Murder in Pigalle Read online

  The drunk shifted and drooled. From a cubicle she heard a man’s raised voice, his German accent becoming more pronounced as he related his being pickpocketed in the Métro. All suspects in the district were routed through here. That hadn’t changed since her father’s time on the beat nor had the old wire-cage holding cells filled to capacity.

  A quick knock on the open-doored cubicle and then a woman in her early forties, a Madame Pelletier, from her badge, of the Brigade des Mineurs, entered and sat at the desk. She wore a Jean Paul Gaultier striped sailor shirt, jeans and espadrilles. Summoned back from holiday or going for the beach look, Aimée thought.

  Madame Pelletier kept her eyes on the file she was consulting. Silent apart from a perfunctory “Bonsoir.” The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee vied with the odor of stale cigarette rotated through the room by the ancient wall fan.

  “Refresh my memory about your movements this afternoon, s’il vous plaît.”

  Again? “You’ve got my statement already. I gave it to the officer at the scene of Sylvaine Olivet’s attack on rue de Rochechouart a few hours ago.”

  “D’accord,” she said, thumbing through the pages. The woman was playing catch-up, no doubt, and had just received the file herself.

  “But where did you find Zazie’s cell phone?” Aimée asked. At least they’d found some trace of Zazie. Score one for the flics. “Do you have a suspect?”

  “We’re proceeding in our inquiries. A man was beaten up.”

  With a guilty start, Aimée realized someone had reported seeing her at the man’s beating. An undercover officer?

  Admit nothing, the first rule with flics. She looked at the police officer blankly.

  “Tonight a merchant seaman was a victim of a brutal mob attack,” said Madame Pelletier. “He appears to match the rapist’s description, or at least the crowd thought so. So we’ve got a possible suspect lying in critical condition at Hôtel-Dieu. Unable to give a statement.”

  Her heart sank. But she’d tried to stop the crowd. What if he died?

  “Why am I here?”

  “I’m checking for any discrepancies in the crime-scene report on Sylvaine Olivet.”

  That had to mean the arriving police officer’s scribbled notes didn’t mesh with the crime squad’s findings. Or evidence had been compromised. Bottom line: the flics had botched it. Minus two points.

  “Zazie, I mean, Isabelle Duclos, had been en route to study with Sylvaine, the young girl who was raped and murdered this afternoon,” said Aimée. “I last saw her at two P.M., and no one’s had word since then. Caring for minors is your job. She’s a thirteen-year-old in danger. Missing. That’s what you should be investigating. Don’t you understand?” She picked up a police flyer labeled KNOW YOUR QUARTIER and fanned herself. “I think Zazie witnessed Sylvaine’s attack,” said Aimée. “Or hid, and the rapist found her. Kidnapped her to prevent her talking … or worse.”

  “That’s all conjecture at this point,” said Madame Pelletier.

  Like she didn’t know that?

  “But she’s a missing minor, a possible witness. That should make her a priority. Look, my godfather’s Commissaire Morbier. If he were here, he’d tell you—”

  “How to do my job? Doubtful. Morbier’s in a different branch. Mais oui, I know about you.” A sigh.

  Meaning the flic had warned her.

  “Get real, Madame Leduc.”

  “It’s mademoiselle.”

  “Then I’ll get to the point, Mademoiselle.”

  About time.

  “Sylvaine’s father denies Zazie came to study with her this Monday. Or ever. Zazie lied to her parents.”

  Aimée wanted to push that aside. Couldn’t. Yet even if Zazie had lied, it didn’t explain her disappearance. “Even if that’s true …”

  “We’re treating Zazie’s disappearance as an unrelated case. One that isn’t under our jurisdiction yet because she hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours,” Madame Pelletier interrupted. She tapped her pen. “The fact that she was caught in a lie tells us something about Zazie. Her parents confirmed she’s lied about going to her friend Sylvaine’s every Monday. There’s no evidence that she ever went to rue de Rochechouart.”

  “Because no one saw her?” Aimée’s fist clenched. “No one saw the rapist either. You can’t discount the possibility that he took her as a hostage.”

  The officer sighed. “Nine times out of ten, missing teenage girls turn out to be runaways, or they met a boy,” she said. “We found her phone on the number sixty-seven bus. Probably fell out of her pocket.”

  “Isn’t a thirteen-year-old who might have been at the scene of a rape and murder a priority?” Aimée pulled out the newspaper clippings from Zazie’s file. “Look at this, please. Zazie was following a man she thought had raped her schoolmate Mélanie Vasseur. A serial rapist who’d attacked two other girls in this arrondissement.”

  Madame Pelletier glanced through the clippings. Nodded. “I’m aware of these, but I can’t speak to them or about our ongoing investigations.” Her tone flattened. No doubt she’d said this many times. “We respond to and investigate reported crimes against minors, and in the case of Isabelle Duclos, there isn’t such a crime, at least not at this time. Consult the public record, but I’m sure you know our mandate.”

  The standard line.

  “But now there’s a murder she might be connected to as a witness,” said Aimée. “That’s the Brigade Criminelle’s turf.”

  “Up to le proc in a case involving a minor.” Madame Pelletier checked her watch. “Look, back off and trust our team on this matter of the rapist, and give your friend Zazie time to come home on her own. We’re professionals. The whole team is on the ground, canvasing and investigating. Let us do our work.”

  Tired, Aimée nodded. They had more contacts than she and René. Rape and murder cases didn’t involve rocket science—just grinding work like every other case, plodding, checking details, rechecking alibis, observation, rooting out evidence, suspects, motives, and putting it together. Time-consuming legwork. Precious time lost when there was a disappeared child. She had to fire this woman up, shake the doubt out of her eyes.

  “I’ve known Zazie since she was little,” Aimée said. “This is just not like her. She’s in danger. Something’s very wrong.”

  “Everything’s complicated with all the out-of-towners here for the World Cup.” Madame Pelletier leaned forward. “Here’s a little advice for a woman in your condition …”

  “My condition?” Aimée sat up. Cut the condescending merde, she almost said. “I’m pregnant—not ill.” Apart from morning sickness, cravings for kiwis and cornichons, her swelling ankles and that terror waking her up in the middle of the night.

  Madame Pelletier reached forward, took her hand and patted it. “Listen, we’ve got team members who are parents, of course. Life goes on. It’s about not letting your emotions get in the way, keeping focused. Our work deals with children, innocent victims of life’s ugly side. To do this job well, you’ve got to compartmentalize.”

  She remembered the work her father brought home, the files piled on his desk and his tired smile in the morning. How he’d change the subject when she asked him about a case.

  “You’re blinded by your personal connection right now, and not thinking clearly about what’s best for the general investigation or for the well-being of the victims. Pick your battles, Mademoiselle. This isn’t one you should fight.”

  “That’s why you called me in here? To tell me this? Warn me off?” She pulled her hand back from the condescending woman.

  “We found your number on Zazie’s cell phone,” said Madame Pelletier, consulting the report. “Correction, her uncle’s cell phone.” Pause. “Okay, let’s say you’re right, and Zazie’s involved,” said Madame Pelletier, leaning back in her chair again. “You’re going about it all wrong. Your sniffing around sends witnesses or informers underground. The last thing we want. After this man’s beating, much of the forensic evidence
we hoped to recover has been contaminated and compromised. Who knows when, or if, we’ll obtain his testimony.”

  All her fault.

  “We discover and compile evidence for le proc. She won’t green-light a case without evidence.”

  Aimée got why they wanted her to stop. But she wouldn’t.

  “Zazie’s not a criminal. She’s a victim.”

  Her collar felt damp. Her peep-toe heels’ leather instep dug into her skin, and she wanted to kick them off. The fluorescent light strip flickered over the cracked linoleum floor.

  “Now get this in your head,” said Madame Pelletier. “We’re doing all we can and more. Top priority is tracking down the rapist. He is the only thing that would lead us to hostages, if there were any. Stay where Zazie can contact you and don’t shout her head off when she rolls in at dawn sheepish and afraid.” Madame Pelletier locked eyes with Aimée. “But be assured, finding her whereabouts is a high consideration for us right now.”

  Aimée nodded acquiescently. But her mind spun.

  “By the way, Mademoiselle,” Madame Pelletier said. “A woman matching your description riled up a Pigalle bar owner earlier. He in turn incited the mob, resulting in the violent chain reaction that has landed this man in the hospital.” The police officer looked her in the eye. “Consider this a warning, for your own sake.”

  “I get it,” Aimée said, wanting to kick something.

  “Let us do what we do our way,” said Madame Pelletier. “No informant wants to draw attention. They lay low. But we depend on them, and if all this ruckus drives them away, it will hamper our investigation. Let us do our job, and you’ll see how it works. The quartier’s united on this. No one likes a pedophile.”

  “Is the suspect conscious? Has he confessed?”

  Madame Pelletier shook her head. She glanced at her phone.

  “So for you it’s a waiting game? But there’s no time.”

  “We’re proceeding with the investigation, Mademoiselle,” she said. “Go home.”

  “I assume you’ve contacted all the numbers on Zazie’s phone.”

  “You’re mixed up, Mademoiselle Leduc. You answer questions here, not the other way around.”

  What else wasn’t Madame Pelletier telling her? Aimée yearned to read those conflicting reports and see Zazie’s cell-phone log.

  Madame Pelletier looked her in the eye. “And now it is my duty to inform you that Madame Olivet, the murdered victim’s mother, wants to press charges against you.”

  Aimée blinked. “Me? Why?”

  “She claims you prevented her from taking care of her daughter.”

  Saddened, Aimée realized the grieving woman was trying to take control the only way she knew how. “She’s devastated. Distraught. I understand. I only tried to talk her out of wiping away possible DNA evidence. She lashed out and hit me.” Aimée touched the still-red mark on her cheek.

  It had taken all this time for Madame Pelletier to make her real point.

  “Forewarned, Mademoiselle. This could turn nasty.”

  “Nasty? We should be focusing on her daughter’s murderer now.” Calm down. Act helpful. She’d learn more using her brain than her mouth. “But you’re right. Désolée.” She aimed for contrite. “On my way out I’ll copy Zazie’s notes and this photo for you.” She stood.

  The woman expelled air from her mouth. “The copier’s only for official police use. May I see them now?”

  Aimée passed Madame Pelletier Zazie’s folder so she could page through. Drunken shouts erupted in the hallway near the cells. The fan kept blowing hot, stale air, and she needed to pee. Again.

  After taking a few notes, Madame Pelletier handed the folder back to Aimée. “Merci,” she said, sounding preoccupied. “That’s all.”

  So she could have the information shuffled to the bottom of the report?

  Before Aimée could protest, Madame Pelletier had stuck the file in the desk drawer and taken her jacket from its hook. “I’ve got a team meeting.”

  Blocked. So far she’d learned little besides the fact that Zazie’s phone had been found on the 67 bus, that Madame Pelletier wanted her to butt out and that Sylvaine’s mother was ready to press charges against her.

  “I’ll accompany you to the front desk,” the policewoman said.

  Like hell she’d be shown out.

  “Nature calls,” Aimée said and patted her stomach. “My condition.”

  “Down to the left.” Madame Pelletier pointed. “Second door around the corner.”

  Aimée headed to the left. By the time Madame Pelletier’s espadrilles hit the corridor, Aimée had edged back into the cubicle, her palm-sized digital camera in hand. She slid the drawer open.

  Monday, 10:30 P.M.

  NELIÉ’S LAST NOTE quivered indigo in the hot air under Madame’s high-ceilinged studio. The note rose, melting into mauve before dissipating in a mellifluous fade amidst Madame’s applause. Nelié blinked, the colors of the music gone now, her fingertips throbbing. Madame hadn’t stopped her once, had let her make her way through the whole first movement of Paganini’s first concerto for violin, the piece she’d been working on for months.

  The clapping continued from the courtyard. Not again. That person stood by the topiary tree at every violin practice. At least a month now. Annoying.

  She flexed her fingers, rubbed them against her thumb one by one, feeling blood rush into the grooves made in her finger pads from pressing on the string.

  “Très bien, ma fille.” Madame de Langlet, white hair pulled back tight in a bun, stepped toward Nelié’s music stand and tapped her trimmed fingernails on the score. “Give it just a touch more on the crescendo, et parfait.” High praise from Madame, a former directrice of the Conservatoire, who tutored her gratis. “We worked late tonight, ma fille, but it’s paid off.”

  Nelié pushed the stray wisps of her blonde hair behind her ears and packed her violin into the case’s velvet interior. Like always, she felt the aura of greatness that imbued Madame’s studio, which was once Chopin’s apartment—perhaps it was the master’s hallowed presence.

  “Keep working on it, but you’re ready,” said Madame. “I’ll recommend you for the Conservatoire audition.”

  Nelié tried to contain her excitement. She kissed Madame, whose rose-flower eau de toilette hovered like a pink cloud, twice on both cheeks. “Merci beaucoup, Madame.”

  Nelié clutched the violin case, swung her messenger bag over her shoulder and ran down the studio’s marble staircase into the night. All the practice on the Paganini piece had paid off. Happiness bubbled inside her. Madame said she was ready—finally—for the audition. Papa would be so proud. He couldn’t afford the Conservatoire, but Madame told her to worry about that later.

  A wave of damp heat hit her as she crossed the dark, shadowed Square d’Orléans. She paused at the fountain, letting the spray hit her face. Madame had told her Chopin’s lover, the writer George Sand, a strange baronne who wrote books under a man’s name, often crossed this very courtyard to listen to him play. Paganini himself had been here to visit the composer Berlioz, who’d lived nearby. Sometimes after practice Madame would pour herself a glass of wine and Nelié an Orangina and tell her stories like this.

  But now she had to rush home. She felt like she flew through the quiet streets, the bright waves of colorful music in her head lifting her like wings. Everyone was at home glued to the télé or crowding the bars to watch the World Cup quarterfinals. Not her papa. Tonight, as every night, he worked at l’Opéra as a stagehand. He would be home after the ballet performance and stage-set adjustment.

  Dinner … that’s right, she’d almost forgotten. So much had filled her with color tonight. After the lesson running so late and the excitement, she mustn’t forget to stop at the corner Arab shop. Scramble up dinner for them, comme toujours. And spring her good news.

  A few blocks away, the sky opened. Dark blue then a wash of pewter. Stupid—she’d forgotten her umbrella. Just like that, a torrential
downpour flooded the hot pavement. Nelié took refuge in a doorway. She couldn’t let her violin case get wet. But the Opéra’s employee lodging, where they’d lived as long as she could remember, was several blocks away.

  Footsteps splattered behind her. A figure darted into a doorway.

  Suddenly uneasy, she pulled the messenger bag over her violin case and made a run for it.

  The footsteps started again, splashing behind her in the puddles on the dark, deserted street. The silver pings of raindrops on the dark cobbles and the splashing pewter footsteps blended into a charcoal haze. She grew increasingly aware of a metallic-hued vapor, fought panic as she realized the footsteps stopped when she did to seek shelters in doorways.

  Her heart jumped. That’s when she knew she was being followed. The figure from the courtyard. He was following her.

  Monday, 11 P.M.

  BACK AT THE Leduc Detective office, Aimée tacked up the Brigade des Mineurs reports René had downloaded from her camera, blown up and printed. Disappointed, she noted the preliminary and cursory details of the crime scene. Sketchy at best.

  The first twenty-four hours meant everything in an investigation. Just this afternoon Zazie had stood in this office, only hours before her friend had been raped and murdered. Aimée glanced at the time. Nine hours and counting.

  She switched on the green glass desk lamp, which sent an oval of light over Zazie’s scribbled notes. Seething with frustration, she took a gulp of Badoit, hoping the carbonation would quell her rising nausea. “Why don’t they have more information on the other rape victims?”

  “Kind of obvious the flics didn’t connect the cases,” René said from his ergonomic chair. “They didn’t see the pattern. Your tax francs at work.”

  He’d enlarged and printed a map of the ninth arrondissement, highlighted the lycées and collèges in blue.

  “Nice work, René.”

  She X’d the Olivets’ cheese shop on rue de Rochechouart, the Vasseurs’ home on rue Ballu. Studied Madame Pelletier’s reports again. “Score one for the Brigade, who pinged Zazie’s cell phone. We’ve got a location.”