Murder in Belleville

AIMÉE BANGED ON THE cell bars, demanding to speak with the commissaire. The blue-uniformed flic lowered the radio volume on his desk, smoothed the red hair under his kepi, then took his time walking to her cell.

“Cool your heels,” the flic said. “Everyone’s busy right now.”

“Monsieur, please let me talk with the commissaire.”

“He’s dealing with the immigrants taking sanctuary in the church,” the flic said. “Too busy to take much interest in you right now.”

“A bizarre mistake has been made,” she interrupted.

“You’re a troublemaker,” the flic said, pushing the brim of his kepi back. His eyes were bloodshot. “We like things calm in here. Peaceful. And if you don’t shut up, there’s a a cell where types like you can meditate and reflect. It’s our premiere accommodation with no telephone privileges.” He grinned. “Come to think of it, no privileges at all.”

“My father was a flic,” she said. “Those ‘meditation’ cells disappeared after the big reform.”

“Care to find out?” he said.

She’d like to report this tyrant. Flics like him gave the force a bad name; ones who enjoyed having suspects in pretrial detention and making them sweat before being charged. Procedure-wise, she knew that she could be held up to seventy-two hours, like suspected druggies or terrorists, with only the prosecuter’s signature. He seemed the type who’d take advantage of the penal code.

Worried, she drummed her fingers on the bars. Why hadn’t Morbier come?

“My godfather’s a commissaire in the Fourth,” she said. “He’s en route.”

The flic stared at her, his eyes like hard green stones. “If you’re asking for special treatment, I told you, the ‘meditation’ cell can be arranged.”

She shut her mouth.

The flic grinned, “If you change your mind, let me know. We like to accommodate all our clients.” He strutted back to his radio. Only two cells in this criminal-holding commissariat, but he acted as if he presided over a private prison.

Aimée tried to piece it all together: the explosion, Anaïs’s story, the moped escape, and the rat. She sat down on the wooden cot hanging from the brick wall by metal chains. A coarse institutional brown blanket was folded in a neat square in the middle. Not even a pissoir, Aimée thought. Sticky, smudged steel bars three centimeters apart were bolted into the stained concrete floor that angled into a drain. Her feet were wet, and her stomach growled. Her teenage cellmate wasn’t much of a conversationalist; she crouched in the corner, in black overalls and with needle tracks visible on her bony ankles, drooling and nodding off.

How had she ended up in a vomit-laced cell with a junkie who couldn’t be more than sixteen?

“Couldn’t you at least have waited until I finished my poker game?” Morbier grumbled, grinding out his Gauloise with his foot. “I’m on medical leave.”

He nodded his salt-and-pepper-haired head to the flic, who got out his keys. The flic examined Morbier’s ID, then unlocked Aimée’s shared cell.

“What’s the uproar about?” Morbier demanded.

The flic handed Morbier a clipboard, and he scanned it.

“Et alors?” Morbier asked. “Suspected robbery, télésurveillance photos, obstruction of RATP personnel, neighbors’grievance. You can’t hold her with this.”

“The commissaire issued holding instructions,” the flic said, standing his ground.

Morbier passed the clipboard to Aimée. She read it quickly.

“Circumstantial evidence! My business card and smudged fingerprints won’t cut it with the police judiciare,” Aimée said, handing back the clipboard. “And you know it.”

The flic squared his shoulders, his gaze rigid.

“My commissaire’s instructions were specific,” he said.

“The report indicates two women and a man,” Aimée said. “Where are they? Not only that, Sergeant Martaud failed to note I’m a licensed detective.”

“Your commissaire might have misunderstood the report,” Morbier said, riffling through an empty pack of Gauloises. He shrugged. “Happens all the time with field reports—clarity issues.”

The flic’s gaze wavered. Morbier was giving him a way out.

“Let me talk with him,” Morbier grinned. “We handled a case last year, very confusing. I’m sure he’ll remember my cooperation in the Marais.”

There it was—the old network—scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Now the flic had to give in or saddle his commissaire with a bad name.

“Confusing, that’s the word I was searching for,” he said. “A confusing report.”

“Put her on my tab,” Morbier said. “And lose the paperwork. Next time your commissaire’s on my manor, I’ll reciprocate. Comprendsl”

“Oui, Monsieur le Commissaire!” The flic nodded and kept his eyes averted from Aimée’s.

Aimée picked up her personal effects: her Hermes bag, a flea-market find, leather coat, and damp ankle boots.

The other small holding cell around the next corridor was full of working girls from a roundup.

“Your souteneur?” one of the girls said, adjusting her black garter belt and bustier for all to see. “Let me introduce you to mine. He’s younger, much better looking. Yours seems kind of long in the tooth, eh?”

“Merci,” Aimée grinned. “Maybe next time.”

She stopped to lace her boots and Morbier went ahead.

Morbier’s flesh-colored body brace was visible under the raincoat draped over his shoulders.

“How’s the bébé? he said to a honey-skinned prostitute in the opposite cell combing out her blond wig.

“Merci bien, Commissaire,” she smiled. “He’s making his first communion soon! I’ll send you an invitation.”

“Norn de Dieu—how time flies,” Morbier said wistfully as he walked stiffly to the foyer.

“Haven’t seen you since Mouna,” the discharge flic said to Morbier.

Aimée didn’t hear his reply.

“Who’s Mouna?” she asked, standing near the discharge desk.

Morbier didn’t answer.

Aimée stared at him, “What’s the matter?”

“Mouna helped me out,” he said, wincing and looked away. “You can handle yourself from here. I’m late for physical therapy.”

By the look she’d caught, she realized he’d known her quite well. “You’re still friends with Mouna?” she asked.

“Mouna’s gone.” His face reddened.

Surprised, Aimée paused. She’d never seen Morbier react this way before.

“What happened, Morbier?”

“She happened into crossfire during the 1992 riots.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, watching his expression.

“Mouna wasn’t the only one,” he said. “Events got messy.”

For Morbier to even mention it, things must have been bad.

She and Morbier stood filling the scuffed wood-paneled entrance of the Commissariat de Quartier on narrow rue Rampo-neau.

Aimée hesitated, unsure how to respond to this new facet of Morbier.

“You’ve never talked about her,” Aimée said, her voice tentative.

“That’s not the only thing I keep to myself,” he said, irritation in his voice. “Don’t let me catch you behind bars again. What would—” he stopped the words catching in his throat.

“Papa say?” she finished for him. “He’d say getting me from behind bars is my godfather’s duty.”

“Leduc, stay out of Belleville. The Twentieth Arrondissement isn’t your turf,” he said. “And since when have you taken to riding a moped through the Metto, using it to rob people at the ATM, and ditching it around the corner?”

She kicked a loose cobble on the curb. It wasn’t her fault the homeless guy used the bike to steal.

“Morbier, the Métro was unavoidable but I never robbed—”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear this,” Morbier said, covering his ears. “Heavy hitters play dirty here. They have their own rules.”

“This concerns a minister’s wife.”

“Tiens!” Morbier said, rolling his eyes. “With you, everything has to do with politics. Let the big boys handle it, Leduc,” he said. “Stick to your computer. Go home.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said.

“Consider this what I owe you,” he said. “Since I didn’t make it when you played footsies on that Marais rooftop.” He referred to her case last November, when an old Jewish woman was murdered in the Marais. Morbier glanced at his watch, an old Heublin from the Police Nationale graduation. Her father had kept his in the drawer. “We’re even.”

“Morbier, let me explain—”

“Leduc, you’re a big girl,” he interrupted, “I want a full pension when I retire. Comprends?”

Arguing with him would get her nowhere.

“Merci, Morbier,” she said, pecking him on both cheeks.

She joined the crowd on boulevard de Belleville. At the Métro entrance, the cold spring rain pelted her black velvet pants and beaded her eyelashes. She debated, standing in the drizzle, while commuters veered around her, a wet island in a sea of umbrellas.

The smart course of action would be to leave Belleville, escort Anaïs to a lawyer, and follow up on the Electricite de France job proposal. And she was smart. She had a business to run and a brilliant partner who more than helped shoulder responsibilties.

Yet every time she closed her eyes she saw the burning ball of white-yellow heat, felt the clumps of flesh raining down on her, heard blood sizzling on a car door. Her hands trembled, though not as badly as last night. And she couldn’t get Simone’s voice or Anaïs’s white-faced horror out of her head.

AIMÉE STEPPED into a phone cubicle on avenue du Pere Lachaise to save her cell phone battery. On her left a florist’s sign above baskets of violets promised tasteful funeral arrangements.

“Résidence de Froissart,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Madame, please,” Aimée said. “Is this Vivienne?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Aimée Leduc,” she said. “I helped Madame last night.”

A pause. Pots clanged in the background. The voice sounded different, unlike Vivienne.

“How’s Madame feeling?”

“Madame’s unavailable,” she said.

She could understand Anaïs not feeling well, but she wouldn’t give up that easily.

“Unavailable?”

“I can take a message.”

“Did the doctor visit?”

“You’d have to speak with k Ministre about that,” she said.

Most likely Anaïs had slept and recuperated. But the guarded tone bothered her. She heard a loud buzzing.

“May I speak with Monsieur le Ministre?”

“Not here,” the woman said. “Pardonnez-moi—someone’s at the door.”

Before Aimée could ask her to have Anaïs call her, the woman hung up. She stared out into gray rue Pere Lachaise where rain pattered over shop awnings. She noticed a cat peering from a window. The cat looked dry and well fed. She tried calling again but the line was busy.

Frustrated, Aimée punched in Martine’s number at Le Figaro.

“Mais Martine’s at a board meeting,” said Roxanne, Martine’s assistant.

“Please, it’s important,” Aimée said, “1 must talk with her.”

“Martine left you a message,” Roxanne said.

“What’s that?”

“I wrote it down,” Roxanne said, her tone apologetic. “I’m sorry to be cryptic, but Martine made me repeat this: ‘Start where Anaïs told you; there’s a lot more in the pot-au-feu besides vegetables.’ She said you’d understand.”

Understand?

Aimée thanked Roxanne and hung up.

She didn’t like this. Any of this. She felt torn after vowing to stick to corporate work and build her computer security firm.

The plastic surgeon who’d pieced her together after the Marais case told her to be careful—next time might not find her so lucky. Her stitches had healed nicely. He’d done a good job, she had to admit; no one could tell. He’d offered to enhance her lips gratis. “Like the German models,” he’d said. But she was born with thin lips, and figured she’d exit with them.

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 soon. 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.

“Any word on the EDF probationary contract?” she asked, picking out her black leather coat from the rack.

“The EDF manager liked you—liked you a lot,” he said. “He had some questions.”

Too bad she hadn’t spent time discussing their services with him since she’d hurried to meet Anaïs.

“But it’s the big guys at headquarters who need persuading,” Rene said. “I’m meeting EDF’s lawyer later.”

“Did you check the data report?” she asked. “See any virus?”

“So far the EDF system looks clean. But there’s a nasty little virus going round,” he said. “Think I’ve isolated its birth mother. She’s uglier than her spawn!”

“You’re the terminator at the terminal.” She grinned. “The virus’s days are numbered.”

René watched her. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“I had visitors last night,” she said. “One thanks to you. Yves.”

“Did everything work out?” Rene said, a smile in his voice.

“Let’s say Yves took my mind off the first one. A rat. Sorry I didn’t make it—long story.”

He hit Save. “Want to talk about it?”

She told him. Most of the story, anyway. She kept her hands in her pockets so he wouldn’t see them tremble.

René shook his head.

“No wonder you look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said. René swiveled his chair toward her. “You, of all people, get nervous with things that ignite. Can I help?”

“Merci, I’ll let you know,” she said. “Time to change.”

She wedged her feet out of the damp chunky-heeled boots, setting them by the door. In the storage room she changed into her Chanel suit. It was black, tailored, and short, the one classic she owned. Her father’s face had lit up whenever she wore it. “That fits the Parisian in you,” he’d always said.

“Who died?” René’asked, his eyes quizzical when she emerged.

Startled, Aimée almost dropped her Hermes bag.

“You only wear that to funerals,” René said.

She doubted one would be held for Sylvie Coudray: There wouldn’t be anything to bury.

“I’ve got an appointment with a pearl expert,” she said. “See you later.”