Murder in Pigalle

by Cara Black

  “His friend was looking for him earlier today, too.”

  That could fit—if this was the rapist, maybe he was supposed to meet his friend, and instead he’d followed Sylvaine from school. But where was Zazie?

  “His name?”

  “Think I’m an information service?”

  She willed herself not to throw her Perrier in his face. This bartender might fleece farmers from the countryside, plumbers from the provinces, traveling salesmen hoping the red lights of Pigalle still shone for a racy interlude away from their wives. Or René. But not her.

  “I think you’re willing, non, let’s say eager to assist in capturing the rapist who attacked and killed a twelve-year-old girl on rue de Rochechouart this afternoon.”

  “What?” said René.

  She kicked him to keep quiet.

  The bartender blinked. “I don’t want trouble.” He hefted a crate of empty bottles onto the monte-charge. Pressed the red button and with a clanking it descended. “Ecoutez, we’re under surveillance, like all the clubs, checked for anyone underage, licensing regulations. Vice keeps us on a tight leash.”

  René made a clucking noise. “No wild gangland like the fifties and sixties?”

  “Commerce, little man. I operate a business, pay taxes. If we step out of line, we’re closed for fifteen days. Next time it’s six months, and we’re dead. No more club.” He grabbed a towel. “We’ve kept up the tradition since Le Chat Noir opened in 1890. Keep our nose clean and continue shining the red light of Pigalle, Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergère. All the world knows and comes to see.”

  He talked the talk. Sounded like the businessman he said he was. But if his “house” was white as pearl, why did she notice the dove-grey shutters?

  “You were saying,” she prompted, tapping the FotoFit.

  “He goes by Nico, if that’s who I think you mean.”

  “A local?”

  “A Lille accent.” The bartender studied the FotoFit again. The cap, the small eyes, weak chin. “But look.” Shook his head. “Too generic. This could be anyone. A dozen mecs. Who says it’s him?”

  “Who says it’s not? His last victim—one who survived—came up with this description for the FotoFit.”

  He hesitated. “Two nights ago two men hung out at the bar. No table. Cheapskates. But if this was him, this Nico, désolé, I had no clue. I don’t serve pedophiles.”

  “Have to draw the line somewhere, eh?” said René.

  His lip curled. “My daughter’s ten. If he’s the rapist, then I’ll be first in line to nail him. It’s a village here,” he said. “We watch our own. After closing, my bouncer walks the girls to the Métro.”

  This bartender had turned helpful. Too helpful? When had she gotten so jaded? Or had she caught René’s skepticism?

  Laughter came from the table as the provincial drank champagne.

  “Look, the flics questioned me about him,” said the bartender. “Parents, too. I told them what I told you.”

  A dead end?

  Maybe Johnny Hallyday kept his nose clean. Maybe business was so tough, he was a mouche, an informer. Everyone had to survive.

  “Here’s my card,” she said. “I’m looking for Zazie, the girl with curly red hair. She was supposedly studying with Sylvaine, the girl who …” Her throat caught. “Didn’t make it.”

  René’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Zazie told me she’d followed this mec here, asked me to check on him,” said Aimée. “That’s all I’ve got to go on. When do you remember seeing her?”

  “Yesterday, I think, after six. A delivery came, that’s right. Didn’t see her anymore. Nor tonight.” The bartender shook his head, his eyes serious. Noticed her baby bump. “Look, I’m a father, too. I live here. Trust me to put out the word.”

  OUTSIDE ON HUMID rue Pierre Fontaine, the lights of theater marquees and clubs glittered in the descending twilight. Shouts came from the bars. The news from a car radio idling at the curb spilled over the cobbled street: World Cup fever gripping Paris … In other news, the Ministry issued a statement denying police corruption and blackmail rumors …

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me, Aimée?”

  As if she’d had time? “It’s all happened so fast. But I need your help. Zazie disappeared close to seven hours ago.”

  “Zazie?” René’s mouth quivered. “But I saw her at the office—what’s happened?”

  She opened the passenger door of René’s Citroën—a DS classic resembling an armadillo—sat and explained. René paced back and forth on the narrow pavement, listening through the open window.

  “First, I need to call Saj in to help with our taxes,” she said.

  “On it,” René said. “He got back from Mumbai this afternoon. Already got him reviewing fiscal data and estimates.”

  A wave of relief flooded her. She was confident Saj, their part-time hacker, refreshed after his meditation ashram, could take that over so she and René could focus on finding Zazie.

  “Do you believe this mec, who runs a bowl of merde?” said René, disgust in his voice.

  She didn’t care if René had history here. A drunken brawl when he was a student? Some students Pigalle’d it as a rite of passage.

  “No doubt he’s un mouche, an informer, too.” She put her hand on her tummy. “René, that’s how the flics navigate here. Not pretty, but informers …”

  “Talk for a price,” René interrupted. “Nothing’s free around here. It might not be the gangland of the fifties and sixties, but Pigalle’s still so sleazeville, the peep shows, stripteases, massage parlors.”

  She’d wondered why René was so ticked off about this place. “My father’s first beat with Morbier around here emptied the stardust from his eyes. Corsicans, North Africans and Auvergnats ran a tight network and owned all the clubs,” she said, keeping her eye on the street. Hoping for that unmistakable curly red hair. “Policed their own, according to him. ‘Entre nous,’ they’d say, settling scores if a pimp was murdered, if there was a jealous boyfriend, a waiter who robbed the till.”

  “Some noble code?” René snorted. “You make them sound chivalrous.”

  “We’ve got to find Zazie, René,” she said. “Use whatever works, non?”

  She noticed the charcoal smudge of looming clouds. Amidst the bars, massage parlors and sex shops across the way, the Moulin Rouge’s magic glitter had tarnished. A remnant of the past, if that.

  “Can you trust him, Aimée?”

  “Until he proves otherwise. Don’t read me wrong, René,” she said. “Takes a thief to find a thief. With a rapist on the loose, who better to spread the word than a seedy Pigalle club owner? According to Zazie, this is the third girl assaulted in six months.”

  Concern furrowed René’s brow. “So there must be a signature, the rapist’s MO,” he said. “These serial attackers all have a specific method. A ritual, an obsession. That’s what this is, you watch. A serial killer in the making. Not only l’Amérique has serial killers, Aimée.”

  He didn’t need to tell her.

  “Like Landru,” René went on. “He preyed on World War I widows—lured them via the personal ads, raped and murdered them. Then raided their bank accounts.”

  Not this again. All those thrillers and true-crime books he devoured. The bookcases in his studio apartment bulged. They were supposed to be a cyber detective agency, but Aimée knew René secretly imagined himself as another kind of detective as well.

  Meanwhile, she needed to find Zazie. Who else could she ask for help? She tried Morbier’s office. Was put on hold.

  A horn blared in the street, and she half-listened to René, who went on and on about serial-killer signature styles over the canned hold music. Her feet hurt. “Your point, René?”

  “We’re dealing with a pedophile, probably of arrested sexual development, who rapes twelve-year-old girls,” he said. “Say the rapist’s using the chaos of the World Cup crowds, the Fête de la Musique and the disconnect within the Commissaria
t branches as a cover for his activities. Say he’s an insider.”

  “Like one needs to be an insider to know the forces don’t cooperate?” she said. “Try paying a parking ticket and you discover that.”

  “There’s always more to it, Aimée.”

  A voice came on the line. “Direct inquiries and messages for Commissaire Morbier to extension two-zero-four, s’il vous plaît.”

  Gone on leave. The flic at Sylvaine’s had been right. Worse yet, he’d not told her. Whenever she needed Morbier, he became elusive. They had a problematic relationship—at best. He’d neglected to mention his plans when he’d taken her for lunch last week—a pretext, she’d discovered, for hounding her to register for Lamaze classes over the lobster terrine.

  She pictured his napkin tucked under his chin and spread across the front of his brown corduroy jacket, his age-spotted hands working the silver cheese knife.

  “Pwah, Leduc,” he’d said, snapping his fingers for l’addition. He took a last swig of Kir Royale and pulled out his pack of Gauloises. “Aah non, secondhand smoke, c’est interdit au bébé.”

  Champagne and cigarettes, the two things she missed most.

  “I hope you read those baby books I gave you and have given some thought to a name.”

  “What’s the hurry?” She sipped an express décaféiné and clenched her other fist. For two centimes she’d rip that cigarette packet from his pocket. Take just one puff.

  “Have you signed up for that cooking class yet?” He peered down at the bill through his readers, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Slapped some francs on the tablecloth. Only enough for a tip. She hated how they’d dined off his reputation. Or maybe the waiter was his informer.

  “Tell Franck délicieux, comme toujours.”

  “Oui, Commissaire.” The waiter bowed and slipped the wad in his pocket.

  “You’ll get nailed for doing that one day, Morbier,” she said.

  His drooping basset-hound eyes narrowed. “Leduc, I hope you’ve redeemed the coupon for Maman et Moi yoga sessions that Jeanne recommended.”

  Jeanne, his former grief counselor, now his new squeeze. Like two mother hens.

  “Have you told Melac yet?”

  With a suicidal ex-wife and his daughter in a coma? Tell him as he camped by her hospital bed in Brittany? She kept putting off returning his calls.

  “That’s my business, Morbier.”

  “Still haven’t, eh? He’s the father of your child, Leduc,” he’d chided.

  A rumble of thunder, crack of lighting brought her back to Pigalle, the heavy evening air. Oppressive, like in that horrific bedroom on rue de Rochechouart. Zazie. She had to find Zazie.

  “Earth to Aimée,” René said. “Call your hormones to order. Did you hear me? I said this all seems similar to the Guy Georges case—a rapist who goes for a specific type. They’re secretive, lead hidden lives.”

  She shuddered. “René, I saw poor Sylvaine. Her mother lashed out at me, so terrified, so full of shame her daughter would be seen that way. So helpless. So sad.”

  “Of course, it’s affected you,” René said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Because I’m pregnant? It would sicken anyone. An innocent child, broken and violated. Dead. And I’m afraid for Zazie.”

  René grimaced. “What about Zazie’s friends, her classmates who might know where she went? Aren’t the flics putting out a net?”

  Aimée gave him more details. “Virginie’s calling everyone. The Brigade des Mineurs will search for her—as a witness, not as a missing person.”

  “What’s this?” He gestured to the file sticking out of her bag.

  “Zazie’s ‘report.’ ”

  “How she trailed the rapist?” René shook his head. “Trying to be a detective.”

  “My fault, René. I should have stopped her.”

  “Stop a thirteen-year-old? Impossible.” René shook his head. “She’s like you. When you get something in your head, a tank won’t stop you.”

  The sky opened up. René jumped into the car.

  “Where’s your police scanner?” She’d given him one for his birthday a few years ago.

  René hooked up the console wires under his dashboard and flicked the scanner on. Static and intermittent bursts of conversation accompanied the thwack of the windshield wipers. René switched on the interior light as Aimée moved the passenger seat back and spread the newspaper clippings and Zazie’s scrawled notes out on the leather dashboard.

  Zazie had clipped articles from Le Parisien’s faits divers section. In the past six months there had been two attacks on young girls, each twelve years old. The girls attended the Lycée-Collège Lamartine and Collège-Lycée Jules-Ferry, both located in the ninth arrondissement. The attacks showed similar modi operandi. After returning home from school alone, the victims were bound and gagged; unable to call for help, they were left undiscovered for several hours until family members returned.

  “Parents let their kids go home alone that young?” René shook his head.

  Get real, she almost said. Instead she made a mental note to sign her child up for after-school programs.

  “I did. From the time I was eight.”

  Since the day she returned from school on a rainy March afternoon to an empty apartment. Her American mother had packed up all her things. Left and never come back.

  Aimée shivered. Made herself continue reading. “Look here. Discovered blindfolded, mouths taped and tied up.”

  None of the victims had been able to identify or describe the attacker. No more details.

  “I saw duct tape on the floor by Sylvaine,” she said, suppressing a shudder.

  “That doesn’t explain the FotoFit,” René said.

  “Zazie said Mélanie was able to give some description to the composite artist,” she said. “She must have glimpsed him somehow.”

  Aimée paged through Zazie’s grid-lined Claire-Fontaine notebook: notes on Bar NeoCancan, the list of schools. An unfinished map sketched in pencil with Xs. No street names, Métro stations or recognizable landmarks.

  René looked over her shoulder. “Could be anywhere,” he said.

  She hiked up her black linen agnès b. shift from last summer’s sales, glad of the Citroën’s roof between her and the pounding rain. All they needed was AC.

  “Zazie mentioned a pattern. So far, there’s their age, the fact they were latchkey kids, the same arrondissement,” she said.

  René pulled out his large-format navy blue Paris plan, the kind used by taxi drivers. Thumbed through. “Et voilà.” He stabbed his finger on the page of the ninth arrondissement. “The two schools are here. And rue de Rochechouart, where Sylvaine was attacked, borders the ninth, which makes a triangle. Each school’s on the edge of the arrondissement: northwest, southeast … and if Sylvaine attended Collège-Lycée Jacques-Decour, the northeast.”

  She nodded. “A pattern the flics didn’t notice? But the school parents, from what Zazie told me, had gone up in arms at the Commissariat.”

  “What do the girls have in common?” said René. “A special type, a look? The fact he knew no one was at home?”

  “We need more,” she said. “But I know Sylvaine took music lessons. The violin.”

  René nodded. Excitement in his large, green eyes. “I’ll get on it. What if the others took lessons, too?”

  Aimée traced her finger on the fogged-up windshield. “Why did the others survive and Sylvaine didn’t?” she said.

  “He’s amped up?” René said. “Something’s thrown him off.”

  Her heart fluttered as she realized something. “Say his timing was off when he attacked Sylvaine. She wasn’t alone—Zazie was there. He didn’t know, she surprised him, which made him even more violent this time. Or …”

  “Or she really wasn’t there,” said René. “Keep that possibility in the mix.”

  What if Zazie had lied?

  But what if she hadn’t? Time was slipping by as they hashed this out. René hit t
he defroster, and she thought hard, watching as the fog began to clear from the car’s windshield. She wanted to act. Do something. Now.

  “Why hasn’t Zazie come home, called, met me when she said she would? That’s not like her, René. She wanted my help.”

  “Don’t you remember being thirteen? What if she … Let’s say with all this World Cup fever, she goes to a party. She’s afraid to come home, knows she’ll get in trouble.”

  Excuses. He didn’t want to face it. Neither did she. But something niggled at her.

  “True, it feels off,” she admitted. “What if she’s hiding from him because she witnessed something? Or …” Or he’d got her, but she couldn’t say it.

  A burst of techno music blasted from the window of a car, reverberating off the Haussmannian apartment buildings.

  René’s lips pursed. Then he grabbed Aimée’s arm. “Where did Zazie get this night photo?” asked René. “What if one of these is the man from the FotoFit?”

  He held up the black-and-white photo from Zazie’s notebook, with the night street scene taken from above: several men, a few wearing hoodies, stood near a Wallace fountain. Boys from the lycée, it looked like.

  Now she remembered. “Taken with a telephoto lens. Zazie mentioned she needed to use her friend’s camera.”

  René pointed to the Wallace Fountain in the picture. “I’ll drive around until I find it.”

  “Every quartier has them, René. It could be anywhere. It’s hard to tell the location from this angle.” Tall, cast iron and forest green, the Wallace fountains had been donated by a philanthropic Englishman after the ravages of the Commune. They were once the only safe public drinking water.

  “Bon,” he said, pulling on his driving gloves. “I’ll use Zazie’s map to identify the streets. You can ask Virginie if any of her friends live on them.”

  Thank God she had his help. At almost six months pregnant, feeling like a whale in slow motion, she appreciated his taking on this legwork. Meanwhile she’d see if Mélanie had heard from Zazie.

  “I’ll take you to the office first,” he said.

  As if she were an invalid.