Murder in Belleville

Early Monday Morning

“AFL’S ACCOUNT IS CHUMP change compared to Sylvie’s!” René said thirty minutes later on the phone. His voice rose. “Why don’t you talk with Philippe?”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” she said.

“Can you hyperlink it over to me?” he asked. “I’d like to try something.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

Miles Davis growled and pawed at her window frame.

The sun had risen in golden glory over the Seine. Dawn painted the rooftops. Below her window she saw several men in blue jumpsuits with German shepherds along the quai. Her heart raced. They watched her window.

“René, I don’t like what’s happening outside my window,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you meet me in the office?” she said. “I’m leaving now.”

She E-mailed Sylvie’s and the AFL’s account information to her office, called a taxi, and put her laptop in her bag. She left the lights on and a bowl of food for Miles Davis, put on a black curly wig, and a long raincoat over her leather one. As the taxi pulled up on the curb of quai d’Anjou, she ducked into the taxi’s backseat.

SHE WANTED a cigarette desperately. Instead she entered the Pont Marie Métro, slid her ticket into the turnstile, and marched toward the nearest platform. Before the stairs, she pulled off the wig, slipped out of the raincoat, and dumped them in the trash bin.

She joined the early Monday morning commuters riling past her. The voices of panhandlers singing for a handout echoed off the tiled walls.

She sat down on the plastic molded seat, watching and thinking. Were those Elymani’s cohorts outside her window or men sent by Philippe?

She leaned against the Métro wall map, the station names erased by the rubbing of countless fingers. A shiny red Selecta vending machine on the platform blocked her view of the other end. But after five minutes she figured she’d lost the men tailing her.

She punched in her office number.

René’ answered on the first ring.

“You might want to get over here, Aimée,” he said.

“I’m doing my best,” she said. “What’s happened?”

“Things have gotten dicey,” he said, his voice low. “Thanks to Philippe.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a big mec sitting here who says we’re out of compliance.”

“Compliance?”

“Some ordinance infraction,” René said. “Has to do with the space we rent and the tax we pay.”

“Tell me, René,” she said. “Does the mec have a shaved head and fish eyes?”

“Exactly,” René said.

“Tell him our last adjustment should suffice,” she said. “Matter of fact, let me tell him.”

She heard the muffled sound.

“Allô?”

“Claude, what’s the problem?”

“I represent the tribunal verifying rent according to space and convenience,” he said. “Your last surface corigée assessment is invalid.”

“Not according to their report,” Aimée said. “Take it up in the appeals section.”

“I already have,” he said.

Her reply caught in her throat.

Dédé marched along the opposite Métro platform, his boots echoing off the tiled walls with their giant arching posters. Muk-tar’s clones eased among the commuters. Coming right toward her.

“Claude, this is between Philippe and me,” she said, scanning the crowds. “Tell René I might be held up, but I’m on the way.”

She clicked off. She sat in the middle of the platform, a few seats taken up by an older woman and high school students. Commuters in business suits clustered around her but would board the next train. Granted, they’d be looking for a black-haired woman first, but Dédé and the other mecs knew her face. If she stood up she’d be seen.

Should she rush into a car when it pulled into the station? The ominous bulge in the coat pockets of the two mecs weaving toward her made her think they had silencers on their guns. And what did she have? A Beretta in her faux-leopard coat—at the office.