Murder in Pigalle (19 page)

René had gotten more out of Madame than Aimée had.

“What if she’s covering up for the rapist? For le Weasel?”

René nodded. “Madame spent the morning at the Commissariat—she only deals with the police, she repeated. Eh, wouldn’t you?” René took back the teacup and sipped. “Say le Weasel appreciates violin. I spoke to Nelié’s father this morning. According to him, Nelié heard someone clapping outside the window during her lesson.”

Strange for the rapist to draw attention to himself—could that be a red herring? Unless he had been too successful and gotten brazen; or maybe he’d lost control.

“Any chance Nelié recognized her attacker?”

René shook his head. “It was pouring rain. Nelié ran, trying to protect her violin case. But she heard him following her all the way to their apartment on Cité de Trévise. He hummed the Paganini piece she’d been practicing. Terrified, she ran in the gate and shut it behind her.”

“What time?”

“Her lesson went late. Eleven
P
.
M
.”

“After the seaman got beat up.”

The same time she’d wanted to drive to the music teacher’s—if only they had. If only she’d veto’d René—they might have caught him.

“Two attacks in one evening. Unusual.” René pulled his goatee. Thought. “Given his methodical behavior, the secrecy involved in this other life he lives, I’d say he was overcome by some pressure,” said René. He traced his finger on the moisture ring of his teacup on the green metal table. “Say an external event’s pushing him. He’s escalating.”

“We still don’t know what the crime-scene team found
at Sylvaine’s house. What if Zazie walked in and disturbed him?”

René’s brow crinkled. “How do we know she actually went there?”

“We don’t,” she said. “Farfetched, maybe, but if Zazie’s captive, he’s under pressure, since he’s never had to deal with a witness who could expose him. Or …” Aimée stopped the thought.

“Face it, Aimée: Even if some pieces of this scenario are true, we might be too late. She could be dead.” René hung his head. “
Désolé
but …”

Aimée’s lip trembled. “I owe it to her family to find her. To find out.”

René nodded. “So say last night after it went so wrong with Sylvaine, he needs to clear his head. He goes back to Madame de Langlet’s studio, where he hears Nelié’s violin. She’s his type …” René looked up. “Then, frustrated again by Nélie’s getting away, he … I’m not sure.”

Aimée pulled out the map. Added the time, noted the location of Madame de Langlet’s studio. “Go on, René.”

“So he’s a musical fanatic. Paganini pieces are difficult—not anyone could just hum one,” said René. “You’d have to know the piece very well.”

Aimée didn’t know anything about Paganini, but it was a good point—she wouldn’t be able to recognize any classical piece, let alone hum it. “Okay. Does anything at all connect le Weasel? Could he be this music lover?”

“If we compare the FotoFit, Zazie’s photo of the men on the street, le Weasel’s newspaper photo and my photos of the
mecs
entering Twenty-one rue Chaptal last night …” René shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”

“Try Marie-Jo’s mother’s number, René.”

René dialed. Shook his head. “Only a recorded message. I’ve been trying all morning.”

On the table by the bowl of wrapped sugar cubes, she set the newspaper photo next to Zazie’s photo of men standing in the square.

“See a link, René?”

“What are we looking for, Aimée? ‘I’m the rapist’ tattooed on his arm?”

His frayed temper indicated he was exhausted. She needed him alert right now; his help was crucial.

She studied Zazie’s photo. What wasn’t she seeing?

“So according to Tonette, Zazie disobeyed her parents and continued to spend time with Marie-Jo, worked on this surveillance project with her. We know Marie-Jo lives here, a few doors down on rue Chaptal with her mother and le Weasel,” said René, lining up the sugar cubes in a row. “The girls followed le Weasel to dig up dirt on him. Zazie thought they’d discovered le Weasel was the rapist, based on what she told you, but where’s their proof? We still don’t know anything about this photo. It wasn’t taken from the rue Chaptal flat—impossible since the flat doesn’t overlook this scene. Nothing points to le Weasel in this photo.”

No way to cement this theory.

And then Aimée noticed the squared toe of the shoe the figure in the photo was wearing, the loafer shape and crest the unmistakable trademark of Polo by Ralph Lauren. “Look at the shoes, René. The figure in the hoodie’s wearing the same dancing pair as le Weasel.”

She saw the wheels turning in his head. “Maybe at first to prove to her mother that he was carrying on other affairs,” he said. “Fits with what Tonette told you, that they were trying to prove he wasn’t what he said he was. Classic case of slimeball live-in boyfriend. The daughter wants her mother to dump him.”

“She’d go to those lengths?”

René sat up. “What if he hit on her?”

“But how does that fit with the rapist’s profile? Secretive, single-minded, targeting twelve-year-old blondes after violin lessons?”

“But that’s it. He hits on her school friends. Specifically the ones who take violin.”

That only fit if they knew more about le Weasel, sniffed out some musical connection.

“Like I said, he’s escalating because he’s under some kind of stress.” René nodded to himself. “He steps it up now that Zazie’s onto him.”

“The flat’s on this street.” She put her phone in her pocket. “Time to ask him.”

“No one answers, Aimée.”

“But the concierge will.” She took a last deep breath of the warm, rose-scented sunshine and stood. “Coming?”

René’s phone trilled. He checked the number. “Saj and I need to go over the hiccup in today’s virus scan.” He pulled out a paper covered with notations. “Takes ten minutes.”

Ten minutes she didn’t have. “Call me when you finish. You’re the backup.”

“For what?”

“I have a weasel to catch.”

S
HE LEFT
R
ENÉ
to walk a few doors down rue Chaptal. Pigalle teemed with people. Locals who would normally be packing to head to the train stations and the countryside were staying at home this year, crowding the streets and cafés with World Cup chatter.

Twenty-one rue Chaptal’s facade of freshly sandblasted limestone, subtle and solid, breathed wealth. A couple paused before the high, green, carved doors in the arched former carriage entrance. Aimée waited, pretending to consult her phone until the couple hit the digicode. A smaller door in the large one clicked, and they pushed it open. She waited until it had almost shut before sliding inside.

She adjusted her eyes in the cool, paved
porte-cochère
entrance. Trellised ivy climbed the back of the courtyard, still dripping from a recent watering. The concierge’s
loge
held a sign: F
ERMÉ
.

There went that idea.

She found de Mombert on the nameplate—T
ROISIÈME ÉTAGE
,
GAUCHE
. They were more security conscious here, with a solid Fichet lock to the glass door, behind which she could see a marble floor and twisting staircase.

She continued into the courtyard, where the carriage house and stables had been converted into garages. Like everywhere around here. She looked up at the massive backs of the buildings and realized the sixth floor held small windows for the
chambres de bonnes
, maid’s rooms. From the looks of the ten or so small, dust-colored mailboxes, the former maid quarters were now rented as single rooms. But these buildings had stairs for the help—
escaliers de service.
So there would be a back door—one likelier to respond to her lock-pick set than the Fichet.

Inside she saw garbage bins tucked under winding stairs so steep and narrow elves would feel at home. There was no locked door to the stairwell—in fact there was no door at all. She climbed, pausing to catch her breath as she pulled herself up the almost ladder-like stairs.

On the third-floor landing, jutting off to the left, lay a narrow walkway lined by an old hinge rack with just enough space to store sacks of coal—a common practice. She didn’t envy the help who had to carry up those sacks.

She hit René’s number. “Try de Mombert’s number again, okay? No need for surprises.”

Pause.

“Wait
un petit moment
, don’t tell me you’re breaking in?” René said. “Think you’ll find le Weasel sleeping it off, Zazie locked in a closet?”

“Something like that.”

“Alone? With a dangerous
mec
who’s—”

“The reason I asked you for backup, René,” she interrupted. “Make the call.”

She clicked off, put her ringer on mute. A moment later she heard a phone ringing from deep in the apartment’s bowels, but after ten rings, no answer.

Her neck damp with perspiration, she reached into her bag. Under her prenatal vitamins she found her mini lock-pick set, which she kept in her Dior sunglasses case. Inserting the pick and switch clip, she toggled up and down until she heard a click. The half-glass-paned back service door yielded, and in less than two minutes she had checked the walk-in pantry, cupboards, and cabinets under the old-style porcelain kitchen sink. No Zazie.

Not much cooking done here, either, evidenced by the Chinese take-out cartons in the trash. The refrigerator held yogurt and a glass bottle of capers. Nice and pickled, but she resisted the temptation. On the wood trestle kitchen table was half of a stale baguette and a bowl of
café au lait.
Cold, a beige skin floating on the surface of the milk. She sniffed. Not curdled, so from this morning.

She needed to work fast. The apartment’s rooms were laid out along a parquet-floored hall. So far all she had heard behind any of the doors was the flushing from the pipes above.

A loud buzzing disturbed her thoughts.

She froze.

In her pocket she felt her phone vibrating.
Merde.
She’d thought she’d silenced it, but she’d only put it on vibrate. She checked the display.

René.

She stepped behind the door to the salon—formal, with period furniture and wall tapestries. Unused, by the look of it.

“What?” she whispered into the phone.

“Buzz me in. I’m downstairs. You’re not doing this alone.”

“Then hurry up.”

She tiptoed to the front door. Pushed the button for P
ORTE
, waited a few seconds, then pressed the second buzzer, E
NTRÉE
.

By the time René came puffing up the stairs, she’d done a cursory check of the whole apartment. “If he was here, he’s long gone, René.”

“So you’ve checked the armoires, the closets …?”

“We have to dig deeper. Any information about le Weasel or Marie-Jo … You take the left side, and I’ll do the courtyard side.”

He rolled up his sleeves.

The apartment phone rang. René jumped. “Good God, what are we doing here, Aimée, besides getting arrested for breaking and entering?”

“Shh.”

After nine rings the answering machine clicked.

“Monsieur, the dry cleaner on rue de la Rochefoucald won’t give me your suit without the ticket. Pff. So don’t wonder why I’m late to work this afternoon, eh?”

The housekeeper.

“That’s two blocks away,” said René. “Sounds like she expects him to be here. Maybe he’s stepped out for cigarettes.”

Any moment he could appear. If they were going to confront him, it couldn’t be in this flat they’d broken into. They needed some kind of proof first.

“Quick, René.” She pawed through her bag. Where was her bug? Finally her fingers closed around it. “If you find a computer, use this.”

“So that’s where my scramble tracer’s gone!” He shook his head. “Concentrate on the girl’s room. Figure we’ve got less than ten minutes.”

Through the second door she found a teenager’s room—clothes on the floor, photos of boy bands on the walls, a few schoolbooks on a maple-wood rolltop desk. She scanned
notebooks—only schoolwork—and then she found the camera. A high-end Nikon with a telescopic lens. No film inside.

She stepped back and surveyed the cluttered floor.

“Aimée, let’s go …”

On the floor by her foot, peeking from below a hoodie, she saw a red tassel. The red tassel she’d last seen on Zazie’s backpack.

Her heart cartwheeled, flipping from relief to fear. Zazie had been here.

But where was she now?

“Now, Aimée! Or do you want to get arrested?”

“Head through the kitchen to the pantry—the service stairs,” she said, scooping the tassel into her pocket. “I’m right behind you.”

But her feet refused to take her past the foyer. Zazie had been here and gone. There had to be more. Footsteps sounded outside the front door.

Her palms moistened in a hot sweat.

The shoes. A pair of scuffed Polo loafers, just like in Zazie’s photo, sat under a coatrack with a man’s linen jacket.

A key turned in the front door. Perspiration dripped between her shoulder blades. She reached in the linen jacket’s pockets and snatched the contents.

Moments later, breathing hard, she’d shut the back service door and was padding down the steep, winding stairs. Reaching the courtyard, she took deep breaths, focusing on the breeze blowing over the stone wall and trying to still her thumping heart.

Men always left things in their pockets. Incriminating things. Le Weasel proved no exception: the dry-cleaning receipt and a coat-check ticket she recognized from the Cercle de Jeux casino below Place Pigalle. There was also a rolled-up twenty-franc note—snort material.

René waited by the ivy, checking his phone. “Hurry, Aimée.”

The blurred outlines of le Weasel came into focus: a gambler, careless enough to leave white crystals on the rolled-up note in his pocket.

“Look what I found in le Weasel’s pocket.”

René face soured as he scanned the items in her palm. “With pedophiles it’s not unusual for them to have families, professions, even be pillars of the community. It’s about a double life. Power.”

“Yet gambling wouldn’t necessarily fit the profile of a serial rapist,” she said.