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

where an undeclared civil war still simmered after the military’s cancellation of the 1992 elections. The military’s hold over the strong fundamentalist factions was tenuous at best.
    Bernard wondered again why he, and not his boss, stood in the drizzle to negotiate. Bernard’s sleep, his first in days, fitful and broken, hadn’t been restful at all. His left eye had begun to twitch, a sign of extreme fatigue.
    “We know Mustafa Hamid, the Alliance Federation Liberation leader, bowed to internal pressure in taking over the church,” said the sharp-nosed negotiator, studying Bernard. “He organized the sans’papiers, but he’s a pacifist leader from way back.”
    Notre-Dame de la Croix stood before them, an anomaly of vaulted stone and lead-paned windows in the heavily Muslim immigrant quartier. Around them the air was redolent with spices and Arab music.
    “Future residence priority—there’s your give point,” the negotiator continued. “If you get that far.”
    Now Bernard understood: Dangle the carrot of future residency before the immigrants. This disgusted him. Once the zealots agreed to leave the country, he knew they’d never be allowed back in. These people might be stubborn, but not stupid.
    “Where’s k Ministre Guittard?” Bernard asked.
    “Staying informed,” the negotiator said. In the glare of the police-car lights his crew cut glistened with tiny rain droplets. “Monsieur le Ministre awaits the negotiations breakthrough.”
    It made sense. Guittard would watch the outcome, then either step in to claim credit or remain on the sidelines if a bloody confrontation occurred. Having been a midlevel fonctionnaire for years, Bernard understood how the ministry worked.
    “Le Ministre Guittard hopes for your successful negotiations,” the man said, as if an afterthought. “The Naturalization Committee needs leadership.”
    Here were the wily workings of a modern-day minister, Bernard thought. Delegate the dirty jobs and offer higher rank if the job proved well done. If the dirty job backfired, so did the fonctionnaire. Last year one of his ministry counterparts had been banished to the Ivory Coast in a similar fracas.
    Bernard’s mother’s words played in his head as he entered the church. “These … Africains, these Arabes … they are just people, non?…. Like us, Bernard.”

A IMEE 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