Murder in Pigalle (34 page)

“Think it matches the one in the papers?”

“I can’t discount it, sir.” She took another sip. “Brought to mind a lecture you gave at the academy …”

“You mean the ‘be yourself, everyone else is already taken’ one?”

She smiled. His famous new-recruit lecture, based on a line of Oscar Wilde’s for which he took credit.

“Sir, I mean about when a case detail talks to you,” she said, persisting. “Something’s talking to me, and I can’t nail it down.”

He shrugged. “Glad one of you listened.” He took a drag of his cigarette. Exhaled thoughtfully. “That’s right. A young girl raped after her violin lesson. Horrific. Fourteen?
Non
, she’d just turned twelve. Ruined the birthday party. I remember now.”

She leaned forward. “Did you work the case?”

“No names, no files that I ever saw.” He shot her a look.

“But I can’t find a sexual assault case filed at that time.”

He downed his glass. Reached for his jacket. “You won’t. Both parties involved were juveniles.”

She sat up. “All the more reason I should find it at the Brigade des Mineurs.”

“Quit thinking like a
flic.
Think like someone with something to hide.”

She read between the lines. “So the case was hushed up, buried.
Les X-files
.”

The term for files that never saw the light of day.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. “Think what you want.”

Shivers rippled her arm in the hot air. “I think he’s come back, struck again. Four girls, and this time one died.”

Rodot shrugged again. He threw twenty francs down on the wet ringed table.

“Check 1998. Disturbance of the peace reports.” He winked. “And I never told you that.”

A
FTER SEVERAL HOURS
of work, Aimée pulled up Florian’s email. She took a breath and hit reply. Began to type. Her phone, nestled in its charger, vibrated.

What now—an invective from René, about to quit? He wouldn’t have to. But the café number showed.

“
Allô
, Aimée.”

“Feel okay, Zazie?”

“Papa said I should apologize,” Zazie said, contrite. A sniffle. “In person. But I’m doing my homework.”

Aimée hit S
AVE AS DRAFT
and powered off her laptop.

“Then time for my late
espresso décaféiné.
See you in a moment.”

Poor thing.

The Dior shirt stuck to her back. She had to change. In the back armoire she picked one of Saj’s gifts, a loose, Indian white-cotton shirt—the soft fabric breathed, thank God. She pulled her short jean jacket over it, stepped into an agnès b. cotton-flounced lace skirt with a drawstring waistband and slipped into a low-heeled pair of sandals.

Her finger paused on the old enamel light switch. A
tristesse
overcame her. Shadows darkened the office, throwing into relief her mahogany desk, inherited from her father. Should she give this up? Leave the memories and move on? With a bittersweet feeling she set the alarm, locked the frosted-glass door of Leduc Detective and faced the wire-cage elevator. Out of service. As usual.

Z
AZIE HUNCHED OVER
her mathematics book at the café’s rear table. “Papa took me to the
lycée
so I could bring the teacher my report. I turned it in.”

“Bravo, Zazie.”

“Just some math to do,” she said.

Virginie set down a steaming
espresso décaféiné
and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Aimée reached to pay, but Virginie stopped her.

“We’re putting this on Zazie’s tab, eh?”

Zazie nodded, her eyes serious.

“Zazie owes you a debt. She will make it up to you,” said Virginie, hands on her hips. “You’re a busy mother-to-be—all this running around and neglecting your business. There’s consequences, I’ve told Zazie. Then getting shot,
mon Dieu.
I’m so sorry, Aimée.”

Aimée’s sandal strap itched. She felt awkward. Was this that tough love she’d heard about in
Raising Your Child with Discipline
, another book René had given her? Could she do that?

Maybe she should she take notes.

“I need help behind the counter,” said Virginie, tapping her feet. “Has Zazie said what she needs to say yet?”

A big sigh and rolling of eyes—Zazie was back in teenager mode. “
Maman
, give me a moment.”

After Virginie gave a territorial swipe of her towel around Zazie’s textbook, she retreated to a waiting customer at the counter.

“I’m sorry, Aimée. I have to thank René, too. Somehow make this up to you.”

Aimée pretended to think. “I might consider letting you babysit after you finish your homework once in a while.”

“
Vraiment
?” Zazie grinned. “Deal.”

Aimée sipped the fresh orange juice. Heaven. A bit of pulp lodged on her lip.

“Mélanie called me that night from the clinic.” Zazie leaned over her book and lowered her voice. “It was after I left. She didn’t make sense.”

“She was in shock, traumatized. But you can understand,” said Aimée.

Zazie shrugged. “I don’t know.” She closed her book. “She kept talking about his shirt.”

“What’s that, Zazie?”

“Licorice. His shirt smelled like licorice.”

Aimée’s hand froze on the glass. Licorice.

Virginie beckoned from the full counter of customers.

“Coming,
Maman
.”

If only Aimée’d heard this before.

Outside, under the arcades of rue de Rivoli, she leaned against the limestone. Her mind raced. Just then, her phone vibrated in her bag. The caller ID showed Madame Pelletier.

“
Oui
?”

“Mademoiselle Leduc, I’m off
en vacances
, and you never heard this from me.
Compris
?”

“
Bien sûr
,” she said, moving into a doorway and pulling out her Moleskine notebook. “What haven’t I heard?”

Aimée listened. Wrote it down. No doubt now. The pieces fit together. A minute later Madame Pelletier clicked off.

Now it made sense.

She needed a plan. Backup. But Saj had gone to Sceaux for a consulting job—too far away. Morbier didn’t answer, and his voice mail was full. Typical. As a last resort, she called René. He didn’t answer, no doubt still furious with her. But she left him a message, stressed she needed backup and gave him the address.

The buses and taxis clogged rue de Rivoli to a standstill. Dusk hovered, and the twilight rays shimmered off the Louvre’s
tall windows. Her mouth soured in the air laced with diesel exhaust fumes.

Determined, she got on the Métro, stood most of the way until a young woman offered her a seat, then changed at Concorde for Line 12 toward Pigalle. Three stops later she ascended the Trinité station steps across from the hulking church, its high columns blurred in approaching darkness.

En route, she’d come up with a plan. A plan to lure him out.

She walked one uphill block of rue Blanche, turned right into rue de la Tour des Dames. Her insides wrenched. The scene of last night’s shooting, right before her. Yellow strips of crime-scene tape fluttered.

The old Electricité de France building looked proud despite its sagging scaffolding. The cobbled street of elegant townhouses appeared as deserted and lifeless as it had last night.

At the gatehouse, a new guard looked her over.

“Aimée Leduc to see Monsieur Lavigne.”

His flushed face and loosened tie indicated he hit the bottle or didn’t do well in the heat. Or both.

“Concerning? You have an appointment?”

Inquisitive and irritable, just her luck.

“Last night I forgot my scarf here at the reception,” she said, mustering a big smile. “Silly.” Patted her stomach. “But there’s sentimental value—it was my
grand-mère
’s.” She sighed. “She died last week, and it’s all I have.”

His eyes softened. “Will Madame Lavigne, the daughter-in-law, do?”

You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, as her
grandmère
said.

“
Parfait.
”

He dialed a number.

A moment later the door opened.

Dusk hovered. Light from the rooms in the townhouse glimmered in the lengthening shadows. Purple wisteria dripped
from the trellis in the cobbled entryway. A scent of honeysuckle wafted. From the lighted entry Brianne ran down the curving outdoor staircase, smiling. Again those large, bright teeth.

“I’m just thankful you’re all right after what happened. Your baby’s safe, they told me.” She hugged Aimée. Innocence shone in her eyes. “Tragic. The
flics
asked questions all day. I’m so sorry.”

“I need to speak with Renaud.”

“
Désolée
, he’s gone out. A dinner, maybe?… I don’t know exactly, but he’s coming back late. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

Until another girl had been raped?

“It’s important … can you call him? There’s memorial planning for Madame Vasseur. But her husband’s at the Commissariat. In
garde à vue.
It’s a mess.”

“
Mon
Dieu
.” Brianne blinked.

“I’m sure Renaud wants to help. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“But of course. My phone’s inside.”

Guilt wracked Aimée.

A uniformed maid on the
terrasse
waved to Brianne. “Madame, that phone call from the ship has come through.”

“
Excusez-moi
,” she said. “That’s my mother. My father suffered a stroke on their cruise to Istanbul. I must take it first, do you mind?”

“Of course, but this heat.” Aimée fanned herself with her trembling hand. “May I have a glass of water?”

“
Biên sur
, please.” She took Aimée’s arm. Walked her up the stairs.

In the state-of-the-art kitchen, open windows overlooking the courtyard, Aimée accepted the tall bottle of chilled Perrier and a glass. “I wondered where you kept the rabbit.”

“Rabbit?” Brianne, distracted, glanced down the hallway. “Ah, Renaud put the cage beside the old
jardin d’hiver.
” She gestured out the window to the glazed, gazebo-like Belle
Époque affair by the old stables that had been converted into a garage. “
Excusez-moi.
”

Brianne’s heels clicked over the parquet floor.

With Brianne engaged on the phone, Aimée took the Perrier bottle and slipped back out the front door.

The old stable doors were rolled shut. She saw no one. She kept to the shadows at the side of the building, creeping along until she heard a scratching. She shone her penlight to reveal a sniffing black rabbit with floppy ears in a chicken-wire cage. Beside the rabbit on the tamped dirt and clumps of grass lay half-chewed anise bulbs, their feathered leaves nibbled. The anise gave off a licorice odor.

Now to find more proof. Assemble her ducks in a row …

The familiar rumble of a motorcycle came from near the old stable. Her heart immediately started pounding.

Where the hell was René? She hit his number. Busy. Time to get out of here.

She turned and shone her penlight toward the path. On Renaud, who stood wiping his oil-stained hands with a rag. “Shh, don’t tell Brianne.”

That he liked little girls? She scanned the wall, the shrubs, looking for an escape.

He put a dark, smudged finger over his mouth. “I forgot to feed Basil.” He pulled a leaf-topped bunch of carrots from his pocket. Dropped it in the cage. “We’ll keep it our secret,
non
?”

Like hell she would. Somehow she had to deflect his attention, call the guard. “It’s just that …” She clutched her stomach with one hand. Groaned. “These pains, must get to the doctor.”

“Afraid not, Aimée,” he said. He held the ends of the rag in both fists. Snapped it taut. “I wish you’d left me alone.”

Her eyes darted for an escape. He had blocked the path. Stupid not to plan this out better.

“The guard’s drunk. No one will hear you scream.”

His words chilled her. Stall him and play for time.

“Renaud, you were a boy ten years ago.” She tried to keep her voice even. “I understand. So will Brianne, but you need to get help.”

The leaves rustled as he edged closer.

“You sound like everyone else.”

“Me? Last night you murdered Madame Vasseur and almost killed my baby.”

“But I like babies,” he said. “I love children.”

She cringed inside. His words sickened her.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But I had to stop her.”

His old family friend? Then framed her husband after raping their daughter?

“Why, Renaud?” Her hand gripped the Perrier bottle behind her. “Why this infatuation with young girls who play violin?”

“I grew up on music.” He smiled. “My father sent me to violin lessons my whole childhood, until I was twelve. And she played the Paganini piece, exquisite and exciting.”

“Paulette Destel,” Aimée said. “Another pupil of Madame de Langlet. But your father hushed it up.”

His eyes went faraway. “I remember those lace curtains in Paulette’s parents’ salon, that burnished patina of her violin. So hot that afternoon. Paulette’s skin flushed pink, those notes … I wanted to be with her,” he said, his phrasing like an adolescent’s. “You know, like my papa was with his mistress. Paulette did, too, but she pretended she didn’t. They all do. They lie to me.”