Murder in Pigalle (11 page)

She sat back. Thought. “While you’re at rue Chaptal, show this photo of Zazie to the bouncer at the disco Le Bus Palladium.”

“What?”

“Ask about the …” She racked her brain. “What’s it called, something like
la nuit du teenybopper.
”

“Zazie’s underage, Aimée. They wouldn’t let her in.”

“Then why did she have this Bus Palladium postcard for a boy-band concert?” She waved the postcard. “They had those groups when Martine and I were at the
lycée.
The club switches over to adult and open bar after ten
P
.
M
.”

René shook his head. “Don’t be scattershot. Keep your focus.”

Plan B. She had to figure out what Zazie meant. But with the passing hours the danger she was in increased.

“Every avenue needs exploring. I’ve got homework of my own,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing, René. But it’s on your way. Matter of fact, the disco’s around the corner from rue Chaptal.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
the rain stopped, and Aimée walked Miles Davis, her bichon frise, along the dimly lit quai. Miles
Davis was sporting his new Burberry rain apparel. Algae odors rose from the gurgling Seine and mingled with the smell of wet leaves. She stood lost in thought as Miles Davis did his business under the dripping lime tree. But she needed to walk to think, and Miles Davis needed exercise. Her steps took her around the corner of Ile Saint-Louis to the church she’d been christened in. Her christening outfit sat boxed in an armoire—but she couldn’t think that far ahead.

Several members of the evening choral practice group clustered at the wooden door to the Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile church. Candles sputtered, and she heard the chant of a novena. She picked up Miles Davis and slid into the last pew. The smoking incense, the red glass lanterns and the drone of prayers took her somewhere else.

Her mind cleared. She said a little prayer for Zazie. Patted her stomach. Dipped her fingers in the holy water font, touched them to Miles Davis’s paw and slipped out.

Now to decipher what she’d found in the café kitchen.

S
WATHED IN A
cotton duvet and propped up by feather pillows, her one indulgence until tax time, she spent ten minutes reading the musty, yellowed chapters of the Resistance book Zazie had marked.

Code names, dead letter boxes and dry narrative. Techniques for secret communication. For surveillance.

Then Zazie’s note fell out again—
Go to Plan B.

Had her surveillance of the so-called rapist stemmed from this school project? Was there some hint here of how she had trailed her suspect?

Why the hell hadn’t Zazie told her everything?

The church bell on Ile Saint-Louis rang midnight, muted and dulled by the Seine gurgling outside her open window. She hated calling people so late, but there was no other choice. She reached for her cell phone.

“H
OW SERIOUS
, A
IMÉE
?” Suzanne said. “Look, I just walked in the door and paid my babysitter. We’re short with Melac gone. But of course you’ve heard,
non
?”

She’d left Melac’s messages unanswered, not ready to deal with his decision to stay in Brittany. She understood deep down, and she knew if she told him about the baby, his life would change. He didn’t need that right now with his daughter in a coma.

“Child endangerment. A twelve-year-old rape victim murdered. Serious enough for you, Suzanne?”

“
Zut
! Let me take off my wet shoes … ahh, better. Okay, give me a quick rundown.”

Aimée did.

“The Brigade des Mineurs’s priority’s the rapist,” said Aimée. “Zazie’s peripheral.”

“Standard procedure, Aimée,” she said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not working that angle, too.” A sigh came over the line. “The team’s fifteen people, specialists all trained in psychology, family dynamics. And trained first as police, for God’s sake. They know the field. Deal with the perverts on a daily basis.”

“No doubt, Suzanne, but they’re playing catch-up. Don’t ask me how but I saw the reports.”

“Good, because I’m tired,” she said. “And it’s too late for me to arrest you tonight.”

“Who do you know who works Vice in the ninth?”

A pause. In the background she heard a child’s voice. “Maman, I’m thirsty.”

“It’s late,
désolée
,” Aimée said. “But look, you’ve got kids. Help me out here. Zazie’s mother’s frantic. I promised her I’d pursue anything I could. And please don’t tell me Zazie’s a teenager and that’s what they do.”

A little laugh.

“Right now I’d love her to walk in the door and to hear everyone tell me ‘I told you so,’ but
vraiment
, Suzanne, if Zazie hasn’t returned by now, in my gut I know it’s because she can’t.”

“Hold on, Aimée,” she said. “Let me see what I can find. Vice assignments changed. Let me check on a
mec
I know.”

A moment later Aimée heard water splashing, little footsteps. “
Ma
puce
, back to bed, story in a minute.”

Was that how her life would turn out? A crying baby in the night, a toddler and playdates in the park, then down the road a headstrong teenager?

She envisioned a hazy future—her trying to run a business orchestrated around this little Bump. Would there be enough Dior concealer in Paris to blot out the dark shadows under her eyes?

She heard Suzanne come back on the line.

“How do you do it all, Suzanne? Work, kids, keep a relationship?”

“Do it all?” Suzanne snorted. “Why would anyone do it all unless they had to? Being a parent today comes with built-in worries: vaccinations, the right school, doing enough or not enough, giving up your career or your time with your child … I’m so sick of my friends debating this guilt in the sandbox all the time.”

Aimée thought of the mothers chatting over pastel macaroons in the Jardin du Luxembourg—it looked idyllic until it erupted in sand-throwing.

“You just do it, because that’s how things work. It’s what we’ve always done,” Suzanne was saying. “Think about it—our mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers raised families while helping on the farm or in the shop,
non
? They did what they could with one, two or ten children, and everyone survived. Mostly.” She paused. “Think about your mother. You turned out all right, right?”

Because she had her father and grandfather.

“Does this mean you and Melac might …?” Suzanne hesitated.

“Look, it’s late. I’ll let you go. But did you find that name in Vice?” she said quickly, afraid she’d blurt everything out—Melac’s departure, her fears, how she’d avoided returning his calls, how uncharted this all felt. No one to guide her. If only her mother …

Crazy to want help from a woman who left her when she was eight years old.

“Tell Beto I know you, that’s important,” Suzanne said, and gave Aimée his number. “Call him suspicious, but it’s kept him alive. Counterterrorism background. He owes me.”

Aimée’s knuckles whitened on the phone. “
Attends
, you and Melac worked counterterrorism?”

“Can’t speak to that, but Beto’s cover was blown, so he’s undercover Vice. Got the nickname after his course at Quantico—some Brazilian Ponzi-scheme strategy.”

“
Merci
, Suzanne,” she said.

“My life’s a balancing act, Aimée,” she said, her voice blurred with tiredness. “We make it work. Thank God my husband’s mother and my sister help out, or I’d jump off the Pont Neuf.” A pause. “But I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything else in the world.”

Clicking off the call, Aimée shifted on her side and readjusted her pillow to support her stomach and relieve the pressure on her back.

Suzanne’s words spun in her head. Why would you want to do it all? Should she cave in to that up-and-comer Florian, head of Systex, who emailed her once a week with the same proposal—join computer security forces and expand delivery systems? Then she could take a decent maternity leave and later work part-time. Should she put the baby on a waiting list for a
crèche
, which Martine insisted she should have done on conception? Should she move to the country, make marmalade,
be a full time
maman
and go stark raving mad? Should she consider putting this baby up for adoption?

Or should she put her swollen feet on the cold wood floor and get a Badoit before the creeping nausea overtook her? A few gulps later, she stood at her window overlooking the dark, misted Seine. Burped.

Relief at last.

Miles Davis curled at her bare feet as she punched in Beto’s number.

“Who’s this?” Trance music thumped in a languid wave in the background.

“Suzanne gave me your number. I’m Aimée Leduc.”

Pause. “So you say,
chérie.
”

“Check me out. Then I’d like to talk.”

“And I’d like the Mercedes parked across the street. We’ll see.”

He clicked off.

Out working undercover, she figured. Anyone worth their salt would verify her identity. All she could do was wait. And hope.

She tried René.

“Before you ask, the bouncer remembered seeing Zazie last week. End of report. Go to bed.”

She was about to tell him she was sick of people telling her to go to bed, but René had hung up.

Z
ACHARIÉ PLAYED
M
ARIE
-J
O
’
S
message. “Papa, this man says he’ll take us to you. Should I believe him? But my friend thinks he’s lying … where are you?” Marie-Jo’s voice quivered.
Non
,
non
, don’t go, he wanted to yell. Then what sounded like chairs or a table scraping across the floor. “Put that down,” and the phone went dead.

Panicked, he punched in her number. Out of service. After trying his ex-wife’s flat, where the phone rang twenty times, he remembered she’d gone to rehab. Again. He paced back and forth in the rain on rue Chaptal. No lights showing from the third-floor windows.

His ex-wife’s restraining order hadn’t been rescinded. Only a matter of time, he knew, since he’d gain custody of Marie-Jo. Still … he had to chance it. What if someone burgled the house, or what if it was this rapist he’d heard about on the radio this evening?

He pressed the buzzer. Nothing.

“Monsieur?
Vous me permettez
?” He recognized the middle-aged woman, Cécile the concierge, unfolding her umbrella next to him in the doorway.

Would she recognize him? Report him to the lawyer?

“Ah, Monsieur, quite a long time,” she said with a smile. She unbuttoned her raincoat. A gold cross glittered around her neck.

Make the best of it. Use this.

“
Bonsoir
, Madame,” he said. “I’m dropping off those forms for my ex-wife. She told you to give me the key,
non
?”

Doubt flashed across Cécile’s face. “
Mais non
, but
entrez
, come in out of the rain.”

Dripping wet, he stood at the doorframe of the concierge
loge.
A crucifix above the minuscule brown sofa, a galley kitchen and brown tiles. Mail slots and keys to the left, in the old style. He wondered how much longer the building would pay for a concierge.

“
Désolée
, I’ve been at Saint Rita’s—I volunteer for the procession,” she said. “It’s every year, you know, in honor of Saint Rita, the patron saint of hope. It’s organized by us fallen women.” She gave a grin. “I once walked the streets. But Saint Rita saved me.”

A born-again convert. The worst.

Zacharié nodded. “But Marie-Jo …”

“That’s the thing,” she interrupted. “Marie-Jo promised to come down and help out at Saint Rita’s like last year. So sweet, your daughter. She took those beautiful photos of the shrine for us after we’d decorated. But she couldn’t stay, said something had come up. Apologized for having to leave.”

“Leave?”

“With her classmate, the red-haired girl, and that nice man, that friend of yours who was waiting for them.”

Zacharié clutched the doorframe. Jules had taken his daughter.

“Which way did they go?”

A
IMÉE BLINKED AWAKE
to soft, cream sunlight streaming over the herringboned wood floor. The warm wind rustled her bedroom curtains. Her phone trilled, startling her.

She sat up, pushed aside the Resistance book and reached for her phone on the rococo bedside table. Her eye caught on Zazie’s black-and-white photo. The men in the square.

Her hand froze.

She thumbed the book open again to the third chapter Zazie had marked. Slid a piece of paper in to mark the place and glanced at the phone. A number she recognized.

“So you feel like talking,” she said.

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Beto.

“
Bon
, where do we meet?”

“How about answering your door?” Beto said. “I’ve been ringing your bell for ten minutes.”

She shook off her duvet and ran to the armoire. Not much in it fit her anymore. She’d been getting by with a slouched silk blouson and the oversize Gucci jacket, layered over a Dior skirt
sans
zipper. Soon she’d have to break down and find maternity clothes.