Murder in Pigalle (18 page)

V
IRGINIE STOOD ON
the narrow street, fingers picking at her knotted scarf. Doubt wavered in her eyes. “There’s no call-in hotline. You’re sure this interview will work, Aimée?”

Aimée groaned inside. She hated to put Virginie through this.

“Nothing’s sure, Virginie,” said Aimée. “But it stands to reason Zazie didn’t go far.”

It seemed the best shot yet at finding her. Maybe the only one. With every hour that passed, chances faded.

“Think of it as reaching out to anyone who might have seen and remembered her—the bus driver who found her phone, a concierge, shop keeper, kiosk vendor, mother in the park.”

Water spluttered by them, running downhill in the gutter. The curled iron lamplight imprinted its mirror image in shadow on the flat butterscotch stone. A few bystanders had gathered near the corner.

“I’ve brought her school picture.”

“
Parfait.
” Aimée squeezed Virginie’s hand. She noticed the parked media vans, antennas sprouting. “Looks like more channels have picked up on this. More coverage. Remember, Virginie, you’re appealing for help finding your daughter. Acknowledge the police effort and just say after last night’s attempted attack no girl’s safe and you’re worried. Speak from your heart.”

Virginie chewed her thumbnail. “If Zazie’s nearby, why
hasn’t she come home? The
flics
assume she ran away. You think you know your child, then …” Virginie wiped her tearing eyes. “But you’re going to be a mother. The biggest worry is keeping them safe.”

Aimée’s insides wrenched. Part of her wanted to stay out of this ugliness and concentrate on her baby. Yet she’d gotten involved. Couldn’t abandon Zazie.

Was it wrong to give Virginie hope? Aimée prayed that Zazie was alive. “Virginie, the girl the rapist tried to attack last night was another blonde, twelve-year-old violinist—just more proof Zazie’s not his type. I’m no expert, but I think there’s more to this story, and we need to figure out what it is. Time’s crucial.”

A microphone was thrust into Aimée’s face. Attached to the microphone was a denim-jacketed arm—a reporter with a bob of black hair and a clipboard under her arm. The woman wore no makeup. She had a pointed chin, small, piercing eyes and a beak of a nose. “I’m Nadine from
On the Rue.
Can you identify yourself for the listeners and tell us why you alerted
On the Rue
?”

Her father’s words played in her head—any detective worth their salt avoided the media. Too much exposure. Keep your face out of the paper unless you want desk work all your life. Aimée took Virginie’s arm and guided her forward. “This is Virginie, Zazie Duclos’s mother.”

Irritation showed in the fine lines radiating from Nadine’s forehead. “And you? Aren’t you Aimée Leduc, the detective who discovered the twelve-year-old murder victim?”

Not what she’d bargained for. A camera crew hovered behind Nadine.

“Speak up, please.”

The last thing she wanted was to step into the spotlight. “A terrible thing, yes.”

“The murdered victim’s mother alleges you interfered—”

“This isn’t about me,” Aimée interrupted, hating to rise to her bait.

“But the victim’s mother’s threatening to press charges against you,” said Nadine. “Any comment?”

“I’m so sorry for this distraught mother’s loss.” She had to deflect this to Zazie. Her mind raced.

“Sources say you put together a pattern of rapes in the ninth arrondissement that the local police had missed and the Commissariat had ignored,” said Nadine. “Can you tell the viewers how feelings ran so high after your inquiries that a mob of angry parents took the law into their own hands, sending a man to the hospital …”

Aimée’s own fault—hadn’t Martine warned her? A gutter journalist throwing her own spin to smear everyone. Sensationalize. But Nadine had done her homework.

“The mob picked a victim who matched a computer-generated image from a twelve-year-old victim’s glimpse of her rapist,” Aimée said, trying not to grit her teeth. Hot lights beamed on her in the already sweltering air. Her hands shook.

“Which resulted in the attack on an alleged suspect, a man who hasn’t yet been charged,” said Nadine. “He’s on life support in Hôtel-Dieu, according to the Commissariat.”

Did the muckraker side with
flics
? What tactic was this?

Aimée could sense Virginie tensing at her side. Aimée had to get over the personal attack and use it. Use Nadine’s reach to find Zazie.

“Let’s get this clear, Nadine. With four young victims, one murdered, we alerted you, knowing that the community has to work together, not strike out, to prevent another tragedy. Now another girl, Zazie Duclos, is missing.”

“What makes you think they’re related?” said Nadine.

“We fear Zazie, who has personal connections to two of the victims, may be a witness.”

“Witness? Or a runaway scared of the trouble she’ll get in
after the drama she’s created?” Nadine kept the microphone so close Aimée saw the vapor of her own breath on it.

“Zazie’s school report was due today,” said Virginie, her hands shaking. “My daughter’s got final exams. She wouldn’t throw away her whole school year like that.”

Aimée took a breath. “Virginie’s daughter Zazie has been missing almost twenty-four hours,” she said. “She’s a victim.”

Nadine stuck the microphone closer, almost poking Aimée’s lips. “
Alors
, you blame the police and the Brigade des Mineurs for inaction?”

Some investigative journalist. Putting cheap and salacious words in their mouths and complicating the investigation. Aimée had to turn this around.

“Virginie’s asking for help—from you and the people of the
quartier.
She’s counting on you and your listeners to help encourage the police and the Brigade des Mineurs to set up a tip hotline.” Aimée gripped Virginie’s arm. “Zazie was last seen here at two
P
.
M
. yesterday. We don’t know any more. She’s thirteen years old, with curly red hair and a great smile.”

Camera crews moved forward, surrounding them like vultures.

“We’re asking if anyone knows anything or has seen anything, please come forward,” said Aimée. “Her mother Virginie will tell you more.”

Nadine pushed the microphone into Virginie’s face. “Madame, do you want to tell our listeners about Zazie?”

Aimée nodded to Virginie.

Virginie held up a photo. “This is Zazie, my daughter …” She began to speak.

Aimée stepped back into the crowd, trying to edge her way out. Her arms quivered as she warded off the microphones thrust in her face. “No comment.”

Her phone vibrated. She checked. A voicemail from René.

“You need to see this, Aimée. Meet me behind the
musée
on rue Chaptal.”

S
HE HURRIED OVER
the cobbled alley, glad of her ballet flats, to the back of the Musée de la Vie Romantique. Behind the ocher walls of a former painter’s atelier—once known for a Friday-night salon of neighborhood artists and writers: George Sand, Chopin, Delacroix—nestled a garden blooming with orange and pink roses.

René sat by the rose border at a green, metal café table that came up to his chest. Dark circles puffed under his eyes, but he wore a starched shirt. A steaming celadon cup with a gilded porcelain handle sat before him.

What a relief the cool shade and woody rose scents were after the hot street and the jackal journalist.

“Saj just called. He saw you on TV.” René eyed her. “Seems you’re a celebrity. Pulled Virginie into it, too? I can’t believe you talked to that viper.”

Surprised, she wanted to slap him. Instead she sat down and rubbed her swollen ankle. Stupid water retention.

“
Bonjour
to you, too, René.” She took a sip of his
thé citron.
“Hard night?”

A shake of his head.

“Tell me another way to enlist aid of the
quartier
, René,” she said. “What about the people who don’t realize they know something—a nosey concierge, the prying neighbor, that curious passerby, the garbage collector sneaking a smoke who might clue us in to where Zazie could be. How are we supposed to reach all those people when the
flics
aren’t even treating her as missing yet? How else are we supposed to find her if she’s duct-taped and being held captive in a cellar? That’s if she’s even … alive.” Her throat caught. She blinked to combat the welling tears. And felt that damn knot at the base of her spine. “Go ahead, tell me how, René.”

“I’m worried too, Aimée,” said René, averting his eyes. “But
On the Rue
doesn’t exactly garner you friendship with the
flics.
”

“
Alors
, my fan club diminishes.” With all the bogus tips sure to be called in, they’d dislike her even more. Still, it only took one real lead. “Did Saj give you an update on the taxes?”

“All kosher, whatever that means,” said René. “He made the tax deadline. Care to explain how money fell from heaven?”

She owed René an explanation of the fund source. He was her partner, had a stake in Leduc Detective.

But she cut the paycheck. And she didn’t want to get into the topic of her mother.

“Later, René.”

She felt a flutter and then a sharp jab. She cradled her stomach.

“You all right?” Alarm shone on René’s face.

“The Bump kicked. Think it likes the excitement.” She took René’s hand and put it on the side of her belly. “Feel?”

“Kicking like a soccer player.” René’s face softened. “Shouldn’t you think about a name …?”

Not him, too. Morbier had already suggested a whole list of names for either sex.

“I mean a family name—a father on the birth certificate. Think of school, children can taunt. Everyone in the village took me for the count’s bastard. Still do.”

Aimée had no idea René had suffered. Wasn’t the count his father?

He saw the question in her eyes. “The count raised me as his son. But giving me his name would entail …” He shrugged. “A title, family issues, inheritance wars. Still …”

Was René offering to put his name as the baby’s father?

Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the caller ID. Her heart skipped a little.

“Aren’t you going to pick that up? What if it’s about Zazie?”

She shook her head. Bit her lip. “Melac.”

René’s face clouded.

“It’s not the time to deal with him, René,” she said. Or to waste time wondering if he’d reject the child growing inside her.

A look she couldn’t fathom crossed René’s face.

“You found something on le Weasel?” She sipped more of his tea. “That’s what you needed to show me?”

“Who?”

She recounted her conversation with Tonette. Brought him up to speed on Marie-Jo and Zazie’s project.

“So le Weasel, Marie-Jo’s mother’s Eurotrash boyfriend, is the top suspect?” said René. “Marie-Jo and Zazie followed him at first to get dirt on him and show her mother, then linked him to the rapes?”

“That’s a working theory, René.”

“
Ecoute
, last night I staked out Marie-Jo’s apartment here on rue Chaptal,” said René. “Only these six people came or went: an older couple, these four
mecs.
”

He clicked through the images on his digital camera—his latest expensive toy. No one looked familiar to Aimée.

“You can see le Weasel here in the copy of
Le Parisien
Maurice gave me.”

Aimée opened the newspaper to the celebrity page.
Actress Béatrice de Mombert accompanied by Hapsburg noble-cum-model Erich von Wessler—the couple puts on dancing shoes for a night of clubbing.

Aimée stared at the couple’s photo. Béatrice, late thirties, with a glazed smile, drooping eyelids, wearing an off-the-shoulder beaded camisole over leather stovepipe pants.

“Béatrice had been partying a little earlier,
non
?”

René nodded. He gestured with his balled-up fist like he was drinking from an imaginary bottle.

In the photo, Béatrice leaned on the arm of a long-haired, tousled type Aimée figured to be in his early twenties. His close-set eyes and chiseled nose and jaw emphasized his Aryan
features. His thin lips formed a pout. Erich le Weasel looked fed up.

“Can’t say I’d pick him to match the FotoFit,” she said.

“But he’s got small eyes,” said René. “Look, he could tuck his hair under the cap. And if the girl’s terrorized, only catching a glimpse of him in dim light …”

Aimée read on. A small paragraph detailed Béatrice’s background: her parents both actors in the Comédie-Française, she grew up in theatre, attended the Conservatoire des Arts Dramatiques, branched into cinema for some unmemorable films then returned to the stage to continue the family tradition.

Next, in a sidebar:
Car accident: The actress Béatrice de Mombert crashed into a lamp post on Pont Alexandre III after last night’s performance of
Orphée Unchained.
After sustaining minor injuries, she was released from Hôtel-Dieu. Her press attaché cited the actress’s
fragilité,
saying she was suffering exhaustion from nightly performances and indicated she checked in for a Thalasso cure in Biarritz.

Press lingo for rehab, Aimée figured.

“According to Maurice’s tabloid, le Weasel’s a spoiled, impoverished Hapsburg descendant whose family branch lost the loot and the castle during the war. Obscure origins—Austria or Poland, no one’s sure.” René grinned. “He survives here with Dior Homme runway work and occasional
GQ
photo shoots, saves money by shacking up with Béatrice,” said René. “My violin’s playing.”

That made Aimée think. “Madame de Langlet, the violin teacher, promised to talk to me later.”

“
Elle est formidable
, that lady, and to the point,” said René. “I reached her an hour ago.”

“
Et alors
, did she …?”

“Confirm both girls were her pupils?
Oui
—but we knew that.”

“How about the other two victims?”

“Let me finish, Aimée—Sylvaine attended her lesson as usual late Monday afternoon but left early. Madame informed me in no uncertain terms that that was all she would tell me. She’s only talking to the police.”