Murder in Belleville by Cara Black Page B

time, held all kinds of information: drivers’ license number, carte bancaire, and carte rationale d’identite among others.
    “What’s next?” Rene asked.
    “Why don’t you try to access Sylvie Coudray’s Securite sociale and Eugenie Grandet’s—if she exists—while you’re at it.”
    “You mean the name ‘Eugenie,’ the alias she used?”
    “So far that’s the only thing I have to go on,” she said. “But we need proof.”
    “I used to have a friend in Nantes,” Rene said. “Let me see if she’s still there.” He made a face. “Saves me much more time if you’ve got the woman’s carte bancaire.” His eyes gleamed. “I could hack the chip on her card and get into her account.”
    “Wish I did,” she said.
    “ Tiens , Aimie, I prefer that to the 128-bit encryption system at Banque de France.”
    “I’m impressed, Rene,” she said, letting out a low whistle.
    “Banque de France is a royal pain to maneuver!” he said. “I haven’t cracked all their encryptions yet.” He spread his arms from the edge of her desk indicating as far as the wall. “Only about that long. But take away the best years of my life and I will.”
    “Save your brain for the important stuff, Rene,” she said. “Like our rent!”
    “Bien sur, but I’ll stop at your apartment for some software. If I get hold of my friend, I might be able to navigate the Fichier in Nantes,” Rene said. “Besides, I’ve got a bag of bones for Miles Davis.”
    “You’re just trying to get on Miles Davis’s good side,” she said.
    “Check out the Duplo,” Rene said. He scanned the fax. “Interesting explosive to use.”
    She’d wondered about that, too.
    “Why use Duplo?” Aimee asked.
    “Instead of the more easily available Eastern-bloc explosive, Semtex? Good question.” Rene replied. “Word is the fundamentalists like Semtex.”
    Aimee’s eyes widened at Renews knowledge.
    “Have the flics blamed it on the fundamentalists yet?” she said. “That’s standard procedure.” Every time there was a bombing, the media referred to it as an Arabe incident in the same breath. The inherent racism made her sick.
    She walked to their oval window overlooking rue du Louvre, giving herself time to think. The truth could lie somewhere in between. If the fundamentalists wanted to kill Anais, a minister’s wife, they’d botched the job. But why? The victim hadn’t been identified, Anais’s name hadn’t been mentioned, and no group had claimed credit.
    “Let’s say the fundamentalists want no connection to this,” she said, “or they have no connection.”
    “Life is full of possibilities,” Rene said. “But I’d say the latter. Mafioso-types and the criminal element use commercial stuff like Duplo.”
    “Look here,” Aimee said, pointing at the last paragraph in the report. “Traces of a circuit board found indicate it was Swiss-made—an electronic switch manufactured in Bern. They meant business.”
    “The timing feels off, Aimee,” Rene said, cocking his head sideways. “I thought you left Gaston’s cafe around seven-fifteen, which gave you time to walk there, try the door, go up the street, and then return to number 20 bis.” He paused and pointed to the report. “According to this the explosion occurred at eight o’clock. First on the scene were the pompiers, then a SAMU at eight-twenty followed by the bomb squad, which arrived at eight thirty-five. The bomb squad did its documentation and recovery; then the chemical analyses began two hours later.”
    “ Attends, Rene ,” Aimee said. She grabbed a black marker, taped a sheet of newsprint to the wall, jotted down 7:15, then drew a thick arrow.
    “Go on,” she said.
    “Didn’t you say that when the flics came you hopped like a bunny over the wall?” Rene asked.
    The grunting, heaving lunge of a sea lion seemed a more apt description. But she kept that to herself.
    “Well, I heard sirens and they said, ‘Open up!’ ” She stopped writing, her