Murder in Belleville by Cara Black Read Free Book Online Page A

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.”

Tuesday Morning
    A IMEE WOKE UP WITH a start to pounding on the door and Miles Davis barking.
    Alone.
    A sheet of papyrus was pinned to the pillow with “Charged your phone—try to keep out of trouble, Yves” written on it.
    She’d fallen into bed with him again. Sometimes she amazed herself.
    The pounding got louder. She pulled on a suede button-down shirt from the chair, grabbed a pair of black velvet jeans from her armoire, stuck the cell phone in her pocket, and stumbled barefoot to the door.
    “Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a smooth-faced plainclothes flic. His clear eyes and matter-of-fact expression contrasted with those of his partner, older and heavier, who paced the chill landing with a sour expression. His exhalations showed in breathy puffs. Both wore suits: cheap ones.
    Her heart pounded. Maybe this was a bad dream. She wanted to shut the door in his face, go back to bed.
    “You are Mademoiselle Leduc?”
    “I think so, but after coffee I’ll know for sure,” she said, scratching her head. “And you gentlemen might be …?”
    “Sergeant Martaud of the Twentieth Arrondissement,” he said. “But of course we’re happy to accommodate you at the Commissariat de Police.”
    Her words caught in her dry throat. A sinking feeling came over her. The talisman poked out of her backpack on the claw-foot marble table in plain view. She reached out and slipped it under her blue faux-fur coat which was lying on the chair.
    The sergeant opened his suit jacket with a flourish. In one fluid movement he removed his badge from a vest pocket, displayed his photo ID, then slipped it back in. She figured he practiced this in front of a mirror before work.
    “Identities are so important,” Sergeant Martaud said.
    “Sergeant Martaud, I’m particular about my coffee.” she managed a smile. “Almost obsessive, my colleague tells me, so you’d need a warrant to get me to Belleville without my customary cup.”
    His sour-faced partner returned the smile and waved a piece of paper. “Matter of fact, Mademoiselle, I happened to bring one with me.”

Tuesday Midday
    B ERNARD STOOD IN FRONT of Notre-Dame de la Croix Church. Chanting protesters in bright-patterned Mali cloth tried to block his way. The men, North African Tuaregs called “blue men,” for their traditional indigo blue veils and turbans, marched with women in black chadors and stout nuns in habits.
    Arms crossed, Bernard waited as the negotiator checked off concessions for the sanctuary seekers. Last night a group holding a candlelit vigil had refused him entrance. He’d been relieved when the minister told him to postpone meeting the leader. But when the car picked him up this morning, he’d felt the same dread. Only worse.
    On the way he’d heard the radio alerting the city to repercussions from the ministry’s decision finally to enforce last year’s anti-immigration laws. Had France’s recent triple-digit unemployment tipped the scales?
    Tension rippled, too, across the Mediterranean, from Algeria,