Murder in Pigalle Read online

  He consulted his cell phone again and punched in a number. Moved to the corner, his broad shoulders hunched. She stepped closer, listening.

  “We need le proc,” he said. The Procureur de la République, the public prosecutor.

  Aimée heard a finality in his voice. Saw the look in his eyes when he flipped his phone closed.

  “Sylvaine?”

  “Her heart gave out in the ambulance,” he said. “Be careful where you walk. It’s a murder scene.”

  Aimée gasped. “Mon Dieu.” She’d witnessed the girl’s last moments. Her insides wrenched. “Then you need to treat Zazie as a missing minor right now.” She flipped open her phone, scrolled to show him Zazie’s number. “She’s using her uncle’s phone. Track the phone pings from this number.”

  “You seem convinced she was here.”

  “Zazie was following a man she thought had raped her classmate.” She battled the sob rising in her throat. “We can’t just wait for something to happen to her.” If it hadn’t already.

  “Her father needs to make a report at the appropriate time. Like I told you.”

  “What if Zazie witnessed Sylvaine’s attack?” she said, frantic to make him take action. “Can you rule that out?”

  “Our priority’s the attacker. The murderer,” he corrected himself. “Now if you’ll remove yourself …”

  “There’s no waiting period to search for witnesses,” Aimée said desperately. “Organize a search for Zazie as a witness to the murder.” He didn’t look convinced. “My father was a flic …”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “To let you know I’m no stranger to procedure,” she said. Or your time-consuming bureaucratic regulations, she thought, but she kept that back. Time to name drop. “Commissaire Morbier’s my godfather.”

  “Isn’t he on leave?”

  Morbier, a man who lived for his job, taking leave? “And I’m Marie Antoinette.”

  Something shuttered behind his eyes, and Aimée was gripped by doubt. Did he know something about Morbier she didn’t? Was that why he hadn’t returned her calls?

  Her phone trilled. Virginie. Aimée’s knuckles whitened, clenching her phone. What should she do?

  Then something inside her kick-started, parted the hormonal fog. She would fix this herself. Zazie wouldn’t end up like poor Sylvaine. Not while Aimée had breath in her body.

  Time was crucial; it must have been three or four hours since anyone had seen Zazie.

  “Found her, Aimée?” A nervous timbre in Virginie’s voice.

  “Virginie, listen to me. First say that you’ll listen and just do what we ask, okay?”

  “What’s happened to Zazie?”

  “We don’t know. Please listen.”

  Screaming. In the background she heard Pierre calming Virginie. Then he got on the line.

  “Where’s Zazie?”

  She caught the eye of the flic, mouthed please. He shrugged.

  “Pierre, I’m handing my phone to a police officer. You’ll need to give him whatever information he asks for.” She handed her phone to the flic standing by her.

  Two minutes later, after a one-sided conversation, he passed her back her phone.

  “Allô? Pierre?”

  But he’d clicked off.

  “We’ll do what we can,” said the officer. “Now we’re waiting for the Brigade des Mineurs.” The squad who investigated crimes against juveniles. “Give your statement downstairs. Leave your number with the officer so I can contact you. Don’t forget to give him Zazie’s parents’ number, and Zazie’s, too.”

  Not the reaction she’d hoped for, but at least he’d taken her seriously. Or so she hoped.

  Procedure hobbled the police. But not her.

  Outside, quiet had descended over the now-shuttered street. Nothing open, no shopkeepers to question. She turned to the courtyard entrance beside the cheese shop, deserted except for the arriving crime-scene techs tramping up the rear stairs. The windows of the small, two-story ateliers overlooking the courtyard were dark, and the concierge didn’t answer.

  An old man shuffled into the courtyard lugging shopping bags from Franprix. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m looking for the concierge.”

  “That’s my daughter. She’s away.” He set the bags down on the cobbles and inserted a key in the door.

  “Did you see Sylvaine, the cheese-shop owners’ daughter, this afternoon?”

  “Eh?”

  “Sylvaine …”

  “Sweet girl,” he interrupted. “Today? Think so. Usually she comes through here …”

  “And her friend, a red-haired girl? Did you see her?”

  He shrugged. Adjusted the hearing aid in his ear. “Speak up, will you? But I can’t say—it’s the World Cup, you know. I’m glued to the télé.”

  Great.

  But she couldn’t give up. “Think back a few hours, if you can, Monsieur. Did you notice anyone or hear anything here in the courtyard?”

  “Like I said, I was watching the télé.”

  “What about the other residents?”

  “Residents? They’re on the beach. Like everyone else. I’m only here because my daughter talked me into collecting the mail for her while she’s gone.”

  “Merci, Monsieur,” she said, disappointed. For now she’d follow the only other lead she had.

  Her phone rang. René at last.

  “Where are you, Aimée?”

  “En route to the NeoCancan bar,” she said. “In Pigalle.”

  “What? In your condition?”

  She had to hurry. “I can’t explain now.” Glanced through Zazie’s notes. “Meet me at Thirty-four rue Pierre Fontaine.”

  Monday, 4 P.M.

  ZACHARIÉ FIDGETED, WATCHING his parole officer’s head bent over the file at his desk. Dust motes drifted in the mottled sunlight that came through the blinds. No whisper of air from the cracked-open window overlooking the parched grass below. The office was stagnant and oppressive, like everything in his life.

  “Staying out of trouble, Zacharié?”

  If Faure only knew.

  “That firm you recommended called me back for a second interview,” he said, knowing this would keep the old codger at bay. Parole officers liked to hear about jobs. Of course, he couldn’t let on about the big job. The one that would finally get him his daughter back. Get Marie-Jo out of the custody of his crazy ex-wife, Béatrice, and her pedophile live-in lover—for good. He balled his fists at the thought of the creep eyeing his daughter. He wanted to punch something. He took a deep breath, like he’d learned in prison, to dispel the stress. It didn’t work.

  Faure’s phone rang somewhere in the pile of papers on the desk. “Un moment,” he said.

  Zacharié contained his anger. He would keep to the plan. Marie-Jo’s letters to him in prison had caused six months of worry and anguish. And now that he was out, he was struggling to find a job that would pay enough for him to get custody. He needed to take matters into his own hands before something terrible happened. So he’d consented to this one last heist. Not his first choice, but the only way he, an ex-convict on parole, could save Marie-Jo. In three more days, mission completed, he’d spirit her over the Channel to London with their new passports and enough money to buy them a new life.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Zacharié.” Faure replaced the black receiver back on the old rotary phone, ancient like everything else in this high-ceilinged back office, with its dusty photos and boules trophies. “Your ex-wife, Béatrice de Mombert, has been charged with driving under the influence. Her license has been revoked.”

  Fear tore his gut. “Is my daughter hurt?”

  “Soyez-calme, she was at school. Still, it raises custody issues regarding your ex-wife’s competence.”

  About damn time. Béatrice, an actress, was deep in her love affair with the bottle and pills. He wondered how she still performed nightly. And why a besotted public paid to watch the wreck she’d become.

 
But it made him think. “She’s proved she’s an unfit mother. I’ve been saying that since our divorce. Can’t I regain custody? I’m Marie-Jo’s father.”

  “At this point you would have a case: an upcoming job, your apartment. We can request a hearing, Zacharié.” His parole officer’s eyes narrowed. “Keep straight, get this job, and I’ll go to bat for you. The law favors the parent over foster care or a relative.”

  The cotton-ball clouds parted outside the window, revealing a cerulean spot of sky. A sign. He’d get Marie-Jo back.

  A weight lifted from his heart. “Merci, Monsieur Faure. My little girl means the world to me.” He’d pull out of the heist, stay straight, not jeopardize his chance of obtaining custody. Somehow he’d figure it out. For now he stuffed down his worry. “I will do anything. You have my word.”

  The truest words he’d spoken since coming into Faure’s office.

  Out on the street he shooed away pigeons from the fretwork grill at the base of a plane tree. Under the shade of its branches, he clicked on the messages on his phone: Béatrice’s garbled rantings about checking into a spa—translation: rehab. Again. Followed by her lawyer’s no-nonsense messages—could he pick up Marie-Jo from the Conservatoire tomorrow? His heart beat faster. Her last piano recital was tomorrow. The lawyer suggested Béatrice had reconsidered full custody. Scared. They were scared.

  The lawyer knew the judge would declare her an unfit parent. Now they wanted to talk before the hearing. Negotiate. For the first time in years he held the power, knew he could change Marie-Jo’s life. His life.

  He’d have his daughter back. All he’d ever wanted. The world stopped for a moment; the heat faded; the whoosh of the sidewalk café’s milk steamer blended into his thoughts. Her last letter: Papa, I want to live with you like when I was little. I miss you.

  All he could think of was how he would meet her after school, fix her croque monsieur, her favorite, for dinner while she practiced her piano. Zacharié, uneducated, unrefined, had somehow made this little genius, who could translate the black notes on a page into strains of music that elevated his heart.

  He’d take that job. Any job. Sweep gutters with a broom. But he’d live straight.

  This was his chance.

  Jules wouldn’t like it, but c’est la vie. He’d decided.

  He hit Jules’s number. Heard him answer and clear his throat. His throaty smoker’s cough.

  “Took you long enough, Zacharié.” In the background he heard muffled voices, then the slam of a door. “We’re moving up the schedule.”

  “What now, Jules?”

  “Change of plans,” Jules said.

  The salaud would make it difficult, like always. Every project with Jules doglegged and spiraled. But he hadn’t had a choice in prison. Now the situation played out differently.

  “We’re moving up the schedule,” Jules said again.

  Zacharié stepped over a splattered cloud of pigeon droppings and braced himself. Time for the tricky part—to extricate himself from the job he’d set up. He’d keep it short, make it a chain of command issue.

  “Let Dervier know the new plan,” Zacharié began. “He’s the one handling—”

  “Au contraire,” Jules interrupted. “You deal with the labor issues. Run your team.”

  “Dervier’s a pro.”

  “More old-school than pro, n’est-ce pas?”

  “He’s experienced. What this job needs,” Zacharié said. Thank God he’d talked Dervier out of retirement. This heist demanded a seasoned pro, with steady nerves. Dervier’s forked tongue, split after a territorial gang dispute near Barbès, had put him on the sidelines last year. But he’d heisted buildings with much more complex security systems than this target. “Dervier grew up in the quartier, the son of a concierge, knows the sewers and old tunnels like the back of his scarred hand.”

  “My contract’s with you, Zacharié,” he said. “Didn’t I fix the judges, arrange your parole?”

  Zacharié wanted to throw the phone. Stamp it to pieces. Forget this deal and what he owed Jules. If he did this job now, he’d jeopardize his chance of gaining custody of Marie-Jo. He needed to convince Jules of Dervier’s skill so he could back himself out.

  “Speaking of parole, the officer makes me check in every day, monitors my job interviews,” he said, searching for an excuse. His mouth felt dry. Why couldn’t he summon the courage and shout no?

  Jules gave a small sigh. “Work it out, Zacharié. The job’s tomorrow night.”

  The supplies hadn’t arrived. The team wasn’t ready. “But we planned on after Fête de la Musique. Everyone goes crazy in the quartier.”

  “That’s why it’s perfect timing,” Jules said. “Make it work, Zacharié.”

  “Jules, my parole officer watches me like a hawk. If you move the job up, then count on Dervier. He’s perfect. You don’t need me. The team’s primed. I guarantee it.”

  There, he’d said it.

  Pause. Already he felt better. Jules would see reason.

  A horn blared over the phone. But the sound came from the boulevard—a car in front of him. The passenger window of a black Peugeot rolled down in front of him. Jules’s smiling face peered out of it. “Get in, Zacharié. You love your daughter, don’t you?”

  Monday, 8 P.M.

  AIMÉE PERCHED ON a sticky leather stool at NeoCancan, a Pigalle bar fronted by a smoked black-glass window with a RECHERCHE HÔTESSES sign. The bar Zazie insisted the rapist frequented, and none too elegant.

  She needed to know if Zazie had come here tonight. She glanced at her moisture-clouded Tintin watch face. Hours already since she—or anyone—had seen Zazie.

  The dark club’s centerpiece, a minuscule black-carpeted stage, was ringed by red velvet sofas with gold tassels. The tables sported rotary-dial telephones—a retro gimmick for ordering champagne. Or maybe they were original, like the cracked, mosaic-tiled floor, she thought.

  She kept her fingers off the water rings on the counter. She saw only one client—a florid-faced man with thinning hair, expanding waist and a broad Toulon accent. He sat laughing on a sofa, his tie loose, surrounded by three miniskirted women who kept his champagne flute topped up. Slow night. No one so far matched the FotoFit Zazie had showed her. Where was the bartender?

  “Monsieur?”

  “Un moment,” came a voice from a cellar opening in the floor behind the counter. Cool, mildew-tinged air drifted up from the subterranean depths. She heard cranking and metal grinding as a monte-charge, a dumbwaiter, delivered a rack of champagne bottles.

  The bartender emerged up the cellar steps, his broad shoulders strained under a tight T-shirt. An amazing arc of pomaded brown hair swept back into a ducktail behind his sideburns. A real Johnny Hallyday wannabe, only now Johnny, the Gallic Elvis, was an aging rock star with tax problems.

  “Un Perrier,” she said, her throat parched. “And information, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Do I know you?” he asked, a drawl clinging to his syllables. A Marseillais, from his accent—but then most of the bars were owned by Corsicans and Marseilles gangs. Or so the stories went. She flashed her private detective’s license with its none-too-flattering photo. At least she looked thinner in it.

  He plunked a glass and a green bottle on the counter.

  “I’m looking for a thirteen-year-old girl, red hair. She’s been seen outside your club.” She shoved a fifty-franc note across the bar.

  In one quick movement, he flicked off the bottle cap. “Minimum’s one hundred.”

  This would cost. Pigalle’s red-light heyday had waned as massage parlors replaced cabarets and clubs. Bartenders gouged anyone’s wallet for a simple drink. She put down another fifty francs. “So you’ve seen her?”

  “Not today,” the bartender said.

  She pulled out Zazie’s copy of the computer-generated FotoFit. “Have you seen this mec?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Try stretching your vocabulary.” Aimée’s grip tightened on her c
hilled glass. “So last night then? He’s a regular?”

  The bartender shrugged. “What’s it to you?”

  She debated telling him. But he needed to work for his money first. “For a hundred-franc Perrier, I ask the questions, and you answer. What do you know?”

  But he’d slipped from behind the counter to serve another bottle to the table with the florid-faced man surrounded by hostesses.

  The club’s door opened, sending in a current of humid air.

  “Always first class with you, Aimée,” said René Friant, her partner. He was wearing a straw-colored linen suit, pink shirt and matching tie. His mouth turned down in distaste as he maneuvered himself up onto the barstool. At four feet tall, he was only a little taller than the stool himself. “Don’t tell me we’re in some under-the-radar, poised-for-discovery, three-star wine bar?”

  Before she could explain to René, the bartender returned.

  “Go along with me, René,” she said.

  “Served you before, little man,” said the bartender. “Kir Royale, wasn’t it?”

  René’s cheeks reddened. It seemed René had frequented this seedy bar à bouchon, where hostesses’ salaries were based on the number of champagne corks their clients popped.

  “Ah, no doubt you’ve got a treasure trove of Romanée-Conti and vintage Dom Pérignon stashed in the cellar,” René said. His green eyes flashed. “This place was famous during the war. A notorious haunt of Gestapo and high-ranking Vichy. The good old days.”

  Aimée stared at René. Where did that come from?

  “Close, little man,” said the bartender, not skipping a beat. “Just give our checkered past a few years to ferment into a titillating historical ambiance. There’s still too many alive who remember the jackboots.”

  “Let’s get back to this mec,” Aimée said, shoving the FotoFit across the counter again.

  “Came in a few times.” The bartender shrugged. “Like I said.”

  René’s eyes narrowed. “What’s this about?”

  She nudged René. Gave him the eye to keep his mouth shut. “Can you give me any specifics? His name?” asked Aimée.