Murder in Pigalle (33 page)

“He’s picking up supplies. Give him two hours. And you can pick up something for me.”

“
D’accord
,” René agreed. “
Très gentil
of you, Baleste.”

“Not really. He’s my cousin’s husband. Just grab the bottle of Romanée-Conti the little turd owes me.”

J
ULES
’
S DAMN CELL
phone vibrated in Zacharié’s shaking hands in the
garçonnière
above the guitar shop. The same number flashed again.

The caller was more than impatient, he realized. Downright angry.

But what else could he do with this file? How could he get away with this? This crazy idea that the Rasta–hippie hacker had?

Go transparent, give this to the Ministry. And then go straight back to prison?

Or like that old film—a German spy movie he couldn’t remember the title of. Funny, that was all he could imagine—a cheap-movie scenario—but hell, it was the same thing. His life was a cheap-movie scenario. Big, bad brother coerces little brother into doing his dirty work, then sabotages him to take the fall. In the film, the little brother outwits him in the end … about to do the hand-off to the bad guy, he gives it to the good guys.

Or
tant pis
 … give it to this insistent caller, pocket the money, take Marie-Jo and head to Gare Saint-Lazare, board the train to a new, free life. Free and fugitive.

Nothing involving Jules had ever been easy—it could all be another setup.

He had to think of the big picture, the long term with Marie-Jo. School, stability beyond the scope of his crazy ex and her scum boyfriend.

The phone vibrated in his sweating palm.

Marie-Jo stirred on the bed. “Papa?”

“
Oui
,
ma chérie
,” he said, coming to a decision. “Go back to sleep. I’m going out for an hour. Stay here and I’ll bring your favorite tartine.
Tu promets
?” He kissed her forehead.

She nodded and gave a sleepy smile. “Don’t be long, Papa.”

And it tore his heart.

A
IMÉE LOOKED UP
from her screen as René entered Leduc Detective. “Any joy from Baleste, René?”

“I’m working on it,” he said. “The NeoCancan’s owner’s grandmother kept a Nazi cache of arms. Whether any are left … I’ve got to wait till Johnny Hallyday returns.”

Her fingers paused on the keyboard, her damp tunic sticking to the small of her back.

“What’s wrong?” René asked, giving her a look she couldn’t fathom. “Does it have to do with Melac?”

She put her feet up on the recamier, hesitant to dump her non-existent love life on René. Again. She couldn’t help it. “The father of my child appears and just like that expects me to uproot to Brittany. Wants to do the right thing, he says.”

Doing the right thing, my ass.

She lifted the damp strands of hair from her neck and sighed in disgust. “Then I sleep with him. But he’s got to rush back because of his high-maintenance ex and poor daughter’s fulltime nursing issues.”

“But I thought you …” René hesitated, choosing his words.

“Funny thing, René. Melac’s jealous of you.” She rubbed her ankle, wishing she’d had that pedicure last week.

“
Moi
?” René blinked.

“He can’t understand we’re best friends,” she said. “How involved you’ve been with the baby.”

Was that disappointment on his face?

“But you were debating leaving the business? Taking time in Brittany?”

“Like that will ever happen, René.”

René brightened. “You mean it?”

“At least about the going to Brittany part,” she said. Going part-time felt more and more appealing as her stomach expanded and tiredness dogged her every worn marble step to her apartment. But she’d never admit it to René. “You’re more interested than him in the baby, René.”

René smiled. “Of course, Saj and I will helm the ship when you take maternity leave. We’ll have the crib, too.”

A stab of guilt hit her. The idea she toyed with of selling the business to Florian at Systex, who’d barraged her with offers to merge. Another thing she’d kept from René.

“… bring the baby to work …” René was saying. But she listened with half an ear as she pulled up her email. Checked for the deposit Saj had requested from the Luxembourg bank wire transfer. Done. Taxes paid. Relief filled her.

But René was one step ahead of her.

“Looks like Saj won the hacker competition and lent us a hundred thousand francs for our taxes,” said René, his voice laced with suspicion. “Or maybe you used your hormonal imbalance, welled up in front of the tax adjuster?”

Not this. Not now. “It’s complicated, René.”

“I spotted this a kilometer away,” he said, “not that
le fisc
would. Want to explain how you paid the taxes?”

Should she tell him?

“Working here involves me,” he said. “It’s my skin, too, Aimée.”

So she told him. The mounting feeling that her mother’s clout worked in mysterious ways. How the financial information had all arrived by diplomatic courier pouch—the last one from Dar Es Salaam, around the time Agence France-Presse reported a coup against the dementia-ridden dictator by a well-funded rebel group.

René’s eyes went round as
demi-tasse
saucers. “Your mother’s arming rebel insurgents in Africa?”

“Did I say that, René?”

She recounted that last call from the diplomatic attaché, their hurried meeting on the quai. How when she’d pressed him for info on her mother, his face had shuttered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you ask any more, this avenue shuts down.
Vous comprenez
?”

René’s gaze swept the ceiling
boiseries.
“Knowing our luck, they’re bugging our conversation. Or they’ve embedded microphones in …” He paused and turned on the radio to the classical station.

“A healthy dose of paranoia is one thing, René,” she said, “but what’s done is done.” All of a sudden, tears brimmed in her eyes.

“Don’t get emotional on me, Aimée,” he said, looking awkward.

“These days I well up at anything,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Even the ads for Alouette brie yesterday on the radio. Hormones.”

“How can you think of financing a baby’s layette with arms-dealing money?” René hopped off his ergonomic chair, grabbed his jacket. “Dirty money your mother’s stashed in a Luxembourg shell company?”

“René, I don’t see any dirt in those zeros,” she said. “That’s keeping us afloat until our clients pay up.”

But he’d slammed the office door.

Now what had she done?

Her phone vibrated in its charger. Morbier. Filled with mixed feelings, she hesitated before picking up. She wondered if word of Zacharié’s half brother’s death had traveled. Best defense was a good offense.

“Just thought you’d want to know, Leduc.”

“Not to count on police protection?” she said. “Or Melac in my life?” Stupid. She hadn’t meant that to come out.

A long sigh from Morbier. “Hormones in overdrive, Leduc?”

“My body’s swimming in estrogen,” she said, noticing the pregnancy book René had left open to the chapter on the second trimester. If only she weren’t so emotional right now. Sleeping with Melac hadn’t helped; neither had killing someone in self-defense. And all in one morning.

Calm down. She needed to keep herself in check.

“Why did you tell Melac about the baby?” she said.

“Not me,” he said, surprise in his voice. “Worst-kept secret. Everyone knows. But that’s not why I’m calling, Leduc. If you’d kept your phone charged you’d know about the suspect in
garde à vue
—looks good for the rapist.”

“Who?”

“A Monsieur Vasseur came up with priors as he identified his wife at the morgue.”

Priors? “But he’s an attorney.”

“Don’t attorneys batter their wives, Leduc?”

“I mean, how could he practice with a record?”

“
We’re
talking the ‘unofficial’ files—on two occasions his wife wouldn’t press charges.”

The unofficial files. Just like the files Zacharié stole for Jules. She held her breath, wondering if Morbier was intimating in his indirect way that he knew about Jules’s death.

“Not enough for court, I know, Leduc,” Morbier was saying. “Turns out after the Brigade Criminelle questioned the neighbors today, a family friend who had given him an alibi last night at the reception has changed his ‘tune.’ ”

“Old man Lavigne?”

She heard the rustle of paper, his notes. “Looks like it.”

“Don’t the rich stick together, Morbier?” she said. “Have they checked his whereabouts on the dates of the attacks? The murder?”

“Getting to it. The man’s a lawyer, after all, and knows his rights.”

“And you’re telling me so I’ll …”

“
Dors tranquille
, Leduc,” he said. “Zazie’s back, the mec’s off the streets, so give the little sprout a break.” Pause. “Doctors recommend rest during the second trimester, eight solid hours a night and naps.”

How could she argue with that? The tiredness, the guilt of having put the baby at risk this morning. Still, doubt sprang up in her mind. “Don’t you think the pieces add up too well, Morbier?”

“Not my case,” he said.

Her mind went back to the addendum file Zacharié stole for Jules. The top names she’d seen involved in Morbier’s corruption investigation. That was his case. Proof he could use.

Yet how could she tell him without revealing the heist, the murders and kidnapping, her complicity?

“Morbier … 
alors
 …”

“Take a nap, Leduc.”

He had clicked off.

On her screen another email from Florian at Systex came up.
Reconsidered my offer? I’ll sweeten it with a new Leduc Securité logo, you as acting consultant and board-member position, upping your shares to 42 percent.

When would she get another offer this good?

She checked the letter from the social insurance that covered
profession libérale
, the CANAM, stating that she qualified for paid maternity benefits—a pitiful monthly check.

Her heart thumped. Looking down on her from the walls were the black-and-white photos of her father in police uniform, the original sepia-tinted Leduc Detective license. Memories, that’s all they were now. She had a new life stirring in her. More shaken than she’d let on to René or Saj, she knew this offer would clear money issues long-term and erase the need to use the Luxembourg funny-money shell account. She sat back and pondered. Should she give this up? Could she?

T
ACHET STUCK HIS
head in Madame Pelletier’s office. “Zazie Duclos turned up, like you figured,” he said. “Cross that
procès-verbal de disparition
off your list.”

A rush of relief. She always felt relief when they turned up. She nodded. “Shall I do the exit interview?”

“Would there be any point in questioning this thirteen-year-old? The parents will no doubt cover up for their little girl’s drunken exploits.”

“Still, the rapist …”

“A Monsieur Vasseur, father of Mélanie Vasseur, one of the victims, is in
garde à vue
being questioned for his wife’s murder. And he’s a vintage weapons collector.”

Madame Pelletier thumbed through the dossiers on her desk. “Vasseur, Mélanie,” she said and scanned the case notes. “How does that connect? The girl wasn’t shot.”

“But his wife was last night. With a nine-millimeter German Luger, war issue. Hand me the file,” he said. “Vasseur was the one who’d found his daughter after she was attacked. You know those markers for incest might add up. I’m off to question him.”

Disturbing.

He paused in the doorway with the file. “This could wrap up tonight, so go enjoy your
vacances.
”

She remembered Monsieur Vasseur sitting with his sobbing daughter, the icy wife who had only appeared once. The
questions the team had had. Statistics in these cases pointed to the parent … Still, something didn’t add up.

But the name had come to her. The name she’d tried to remember. She pulled her old address book out from her straw bag, searched and dialed his phone number.

T
HE BALCONIED
H
AUSSMANNIAN
buildings stretched up the
grand boulevard
, filling the horizon. Traffic hummed and mothers pushed strollers into the department store Galeries Lafayette. The vibrations of the Métro rumbled beneath Madame Pelletier’s espadrilles as she poured the
vin rouge
into both wineglasses at the outdoor café. She clinked her glass to Rodot’s. “
Santé
.”

“I’d like to think it’s my good looks that inspired you to ring me, but I understand it’s to do with an old case.” Rodot, a broad-chested barrel of a man with a bald head and matching round, smooth face, reminded her of a shorter version of the Michelin man. “Juvenile sexual assault is not my turf.”

“More like your memory of ten years ago or so, sir,” she said. Sipped. The smooth, full-bodied Bordeaux should open his mind. “Something you’d remember hearing about.”

“Rumors, you mean?”

“To be honest, sir, I don’t know what I mean. I overheard something at my first posting. I was just an eager rookie then, but I never forgot it. You were stationed there.”

“The Commissariat on Place des Petits Pères?”

“That’s right.” She nodded. “And it’s been bothering me.”

“Burglaries, bar brawls, domestic disturbances, purse snatching on pension day, gang knifings kept
en famille
,” he said. “Innocent stuff. Not like today, predators attacking young children.”

She disagreed. Children had always been victims; incest, beatings, neglect—none of it was new. She dealt with it every day.

“Maybe it sells more newspapers now, sir.”

“Sensationalism,” he said, dismissive. “A different world these days. Glad I’m retired.”

“The case was unusual,” she said, persisting. “I think I remember staff talking about it, how it involved music.”