squeezed her in a steellike grip.

She kept an even speed, afraid that going faster would invite curiosity. The flics veered in the other direction. Aimée turned into Place Sainte-Marthe, a small rain-soaked square, its single café closed for the evening.

She noticed a dark Renault Twingo turn after her at the far end of the square. By the time the verdigris art nouveau Métro sign came into view, the car had edged close behind them.

As if reading her thoughts, it pulled ahead. She drove near the closest Métro entrance, and the car cut in front of her. Its doors popped open, and two burly men jumped out.

She veered away from them at the last minute but a bearlike man obstructed the wet sidewalk. The padlocked newspaper kiosk and the Métro stairs were in front of them.

Aimée scanned the intersection, registering a few cars paused at the red light and Métro entrances on the other corners. Ahead a Crédit Lyonnais bank stood opposite Crédit Agricole, with a gutted café still advertising horseracing and a FNAC Telecom store facing that.

“Anaïs, grab me tighter.”

“No, Aimée!” Anaïs yelled.

“You want to spend the night with these mecsl” Aimée asked. “Or in the Commissariat de Police?”

“On y va,” Anaïs whimpered in answer, digging her fingernails into Aimée’s stomach.

Aimée cornered the kiosk, zigzagged across the narrow street, and headed down the Métro steps, honking and screaming “Out of the way!” It took a minute before the thugs realized that the moped had plunged down the stairs and ran after them.

Exiting passengers yelled and moved to the railing as she and Anaïs bumped and wobbled their way down. Aimée squeezed the brakes.

Thank God Anaïs was a small woman! Even so Aimée’s wrists hurt from braking so hard with the handlebars. At the landing by the ticket window, plastic sheets and barricades for construction blocked their way. A uniformed man in the window shouted at them, shook his head, and pounded on the glass. The burning rubber smell from the moped’s brakes and black exhaust filled the air.

The turnstiles were being repaired at night—just their luck, since the Métro carried fewer passengers than usual. But, Aimée also realized, she and Anaïs would be thug bait unless they could reach a platform, ditch the moped, and get on a train quickly.

Blue-overalled workers, under glaring lights, drilled and hammered. Several of them stopped their work, snickering and catcalling. They grew quiet when they saw the smeared blood on Anaïs and her look of terror.

“Tiens, this section’s closed,” one of the workers said. “Use the other entrance.”

“Her salop of a boyfriend beat her up,” Aimée improvised.

“No mopeds, mesdemoiselles.”

“He’s trailing us—vowing to kill her,” she said. “We need help.”

A large bearded man set down his drill and stood up.

“Can’t you let us through?” she asked. “Please!”

The man stepped forward, pulled the plastic sheets aside with a theatrical gesture, and bowed, “Entrez, mesdemoiselles, courtesy of the RATP. Please be our guests.”

“Gallantry lives. Merci,” Aimée said.

She revved the motor and shot past the construction. Hot air dusty with concrete grit met her. The moped shimmied as she drove through a puddle, the back wheel almost dovetailing. They sped along the tiled tunnel past Canal 2 posters to a fork.

She paused. Two choices lay ahead—direction Chatelet or Mairie des Lilas. Which train would come first?

The late-night Métro ran infrequently. No matter which train they took, Aimée thought, the men would split up and each take a platform. Even if she and Anaïs managed to get on a train, they’d be followed easily. If only Anaïs could walk or navigate!

Either way they wouldn’t get far.

To the right sat a man cross-legged on a sleeping bag. His shaved scalp shined in the overhead light. He watched them with an amused expression, pointing to his begging bowl.

The tiles gleamed in the warm Métro. Blue-and-white signs proclaimed accis aux quais and sortie to avenue Parmentier. Her only solution would be to go up the exit steps on the left. Would the moped have enough juice to mount the stairs? Aimée doubted it.

“Go for it,” Anaïs said, surprising Aimée.

But how could she get Anaïs up the stairs on the moped? Her arms hurt, and with both their weights would the wheels go up?

Shouts came from the ticket area.

“Help us out, and I’ll make it worth your while,” she said to the homeless man.

“How much worth my while?” he asked in a bargaining tone. But he’d stood up and dusted off his worn trousers.

“This moped’s yours,” Aimée said, running her sleeve over her perspiring forehead and thinking fast. “If you help me get her to the top of the stairs. Deal?”

“Why not?” He grinned, quickly gathering his bedroll.

“Come with us to the stairs,” she said. “Quickly.”

He ran toward the exit. Behind them she heard heavy footsteps.

Aimée revved the motor and shot forward. The tunnel curved and she followed his trail. “If we just get halfway up, Anaïs, jump off, we can drag you the rest. Now lean into me and pray,” Aimée yelled. She’d worry about the Twingo if they ever made it to the top.

At the first flight of stairs, she jerked up on the handlebars as much as possible and felt the bike respond. The tires churned, climbing several steps, the engine strained. But the moped climbed. Higher and higher. Aimée saw the dark tent of sky through the exit.

The bike had almost reached the last set of steps when she felt the tires buck.

Aimée had the sickening feeling of the bike rearing like a horse. She decelerated.

The homeless man reached over and steadied Anaïs. “Get off; it’s too heavy!” he shouted. “We’ll guide her up.”

Anaïs loosened her grip on Aimée.

“Hold the handlebars, Anaïs,” Aimée said, getting off and putting her arms around Anaïs’s shoulders.

Time slowed as she and the homeless man guided Anaïs on the moped up the Métro steps.

The engine whined, snarled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man steady Anaïs so she didn’t topple into him.

But the moped tipped over. Like a felled animal, it whined uselessly on its side.

“Allons-y!” she yelled.

Only a few more steps to the top.

She grabbed Anaïs under the arms and together with the homeless man helped her hobble up the last stairs.

“Merci,” Aimée said. “Tell them we took the Métro toward Chatelet.”

“And they just missed you,” the man said, righting the moped. He took off down the sidewalk. Aimée hoped he’d keep their pursuers busy for a while.

“Attends, Anaïs,” Aimée said lying on her stomach, peering around the cement divider near the Crédit Lyonnais.

She saw the Twingo, parked illegally on the opposite curb, and a dark-suited man watching in all directions. If she and Anaïs could join passersby and cross to the taxi stop on rue du Faubourg du Temple, they’d escape. Traffic idled at the intersection. Tree-bordered Canal Saint Martin lay in the distance.

Aimée’s hopes fell as Anaïs moaned again. No way could she get her up and across to the taxi stop. A couple emerged from an apartment building, laughing and kissing each other, as they walked to the Métro.

Aimée crawled around the divider, then helped navigate Anaïs behind some bushes. Cardboard was piled next to the kiosk, hiding them from view.

“Keep low. I’ll get a taxi,” she said taking off her sweater and covering Anaïs. Aimée shivered in her damp silk shirt and spread a piece of cardboard across a major puddle. She crawled across to the curb, then crouched behind a plane tree. When another couple walked by she stood up, kept her head turned and crossed the street abreast of them.

By the time the taxi driver, to whom she’d promised a good tip, pulled up on the sidewalk to pick up Anaïs, the driver of the Twingo had noticed them. He jumped in the car and started his engine.

“Lose that car,” Aimée said to the taxi driver.

Anaïs reached in her purse and pulled out a wad of franc notes. “Here, use this.” She shoved them in Aimée’s hand.

“Here’s a hundred francs,” Aimée said. “There’s more if we make it out of the has quartier without our friend.”

“Quinze Villa Georgina,” Anaïs managed, then collapsed on the seat. Aimée loosened the tourniquet, glad to see the bleeding had stopped, and elevated Anaïs’s leg.

As they sped up the Belleville streets toward Pare des Buttes Chaumont, Aimée slouched down. The streetlights flickered through the taxi windows. Cafés and bistros held lively crowds despite the cold, wet April night. Aimée paused, remembering the mailbox with “E. Grandet” on it.

“Why did you meet Sylvie?” Aimée asked.

“I’d like to forget about it,” Anaïs said, holding back her sobs.

“Anaïs, of course it’s painful, but if you don’t talk to me,” Aimée said, “how can I help?”

Poor Anaïs. Maybe she felt guilty. Didn’t wives harbor thoughts of killing their husband’s mistress no matter how civilized the arrangement?

“Sylvie arranged to meet me,” Anaïs said, rubbing her eyes. “Said she didn’t trust telephones.”

“What happened?”

“The entry door was open,” she said. Anaïs licked her knuckles, rubbed red raw in the dirt. “I went upstairs. The landing was spattered with pigeon droppings.”

“The building looked ready to demolish,” Aimée said. “Did Sylvie live there?” Why would a woman who drove a Mercedes live in a dump like that?

“Sylvie told me to meet her there. That’s all I know,” Anaïs said, her eyes downcast. “We argued right away.”

“You argued?” Aimée said.

The lights of Belleville blinked as they wound up the hilly streets. Aimée poked her head up, but saw no Twingo behind them;

“My fault. I got angry,” Anaïs said, shaking her head. “All those years of lying … I couldn’t calm down. Sylvie kept going to the window. She made me nervous. I got mad and ran out the door.”

Aimée wondered what Sylvie had been trying to tell Anaïs. Sylvie could have gone to the window to see if she’d been followed or was afraid Anaïs had.

“Was Philippe aware you were meeting her?” she asked.

“Why should he be? Philippe told me he finished with her months ago,” Anaïs said. “Things between us were getting better.”

Aimée stared at Anaïs. Had she gone to make sure he’d kept his word?

“Why did you want my help?”

“Call me a coward,” Anaïs said, biting her lip. “I’m ashamed I thought she wanted money. But she asked me to forgive her.”

“You mean forgive her for the past?”

“Told me how sorry she felt over things escalating,” Anaïs said, breathing quickly.

“Escalating?”

“That’s the term the pute used. Can you believe it?” Anaïs shook her head. She leaned back and took more deep breaths.

By the time they’d reached the angle where the streets met at Jourdain, the driver had definitely lost the Twingo. But he circled the winding streets around Saint Jean Baptiste Church several times to be safe.

The taxi followed the terraced streets intersected by lantern-lined wide stone stairs. Nineteenth-century rooflines faded below them. At rue de la Duee, they turned into narrow, cobblestoned Villa Georgina. This little-known area, she realized, was one of the most exclusive and expensive pockets of Belleville.

“I’m hiring you,” Anaïs said, “to tell me what this means.”

She reached in her bag, pulling out the Fat’ma and another wad of francs. “Consider this a retainer.”

“The Fat’ma?” Aimée said, as Anaïs put the bronze, blue-beaded talisman in her hand.

Anaïs stuffed the francs in Aimée’s pocket.

“Maybe this means nothing, but I want to know who killed her,” Anaïs said. “Find out.” Her eyes shuttered.

“Anaïs, talk to Philippe. You’re in deep water,” Aimée said, exasperated by her reaction. “If they blew up Sylvie’s car and saw her pass something to you …”

“That’s why you need to keep it,” Anaïs said, her eyes black and serious.

Too bad this hadn’t helped Sylvie, Aimée thought.

“My little Simone will think I’ve forgotten her,” Anaïs said, worry in her voice. “I always put her to bed.”

Lights blazed brightly from the upstairs windows as the taxi pulled up.

“Qnelle catastrophe—Philippe’s hosting a reception for the Algerian Trade Delegation!”

“Worry about that later,” Aimée said. “Look, Anaïs, we’ve broken a chunk of the penal code tonight, I want to stop while I’m still free on the street.”

“You’re in this with me,” Anaïs said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry I dragged you in, but you can’t stop.”

True. But Aimée wanted to run into the dark wet night and not look back.

“Right now,” Aimée said, “we’ve got to get you inside.”

She turned to the taxi driver and slipped him another of An-ais’s hundred-franc notes. “Please wait for me.”

She helped Anaïs to a cobalt blue side door, set back along a narrow passage. After several knocks a buxom woman opened the door, silhouetted against the light. Aimée couldn’t see her face but heard her gasp.

“Madame … ça va?”

“Vivienne, don’t let Simone see me,” Anaïs said, as though accustomed to giving orders. “Or anyone. Get me something to put over this.”

Vivienne stood rooted to the spot. “Monsieur le Ministre …

“Vite, Vivienne!” Anaïs barked. “Let us in.”

Mobilized into action, Vivienne opened the door and shepherded them inside. She thrust an apron at Anaïs.

“Help me get my jacket off,” Anaïs said.

Vivienne gingerly removed the blood-stained jacket and dropped it on the kitchen floor.

Anaïs staggered and clutched the counter, where trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up. Vivienne’s lips parted in fear, and she clutched her starched maid’s uniform.

“But you must go to I’hopital, Madame,” she said.

“Vinegar,” Anaïs whispered, exhausted by her efforts.

“What, Madame?”

“Soak the bloody jacket in vinegar,” Anaïs muttered.

Aimée knew Anaïs was fading fast.

“Vivienne, tell le Ministre she’s had a sudden attack of food poisoning,” Aimée said. Aimée surveyed the plates. “Those,” she pointed. “Tainted mussels. Apologize profusely to the guests.”

“Of course,” Vivenne said, backing into kitchen drawers.

“I’ll get her upstairs,” Aimée said, worried. “Bring some bandages. Towels if you have to; she’s bleeding again.”

Aimée grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and tied it tightly around Anaïs’s leg.

Vivienne picked up a tray of crudites and bustled out of the kitchen.

They made it upstairs and down a dimly lit hall, the wood floor creaking at every hobbling step.

“Maman!” said a small voice from behind a partially open bedroom door. “Where’s my bisou?”

The child’s tone, so confident yet tinged with longing, rose at the end. Aimée melted at the little voice.

“Un moment, mon coeur,” Anaïs said, pausing to regain her breath. “Special treat—you can come to my room in a minute.”

Had she ever asked her mother for a goodnight kiss? Had her mother even listened? All Aimée remembered was the flat American accent saying, “Take care of yourself, Amy. No one else will.”

In the high-ceilinged bedroom, with pale yellow walls and periwinkle blue curtains, Aimée helped Anaïs out of her clothes.

She wiped the blood from Anaïs’s legs, helped her into a nightgown, then got her into bed. Aimée set several pillows beneath her leg. Again, after she applied direct pressure, the leg stopped bleeding. Thank God.

Aimée tied her own damp sweater around her waist.

A great weariness showed in Anaïs’s sunken face. But when a carrot-haired child, in flannel pajamas dotted with stars, peered around the door, her face brightened.

“Maman, what’s the matter?” asked the child, her brows knit together in worry. She padded in bare feet to her mother’s side.

“Simone, I’m a little tired.”

“I couldn’t wait to see you, Maman,” said the child.

“Me neither,” Anaïs said, opening her arms and hugging her daughter. “Merri, Aimée. I’m fine now.”

Aimée slipped out of the room, passing Vivienne who cast a large shadow, carrying antiseptic and towels.

“Please call Anaïs’s doctor,” she said. “The bleeding’s stopped for now, but she should be checked for internal injuries.”

Vivienne nodded.

“Keep checking on her, please,” Aimée said. “I’ll call later.”

Down at the kitchen doorway Aimée paused and peered at the reception in progress. A mosque fashioned out of sugarcubes, with details painted in turquoise and embellished with a gold dome, stood near chilled Algerian wine and fruit juice. Knots of men, some in djellabas, others in suits, clustered under the de Froissarts’eighteenth-century chandeliers. Conversation buzzed in Arabic and French.

She hadn’t seen Philippe de Froissart since the wedding, but she recognized him huddled among uniformed military men. He’d aged; his beaklike nose was more prominent, his mottled pink cheeks lined, and his black moustache graying. His thick black hair, white around the temples, curled over his collar. A member of the aristocracy, he’d once been a card-carrying Communist. Now he’d become a watered-down socialist, she thought, like everyone else.

She didn’t want to crash the reception, smeared with mud and blood—his mistress’s blood. But she had to get his attention and tell him what happened. She waved at him, standing partly behind the door.

Finally Philippe saw her. He reluctantly excused himself, causing several of the men in his group to turn and stare in her direction.

“Why, Aimée, it’s been a long time, the food poisoning—is Anaïs all right?” Philippe said, surprised.

“Vivienne’s calling the doctor,” she said as she pulled out a stool by the counter and closed the kitchen door with her foot.

He noticed her outfit, and his eyes narrowed. “Of course food poisoning is serious, but how are you involved?”

“Sit down, Philippe.” She leaned on the glasslike granite counter, her mouth dry. She chewed her lip.

“The minister’s here—what’s the matter?” he asked, watching her intently.

“Philippe, there was a car bomb,” she said.

“Car bomb—Anaïs?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing. He started for the door.

“Hear me out. Sylvie Coudray’s dead.”

Philippe paused. “Sylvie … No, it can’t be,” he blinked several times.

Aimée read shock on his face. And sadness.

“I’m sorry,” Aimée said. “Sylvie turned on the ignition and then—”

He sat down heavily, shaking his head. “Non, not possible,” he said, as if his words would negate what happened.

“Philippe, her car blew up right in front of us.”

He sat, stunned and silent.

“Do you understand?” Aimée said, her voice rising. “We were thrown by the blast; Anaïs might have internal injuries.”

He looked as if he’d hit a cement wall. Full force.

“What does it have to do with you, Philippe?”

“Me?” Philippe rubbed his forehead.

The clink of melting ice cubes accompanied the hum of voices from the other room. Platters of wilted salad sat by the sink.

“Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs something.”

Philippe stood up, anger flashing in his eyes.

“So?”

She wondered why Philippe was reacting this way.

“Anaïs could have been in that car,” she said.

“Never,” he said. “They didn’t get along.”

What an understatement.

“I helped Anaïs escape—”

“Escape? What do you mean?”

“Some men followed her,” Aimée said. “They came after us when your mistress was murdered.”

“But Sylvie’s not my mistress,” he cut her off. Philippe paced past the stainless-steel refrigerator. Preschool paintings with ‘Si-mone’ scrawled in pink marker covered most of the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“But Philippe,” she said, “Sylvie tried to tell Anaïs—”

Aimée was interrupted by two men, their arms around each other, who burst through the kitchen doors.

“Why all the secrecy, Philippe? Eh, hiding in the kitchen,” said a smiling man with curly hair and flushed cheeks, pushing up the sleeves of his djellaba. He had laughing eyes and cinnamon skin. He saw Aimée and his brows lifted.

“Call me a party crasher,” Aimée said, wishing they would leave. “Excuse my appearance, I’m in rehearsals,” she said to explain her outfit. She wanted to keep it vague. “A German miniseries—a Brecht adaptation.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the man. Of the two, he appeared the more personable.

“My wife’s friend, Aimée Leduc,” Philippe said reluctantly. “Meet Kaseem Nwar and le Ministre Olivier Guittard.”

Both men smiled and nodded to Aimée. Guittard gave her a once-over. Already she didn’t like him. It had nothing to do with his Cartier watch or perfectly brushed hair. She imagined him having a matching blond wife and 2.5 blond children.

Kaseem turned to Philippe. “Of course, you’re announcing the joint venture with continued funding of the 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 Aimée that read, Keep your mouth closed.

Aimée 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?”

Aimée 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 Aimée. “Don’t be offended, I’m joking. Some women feel more comfortable.”

Aimée 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 Anaïs,” 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 Anaïs.”

And he shut the door on her.

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

ON ILE St. Louis, Aimée 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 Aimée 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, Aimée. You working?” Monique eyed her, setting a glass of house red in front of her.

Aimée 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,” Aimée said.

“Your usual, eh?”

Aimée 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.

Aimée 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.

Aimée 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?

Miles Davis’s low growl amped to a high-pitched bark. With the broom she prodded the envelope, feeling around. “Back off’ was smeared in brown letters—a deep dark brown. She looked closer. Dried blood.

She stepped back.

Her poking had dislodged the contents of the unsealed envelope. Something gray slid onto the black-and-white diamond tiles. Mottled and furry. The odor, strong and rank, filled her hallway.

At first she thought a stuffed animal had emerged, but it was the biggest gray rat she’d ever seen. At least it would have been if the head had been attached to a body.

She turned cold inside. The head was as big as a kitten. She hated rodents, fat or skinny.

She scanned shadowy corners but saw only the dusty niched statues that spiraled the wall of her staircase.

No one.

She had to get rid of it. The putrid stench filled the landing. She pulled a pink TATI plastic shopping bag from her coat rack and shoved the dripping head into it with a broom. Using the broom handle, she carried the bag at arm’s length down her marble stairs.

She watched for an attacker but figured they’d gone—the “message” had been their goal. Miles Davis barked, keeping up the rear under the dim hall sconces. By the time she dropped the bag in the trash, a slow anger burned over her fear. Her thoughts skipped back over the events since Anaïs’s call. Did this have a link to Sylvie or Anaïs?

Her evenings hadn’t been this eventful in a while, she thought. A dead woman and a dead rat all in one night.

BACK IN her apartment the musty smell lingered. Outside her bedroom, at the far end of her hallway, stood a small yellowed statue. Beside it lay a pile of what looked like tea-stained bandages. She froze. Voodoo … evil spirits.

The rustle behind her caused her to turn and swing.

Yves jumped aside, wearing her father’s old bathrobe and a smile. She almost beheaded the marble Napoleonic bust in the hall beside him. He leaned against the door frame, his tan body and damp hair silhouetted in the bathroom light.

“So that’s how you greet someone, after a long flight, who’s brought you priceless Egyptian artifacts?”

She took a deep breath.

“Just unannounced ones,” she said, setting the broom against the wainscoting. “Did I give you a key?”

“Your partner Rene had an extra one,” he said. “Maybe you should check your messages,” he said, coming closer. His dark sideburns snaked to his chin.

“I’ve been a little busy,” she said, realizing she was still barefoot and in a faux-fur coat.

“Something’s spoiled,” his nose crinkled.

“Rat tartare,” she said. “Someone’s trying to scare me.”

“Scare you?” he asked. “Aimée, what’s the matter?”

She almost told him right then about the explosion and the rat. But she hesitated. He was dangerous to her psyche. A soul shaker and troublemaker.

Yves searched her eyes, sniffed her breath. “Busy enough to have a drink around the corner?”

She shrugged.

“Why haven’t you come to Cairo?”

“Ecoute, Yves,” she said, pulling her coat tighter. “Parts of Paris are Third World enough for me.”

But that wasn’t totally true. It had to do with commitment. Her inability to commit made it difficult to visit another continent.

“Et, voila.” He pursed his mouth. “I’m just another notch on your lipstick case.”

“If I remember correctly, you moved, Yves. Not me,” she said. “Then you pop into my life and disturb my concentration.”

“Maybe I need to disturb it more.”

“I haven’t heard from you for ages,” she said, rubbing her legs in the frigid hallway. “Suddenly you appear. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Yves turned away. There was a lot more she could say, but she didn’t feel like addressing his back.

“Like you, I’ve been busy,” he said, turning around and edging closer. The fresh scent of her newly laundered towels clung to him. “Civil wars and guerrilla encampments in remote outbacks don’t leave me a lot of time for chitchat.”

“Chitchat?”

She’d dealt with a dead rat and found a live one in her apartment.

“I’ve got no excuse,” he said. “Forgive me?”

“That’s all you can say?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“How sorry?”

She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

“Let me show you,” he said, with a small smile. “After all, I have a lot to make up for.”

She ran her fingers through her hair. They came back sticky.

“I need a bath. Want to scrub the motor oil off my back?”

“Good place to start.” He took her in his arms, noticing the bloodstains and scrapes on her legs. “I suppose you’re going to tell me about it.”

“Later,” she said with a half smile. “We better catch up first.”