Murder in Pigalle Page 10

  “Your phone …?” How could he not be more worried? Could Zazie be at the Commissariat—could it all be over this easily? Where had she been?

  Three street cleaners in jumpsuits rolled up to the counter demanding beer. This early? Before her stomach rose in protest at the smell, she paid and left a message for Virginie.

  Outside at the kiosk, Maurice, the one-armed Algerian veteran she always bought papers from, grinned. “What about les Bleus, Aimée?”

  Even Maurice had caught World Cup fever. He had never been one for sports, but now he wore a bright blue T-shirt and had stuck a French flag near the editions of Soccer World that a stream of early morning commuters lined up to buy.

  Then she remembered Pierre’s comments about Zazie’s friend’s mother being in the newspaper. The girl they had banned Zazie from seeing. “Any dirt today on a druggie actress …?”

  “Which one?” His business was booming; she didn’t have much time to pick his brain.

  “With a titled younger boyfriend.” She put down some francs and took a copy of Le Parisien.

  “Old news. Yesterday, I think. Might have copies if I didn’t return the lot.” The line snaked across the pavement. “Check with me later, Aimée.”

  Up in Leduc Detective, Aimée nodded to the carpenter at work on the shelves. She tried to ignore the humidity pervading the high-ceilinged office and the whine of his drill. Bright sun splattered the walls and glinted off the framed sepia photograph of her grandfather sporting a waxed handlebar mustache. It had been taken circa his sûreté era.

  Saj sat cross-legged on his tatami mat in the adjoining office, at his laptop with headphones nesting in his blond dreads. A coral earring stood out brightly against his tan, and turquoise and sandalwood prayer beads hung over his Indian shirt. He looked up from his laptop, raising his index finger—une minute—and went back to tapping on his keyboard.

  Today’s Faits Divers section of Le Parisien contained only a brief mention of last night’s homicide and an alleged suspect in the emergency ward. Nothing about Zazie, of course. But Virginie and Pierre were at the Commissariat right now; she prayed they would bring Zazie home with them.

  How could she focus on work with the incessant noise and heat? Or the reality that she had a sonogram appointment this morning and that she’d be going alone? Martine, her best friend since they were at the lycée and guaranteed moral support for most occasions, had canceled on her, claiming a deadline. Aimée couldn’t budge her. Even with the offer to go clothes shopping, Martine’s forte—and Aimée could use Martine’s help with the dreaded maternity wardrobe.

  Not that she should be shopping now, even if she wanted to, with their looming tax bill. She’d keep uncinching waistbands and go for the layered look until she blossomed into the whale look.

  She tried to focus on running the day-to-day scans. Concentrate on work—the rent wouldn’t pay for itself. Neither would Miles Davis’s horsemeat, nor the Italian stroller that resembled a Gucci-print rocket capsule that René had insisted on.

  She’d wasted hours yesterday trying to find Zazie, and all she’d learned was that peach-pit oil prevented stretch marks.

  She wished the thought of the cold jelly on her belly and the radar pinging her unborn baby on the screen didn’t terrify her. Why couldn’t she wrap her head around it, why the doubts all the time? The combination of hormones and not having her own mother figure, she surmised, would do it to you. Could she, should she …?

  “René filled me in this morning,” Saj said. “So it’s all over for the rapist sailor, eh?”

  She hoped not. “Suspected rapist, Saj,” she said. “He’s in critical condition.”

  “Like our accounts,” said Saj. “We’re still waiting on three outstanding invoices—make-or-break amounts for the number crunchers at le fisc.”

  That bad? On paper Leduc Detective was in the black and solvent, if these clients paid on time. Yet as independent contractors, getting money from clients was harder than chewing granite.

  Zazie and now taxes!

  “Let’s try a creative approach, Saj,” she said, thinking.

  “I’m listening. But the paint’s dried, the brushes worn out.”

  Plan B. Always have plan B. And then it hit her—she hadn’t discovered Zazie’s plan B.

  “The deadline’s midnight, Aimée. Twenty percent interest fine if we don’t make it. Compounded with what we owe … almost six figures.”

  Six figures they didn’t have. She hated her plan B. Not perfect or her first choice and not necessarily legal. But a fallback.

  “Check the balance in this Luxembourg account,” she said quietly, cocking her head at the carpenter installing the new fixtures. She opened her desk drawer, consulted the contents of a manila file, jotted down a bank account number and handed the paper to Saj. “Verify it’s kosher. Then arrange and re-route a wire transfer.”

  Stunned, Saj mouthed something, but the drill whine drowned him out.

  She put her finger to her lips.

  With a little shrug that sent his prayer beads clacking, Saj returned to his tatami mat.

  Should she tell Saj? She’d kept it from René. But even she didn’t know for sure—just that gut feeling. The messages all arrived by diplomatic pouch. The last one from Dar es Salaam.

  A firm set up in Luxembourg, Andiamo Limited, an obvious shell company, listed her as the trustee and beneficiary of all company funds. The first pouch arrived with debit and credit cards in her name and a key to a safety deposit box. Up till now, she’d put it aside. Hadn’t wanted to touch it.

  Only one person in the world would do this.

  Her mother. She must have escaped Interpol.

  Saj looked up from his computer and gave a thumbs-up. There was enough in the account.

  Terrorism, blood money? What if her mother had killed someone for it? Illegal, any way you put it—and someday, somehow, would there be repercussions, a link back to her?

  And her choices—let her business go bankrupt with a little mouth to feed soon, or deal with the consequences later? Her shoulders tightened.

  “Withdraw the funds and reroute a wire transfer now,” she said. “Reroute as in creatively, compris?”

  “You mean as in avoiding jail time?”

  She put her finger to her lips again, shook her head. “I’ll explain later. Don’t want to be late for my first sonogram appointment.”

  She checked her Tintin watch. Grabbed her bag.

  Saj stopped her on her way out the door.

  “First we pray to Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, who removes obstacles,” said Saj. “After he’s been invoked, we pray to the Goddess Garbarakshambigai, the mother goddess, protector of pregnancies and the womb. She’s manifested as the Goddess Parvati, Lord Shiva’s wife.”

  Saj sounded serious. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.

  He took off his orange scarf, which was imprinted with Hindu mantras, and looped it around her neck. “From the Tanjore temple in Tamil Nadu.”

  “Sweet, Saj.” She hoped that didn’t mean he would insist on chanting. “Later, okay?”

  Her nerves fluttered. A creeping dread—of what? Bad news about the baby’s health?

  Aimée slipped into her ballet flats and out the door. On rue du Louvre she caught the 67 and rode the bus to Pigalle. Like Zazie.

  She took out a new red Moleskine notebook, her attempt at organization and more professional than scribbling on the back of her checkbook. What would she do if Zazie was not at the Commissariat? Even if she was, what about her own hunches about the rapist? Could she just step aside and leave it up to the flics? She’d decide later; for now she was only making notes. She thumbed to the to-do list, and after Maman et Moi yoga and Cooking classes she wrote down Violin teacher, Madame de Langlet and then Zazie’s report—surveillance? Check with schoolteacher. Aimée needed to find out if all this snooping was somehow related to a school project, and if not, figure out a way to discourage dangerous playing at
detective. Guilty, she realized that Zazie had just been copying Aimée. Some role model.

  Outside the bus windows, the gold-tipped facade of l’Opéra passed by, the teeming Grands Boulevards and crowds surging into Galeries Lafayette. Several stops before Pigalle, she disembarked by the back door. Took a deep breath, gulping air tinged with diesel fumes. Not the best idea. Pulled out a Badoit from her bag and stepped into the maternity clinic on rue de Maubeuge.

  Tuesday, 9 A.M.

  AIMÉE FELT THE cold jelly lubricant on her stomach, the rolling scope pressing on her pelvis. Near the bed, the sonogram machine made bleeping noises. What if something was wrong?

  “Voilà,” said Dr. Weil, a grinning, grey-haired woman. “Now you can see your baby.”

  Aimée turned her head, following the doctor’s finger to an off-white moonscape on the screen. “Where?”

  Dr. Weil pointed to a pulsing blob. “See, that’s the little heart working. The legs, the head. Bon, makes it real, n’est-ce pas?”

  Aimée gasped, just like women always did in the movies. But there it was, a real baby. Something melted inside her.

  “That’s why I prefer waiting until the second trimester for a sonogram,” Dr. Weil said. “Not all my colleagues advise waiting. But the baby’s formed, and you can see that everything is going well.”

  A little hand floated. Moved as if waving. The tiny fingers like jewels.

  So sweet it made her heart ache.

  “Little Leduc’s facing away, so we can’t tell the gender. Everything looks fine. Think I’ll ask the lab to run more tests.” Dr. Weil smiled at Aimée, putting her stethoscope back around her neck.

  “Tests like what?” Aimée asked, sitting up. The cold jelly lubricant was sticky and damp on her bump.

  A machine whirred into life, printing out the sonogram image.

  “Standard tests.” Dr. Weill tore off a lab request slip from a pad. Handed it to Aimée. A whole column of tests checked off. “Did your mother experience difficulties during her pregnancy?”

  “Non …” Aimée said, taken aback. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  What were all these tests for? Her one year of premed hadn’t approached obstetrics. Was the doctor keeping something from her?

  “Doctor, you don’t order a full-course menu like this for nothing …” As soon as she spoke, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to know. Encephalitis, some rare blood disease, deformity?

  Coward.

  “Just to rule things out, Aimée. I like to be thorough.” The doctor smiled again. “Based on your age, balanced nutrition, exercise and lifestyle, everything should be fine, but it’s a good idea to prepare, especially since you’re considering a water birth.”

  She blinked. No way in hell. Water birth was René’s crazy suggestion. She wished he hadn’t opened his mouth about it to Dr. Weil when he’d insisted on accompanying her to her last visit. And then she understood—Dr. Weil thought René was the father. These tests were for chromosome defects associated with dwarfism.

  After explaining her situation to Dr. Weil, she added, “I’m also exploring other birthing options, Doctor.”

  “No hurry to decide,” the doctor said. “Meanwhile, keep that blood pressure down. And exercise. And talk with your mother.”

  Fat chance.

  Congenital heart defects, a gene disorder recurring every so many generations, God knew what else—how could they deal with possibilities if no one knew her medical history? Or what to look for and treat?

  Noticing her expression, the doctor smiled again. “This is routine for ninety-nine percent of my patients, Mademoiselle Leduc. Even one who jogged into her eighth month. Gave birth to twins.”

  Calm down, she needed to calm down. She still had her father’s old trunk at home with her vaccination records from those childhood Port Royal clinic visits, so hazy in her memory. She’d see what she could find. But he’d burned all of her mother’s things.

  On the pavement in the hovering humidity, she kept to the dappled shade of a plane tree. The drifting mist from the water fountain felt delicious on her bare legs. She checked her phone, which she’d put on silent for the appointment, and saw the voicemail icon. Before she called in to listen, she checked her call log. One missed call from Virginie, one from René.

  Good news? Her hands trembling, she hit the voicemail number.

  “We’ve been at the Commissariat since dawn. The suspect’s deep in a coma.” Virginie’s tired sigh. “They’re questioning his cohort. Tearing his place apart, Aimée. If there’s any trace of Zazie, they’ll find it. The flics think she’s run away. But … I don’t know what to think. I’m at home taking care of Lucien. He’s sick.” Defeat and exhaustion seeped into her voice.

  Click. End of message.

  Her heart skipped. No Zazie. Nothing new. The next was from René.

  “Aimée, the violin teacher’s gone until this afternoon. I checked …”

  Merde!

  “… but … I heard on the police scanner …” His words chopped off. “… reported attempted rape.” Horns honked in the background. “… last night on rue Lamartine. The girl got away.” More horns. He must be driving. “She’s at the Commissariat this morning—her father took her to make a report. They’re treating it …”

  The message cut off.

  Rue Lamartine. Aimée pulled out Zazie’s map. In the ninth arrondissement.

  She called him back. Only voicemail. “Find out who the girl is, René, and then find the father. We must talk with him—” The message cut off.

  Great. Nothing for it now but to try to sweeten the sour taste of her last encounter with the Brigade des Mineurs. She dialed, and a woman answered the phone.

  “Madame Pelletier?” Aimée tried.

  Sounds of conversation in the background. “Can I take a message?”

  And waste time? “The girl attacked on rue Lamartine last night—the one who’s giving her statement with her father right now—”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Is she blonde, and does she take violin lessons?”

  “Why?”

  “Just tell me, please … blonde? Takes violin? I’m wondering if it’s my neighbor’s daughter.”

  “I can’t give out names, Mademoiselle. Security issues.”

  “Mais oui, I understand,” she said, thinking hard. “I’m concerned. After all, I live on rue Lamartine. I want to help them if I can.”

  “Best if you wait to speak with Madame Pelletier.”

  “Please, for peace of mind … just yes or no. I used to babysit her. She’d be twelve now. Mon Dieu, I hope it’s not her.”

  Pause. “Désolée …”

  “Please, can’t you just say …?”

  “She’s blonde. Carried an instrument case, but I can’t verify any more.”

  “Merci.” That was all she needed. The merchant seaman from Lille wouldn’t tell them anything when he came out of the coma, if he ever did. He wasn’t the rapist.

  Despite René’s message, she called the violin teacher, Madame de Langlet, again. Only answering machine. Didn’t people answer their phones anymore?

  Maybe she should sit down at that corner café and plan, work out every possibility, go into painstaking detail then plot a course of action. Get Madame Pelletier to listen and then leave her Brigade and les flics to it. The two forces who, combined, still hadn’t put the rapes together?

  She’d promised Virginie she’d find Zazie. Her instinct was to tackle it in her usual way—dogged, persistent, single-track mode.

  But now her back ached, and she had to stifle a yawn. So tired.

  Still, if it were her child who was missing, wouldn’t she want someone to make good on that promise?

  She could follow her to-do list, hail a taxi, try one more time to trace Zazie’s steps. Or maybe she should listen to her body. Go home, put her feet up and catch some delicious sleep.

  She hailed a taxi.

  THE LYCÉE JACQUES Decour incorporated the forme
r abattoir of Montmartre into part of the gym. The portico’d walkway of the nineteenth-century school’s courtyard enclosed a garden of shooting purple hollyhocks. The school exuded a convent-like ambience—apart from the clumps of teenagers, the running and yelling and the piercing bell. A blur of movement, pounding footsteps, and then the testosterone and chaos evaporated behind high classroom doors.

  After a five-minute talk with the gardien through the window to the wood loge, Aimée knew which classroom to look for. Finding it, she discovered, was another matter. Staircases on the far side of the courtyard led to an upper floor with long corridors and a warren of rooms. A bit like her old lycée in the Marais.

  Salle A led to Salle A1, which led to a roomful of students bent over exercise books. Those low wood desks and chairs were exactly how Aimée remembered them, gouged with initials and murder on her long legs. Two teachers stood conferring by the chalkboard. One wore a peach scarf, the other a sundress—no doubt ready for les vacances.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” she said. “Is either of you Zazie Duclos’s teacher?”

  “That’s Monsieur Sillot. Là-bas.”

  A small, trim middle-aged man wearing a red vest, bow tie and rimless glasses stood in the corridor, intent on checking off something on a clipboard with his pen. He made clucking noises accompanied by frequent shakes of his head. He reminded her of a nervous robin counting crumbs for the winter.

  “Monsieur Sillot,” she said. “I understand you’re Zazie Duclos’s teacher.”

  “I can’t talk to you,” he said, giving her a once-over with his sharp, black eyes. “Confidentiality.”

  “Monsieur, I’m not a flic …”

  “That much I figured out,” he interrupted. “A journalist, non?”

  Tempted to lie, she shook her head. “A concerned friend. I’ve known her since she was in diapers.”