Murder in Pigalle

by Cara Black

  “I’m late for Saint Rita’s.”

  Aimée’s head spun. Cécile’s observations of a nice man in pressed jeans like an off-duty flic didn’t fit with what they’d learned. Someone else had abducted the girls.

  Who?

  Meanwhile René had run off half-cocked to nail le Weasel.

  She punched in René’s number. No answer. Tried again.

  Frustrated, she started to leave a message, but the voice mail cut her off. When she tried again, his message box was full.

  Merde!

  Thoughts swirling, she made toward the bus stop. The dense heat hovered, caught in the valley of tall sandstone buildings. She realized she’d gone the wrong way on rue Chaptal. Merde again.

  Retracing her steps, she noticed a man loitering at the now-closed doors of Marie-Jo’s building. He rocked on his heels and checked his phone. Marie-Jo’s father—she recognized him from René’s camera.

  From the corner bar came loud cheering. “Score!”

  She had to jump over a gutter rushing with last night’s rainwater. “Excusez-moi, but you’re Zacharié, Marie-Jo’s father?”

  He started. “And you are?”

  “Looking for Zazie, her red-haired friend.” She pulled out her card. “Please, she’s the friend Marie-Jo left with yesterday, around five o’clock.”

  Something like pain crossed his face. He glanced down the street, moved away from her.

  “Who’s your friend the girls went with? Where’s Zazie?”

  “Not my friend.”

  “But who? What’s happened to her?”

  Fear and anger battled in his eyes. “Stay out of it. You have to stay out of this.”

  “And leave them in the hands of a rapist?”

  His jaw quivered. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Don’t you understand? The girls were trailing a rapist who murdered a twelve-year-old yesterday, and now they’ve disappeared.”

  A taxi pulled up on the street. “I think you’re climbing the wrong tree.” He jumped in the back seat.

  “Wait!”

  But the taxi took off in a splash of scummed gutter water that sprayed her ballet shoes. She ran, her feet sopping wet, trying to see the taxi number—too late. It disappeared down the hill into a winding street.

  Tuesday, 6 P.M.

  RENÉ GLANCED AT Aimée’s name on his call list. Three times already. He wished she’d take a nap.

  Blue smoke spiraled toward the casino’s Art Deco stained-glass ceiling. Low conversations carried through the clink of glaçons in whiskey tumblers, a swish from cards dealt onto the baize tables.

  Behind velvet curtains in the private, roped-off area, le Weasel lit a cigarette on his maroon leather chair at the felt poker table. Gone through a pack already, evidenced by the butts in the ashtray. In front him was a dwindling pile of chips. Le Weasel played le punto banco—small stakes—and relentlessly. René couldn’t wait for the salaud to wise up—not that he ever would—and quit the game and lead him to Zazie.

  Fat lot of good the tips René had dispensed had gotten him so far. The casino, all wood and brass with a wall-sized, Art Nouveau stained-glass window backlighting the nine poker tables, listed itself as a “social club” with a large membership fee to skirt the gambling regulations.

  He’d slipped the smiling bouncer a “spectator” fee, indicating he’d like to get a feel for the place before he joined.

  “D’accord, Monsieur.” The man had smiled and held out his hand.

  But that was as far as René had gotten. “C’est privé, Monsieur,” said a short, sparse-haired waiter, barring René’s way past the bar. “Members only.”

  “Bien sûr. Could I have a word with Monsieur von Wessler?”

  “Not allowed, Monsieur.” The waiter indicated he should wait at the bar.

  He’d have to bide his time until le salaud got up from the table.

  Doubt hit René. Would a serial rapist waste time at a gambling table? Was his own impatience clouding his logic? Le Weasel glanced at his phone, then back to his cards.

  René joined the mixed clientele: a few men in blazers, a woman in un jogging with pearls, Asian men with gold-link wrist chains, a leather-jacketed rocker he recognized from the guitar shop around the corner. The woman in pearls shook her head and exclaimed, “Tout sur rouge!” as she clicked a pile of gambling chips to a red nine.

  The casino gave off a low-key vibe—casual, almost homey. Everyday gamblers a world apart from the Deauville Grand Casino milieu.

  His phone vibrated again. Madie, the waitress in the café, who’d promised him information, was waiting at the bistrot. He’d forgotten. Too bad.

  He looked up. Saw movement at the punto banco table. But with his short stature he couldn’t see over the shoulders of the crowd. He tried edging his way forward through the gamblers.

  An older woman sat at le Weasel’s place. He’d gone. Merde!

  René grabbed his jacket.

  Tuesday, 6 P.M.

  AIMÉE HAD CHANGED out of her sopping clothes, and now her damp feet were drying in the sun by Leduc Detective’s window. Her chipped, neon-green-lacquered toenails were in dire need of a pedicure.

  The office was anything but peaceful. Horns blared in the street, and boos and cheers drifted from radio broadcasts from the cars below. The carpenter’s unswept sawdust was piled in the corner, making her sneeze.

  So far no word from Mélanie at the clinic in Lausanne. Nor had René returned her calls. The FotoFit image lay on her desk, troubling her. This suspect had a cap without hair showing; le Weasel a full head of hair.

  And what did Marie-Jo’s father mean that Aimée was climbing the wrong tree? He’d appeared worried, gone to the apartment, no doubt tried Marie-Jo’s phone. He knew this man who had been seen with the girls. Zacharié was the key.

  How could she find him?

  On her laptop she searched for the Actors’ Union’s database. In five minutes she’d bypassed the firewall and maneuvered into the directory, searching for de Mombert.

  The biographies of an illustrious acting family spilled onto her screen. Béatrice’s career was not so illustrious. Still, roles at Théâtre Charles Dullin and the Théâtre de Nesle. A sporadic résumé, with gaps between engagements. Her marriage to a Zacharié Plessis had ended in divorce a year before.

  Now that she knew Zacharié’s last name, she ran a search through a prison database Saj had turned her on to a month ago. A shortcut for finding anyone’s history in the penal system.

  Zacharié Plessis, born in 1970 at Hôpital Laboiserie. Last residence 21 rue Chaptal; convicted for what amounted to criminalité en col blanc—white-collar crime. He’d been released on parole a week ago.

  Just a week ago.

  Serving six months of a two-year sentence, then out on parole? Only prisoners who pulled strings served minimal time like that.

  How did that fit into the equation of the girl’s abduction?

  Somehow this all connected. Vice?

  She tried Beto’s number. No answer.

  A moment later her phone rang. “Didn’t I tell you I’d repaid the favor, chérie?” said Beto.

  “True, Beto,” she said, “but you also said that the rapist would strike again before school let out.”

  Beto cleared his throat. “Et alors?”

  “I don’t know how this fits,” she said, “or if it does, but with your contacts in the quartier …”

  “My contacts?” he interrupted.

  She heard the rabatteurs—strip-club barkers—loud and distinctive, shouting in the background, “Cherchez les femmes of your dreams … no drink minimum.”

  “Chérie, make it quick.”

  And she told him about the “nice man.” “I need to find him.”

  “That’s too vague a description,” said Beto. “All you know about him is that he wore jeans that reminded Cécile of a flic. There’s nothing to go on, no reason to think she’s even right.”

  “True.” But Cécil
e’s former-working-girl intuition hadn’t left her. “Wouldn’t it be worth talking to the owner of the NeoCancan for a tip? Fish around and mention Cécile’s description.”

  “The Johnny Hallyday wannabe, that one? Why?”

  “He’s an informer, non?”

  She heard Beto’s intake of breath over the phone. “He intimated that?”

  “Mais non, but I figured like all the bar owners he informed to keep on your good side.” Quiet as the bars kept it, rumor went they also paid sécurité, a percentage of earnings given in a weekly envelope to the controlling network of the moment to keep their doors open.

  “He’s got a record.”

  Cymbals and guitar sounded in the background. The Fête de la Musique, celebrated on the eve of summer solstice, had begun.

  “What’s on his record?”

  “Statutory rape … but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  She remembered he’d led the lynch mob to the Lille seaman. A foil to take the suspicion away from himself? Had René been right to suspect his motives?

  Her mind went back to the dumbwaiter in his cellar floor. A gasp escaped her as she pictured his jeans. Long shot, but worth a try.

  “Why don’t you visit the NeoCancan’s cellar?”

  “Just like that, out of the blue?”

  “Health violations, contraband liquor, prostitution,” she said. “You’ll think of something.”

  He snorted. “Why risk my neck?”

  “Several reasons,” she said, rubbing her belly. She wished she hadn’t eaten that last cornichon. “It sounds like you’re in Pigalle.”

  “Along with a quarter of Paris, chérie,” he said.

  “Two young girls could be held down in NeoCancan’s cave, you’re in the quartier and my Beretta’s back home.”

  “I don’t know.” His tone turned serious. “It’s all circumstantial.”

  She wanted to spit. Instead took a deep breath to calm down. Covered the phone and burped. “Could you live with yourself if you didn’t check it out?” she said. “Or deal with me on your back for the rest of your life?”

  On his back … she wondered what he wore to bed. Or if he wore anything at all. Where had that thought come from? Down, girl.

  “I forgot about irrational pregnant women,” he said.

  Did she care what he thought? Or his tone of condescension? Or more that he had big, protective arms and knew how to wake a woman up?

  Time to put the brakes on her hormonal overdrive.

  “So humor me,” she said, trying for charm. “S’il vous plaît.”

  “Promise you won’t throw up pastries again.”

  “Deal.”

  He clicked off. Good thing he couldn’t see her wide grin.

  A knock came from the door. “Aimée?”

  “Entrez.” She pulled her now-dry feet in from the window ledge.

  Pierre entered with Zazie’s brother, little Lucien, in his arms. “Virginie’s upset,” he said.

  The toll and strain showed on Pierre’s furrowed brow.

  “Ecoutez, I apologize for putting her through that interview, but …” Aimée trailed off, feeling at sea. “We needed the quickest way to get word out and find Zazie.” More than twenty-four hours had elapsed now. “Pierre, I’m sorry, but believe me, time’s crucial.” Keep it positive, forward-moving. “Any word yet?”

  “The Brigade des Mineurs established a hotline. Got a call. There’s been a sighting.”

  The hair rose on Aimée’s neck.

  “They’re telling us not to raise our hopes, but …”

  “Where?”

  “A warehouse near le périphérique.”

  Not what she had been expecting. “A creditable tip, Pierre?”

  Lucien squirmed in his arms. “They think so. Dispatched a team.”

  For once she kept her mouth shut and nodded.

  “The Brigade wants you hands-off, Aimée. Désolé, but we can’t risk jeopardizing this operation.”

  Warned off by Marie-Jo’s father and now Zazie’s. She realized Virginie couldn’t face her and had sent poor Pierre in her place.

  “It’s gotten compliqué, Aimée.”

  Life threw complications at you when you loved your child. You’d do anything to cooperate, no matter how tangled or messy. Listen to whoever you believed could save her.

  But an operation out in God’s country, way out on le périphérique? This smelled. A ruse to get people out of the way. Deflect attention.

  But right now, she didn’t have much. She had le Weasel’s computer tracked—worth little after Cécile’s information and no contact from René. All she had to work with was proof Zazie had been at rue Chaptal, Cécile’s sighting of her leaving with a “nice man,” Zacharié warning her off. The only thing she was certain of was that she had to find this “nice man.”

  “I understand, Pierre,” she said, glad not to lie. “No fear I’ll jeopardize the operation.”

  She would run her own instead. If you could call it that.

  Her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. When she looked up, Pierre had gone.

  “Allô?”

  “My daughter Mélanie left me a message,” said Madame Vasseur. No bonjour, and her voice in a low whisper. “But I don’t understand it.”

  Aimée sat up.

  “Mélanie sounded upset. It’s garbled, but if you can understand …?” Pause. “The FotoFit tech got the rapist’s description wrong.”

  “Wrong how?” Aimée reached for a pen. A chord of anticipation rippled her spine.

  “Maybe it will help Zazie.”

  “Mélanie left a message on your cell phone?” Aimée said. “Let me listen.”

  “What do I do? All these dual functions but …” Beeps, the sound of her hitting the keys. “Sorry, Mélanie knows how to do that. Not me. But I’ll try.”

  It must have cost the woman to call her. Touched, Aimée’d never expected any help from this haute bourgeoise professional. Maybe she’d misjudged Madame Vasseur. Or Madame Vasseur had hit cement and was scared, didn’t know where else to turn.

  At last, Aimée heard a buzzing, muffled voice. Inaudible. She needed to hear it in person. “Where can I meet you, Madame Vasseur?”

  “I’m in contract negotiations. Impossible.”

  “What time do you finish?”

  “But I’m a cosponsor of the Conservatoire de Musique benefit tonight.” What sounded like a pen clicking came over the line. “Must go. They’re starting again.”

  Talk about complicated. But she couldn’t let this go.

  “Give me the address.” Silence. “Please, it will take, what, a few minutes?”

  “Madame Vasseur, we’re waiting …” came from the background.

  “Ten rue de la Tour des Dames. Eight P.M.”

  Two hours. Which would make it twenty-seven hours since Zazie was last seen.

  AIMÉE SPENT AN anxious two hours on her laptop trawling Zacharié Plessis’s penal history and gleaned precious little information, only that his charge was “corporate theft” in the court documents and lawyer’s statements.

  To her it appeared someone had expunged his court records, picked through the documents and combed out every nit. Alarms sounded in her head.

  Pressure exerted by his ex-wife’s influential family? Friends in high places? Béatrice de Mombert’s father, a member of the Comédie-Française, had been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. Smelled like the crème de la crème didn’t want their reputation curdled.

  Too bad they couldn’t muzzle their daughter and keep her antics out of the papers. Or maybe after so many incidents even the press couldn’t be bought.

  Not Aimée’s business.

  Still …

  She’d found zero on Zacharié’s present address or a contact for him. Yet he knew this “nice man,” had warned her off. Right now he was the only avenue to pursue—if she could find a name, a contact, then meet Beto and give him the information … Back inside the penal database s
he checked his release date again—just last week. He’d report to a parole officer, of course.

  Stupid. She wished she’d twigged on that right away. She’d wasted more than an hour.

  It took twenty more minutes to locate his parole officer, a Monsieur Faure, and his office number. It was late, but she thought up a story. But Faure’s voice mail answered. Didn’t public servants have to perform the public service of answering their phones? She slammed the desk with her fist. Then left a message stressing the urgency of reaching Zacharié Plessis concerning a lucrative job offer for a man of his skills. If that didn’t a get a call back, she didn’t know what would.

  Frustrated, she entered Zacharié’s info in her red Moleskine, giving him a full page after the “formula vs breast milk” benefits comparison René had made for her.

  She tried René. Only voice mail.

  Tuesday, 6:30 P.M.

  RENÉ STOOD FUMING on bustling rue des Martyrs next to the fishmonger’s—he’d lost le Weasel. Zazie could be locked up … buried. Shame and anger at himself prevented him from answering Aimée’s call.

  Money, always follow the money, he thought, desperate. That was Saj’s second-favorite mantra, after the Hindu one tattooed on his wrist. How would a gambler refresh his funds? Pay debts without a ransom demanded for kidnapping?

  Forget that, he realized. Le Weasel had been living off his druggie actress girlfriend, but he couldn’t count on that now with her in rehab. Just a male model for GQ, caught clubbing in the pages of Le Parisien …

  A trumpet blurted from the corner, a crash of cymbals—the damn Fête de la Musique had started. He couldn’t hear himself think.

  As he turned he hit his head on a door handle. Cursing and rubbing his temple, he happened to catch sight of the tabloids used for wrapping fish at the fishmonger’s counter. If paparazzi could track him, then so could René.

  Think like a paparazzo.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER he got through to the head booker at Stylisme—the model agency à la mode. “Erich von Wessler doesn’t wake up for less than a thousand francs a day,” said a bored voice.

  “I’m not booking him,” said René. “Something fell out of his man-purse at the photo shoot. A delicate item, compris? I’d like to show him before we publish.”