Murder in Pigalle

by Cara Black

  A long sigh. “I detest you paparazzi.”

  “Non, you love us,” said René. “We make him bankable. Indiscretions cost, remember, and drive his price up.”

  “He’s under contract. We’ll take you to court,” said the voice, alert now.

  “Non, you’ll give me his number,” said René. “I’ll work it out with him.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “He’s small fry, but these allegations could stick to his lady, Béatrice de Mombert. Can you risk not giving me his number?”

  “He’s booked all week. Busy. All I can do is pass your name and number to him.”

  Booked? He’d just lost him at the casino. René consulted his map, trying to figure out how to lure him. “Tell him to meet me at ten rue de Parme, the café.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “He’ll make time. I’ll be waiting. Tell him I know about Marie-Jo.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER René sat in the café on rue de Parme across the street from the Commissariat. Le Weasel would have a short walk to justice. Without any actual proof against him, René would use one of Aimée’s tactics. Lie.

  Le Weasel strode into the café alone. Despite dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he was wearing those damn monogrammed velvet loafers, he still looked like GQ material.

  He sat down at René’s table and snapped his fingers at the man behind the counter. “Un express.” Several men stood watching the match on the télé over the counter.

  Le Weasel’s quick glance took in René’s short legs. He moved the water carafe and set down his man-purse. “I recognize you from the casino,” said le Weasel. “You want me to cough up, non?”

  Chalk one to le Weasel. Chalk minus two for René’s surveillance technique.

  “Then you know,” said René, “you’ve been identified. The last victim provided your description.”

  “Eh? Cut to the chase, little man,” said le Weasel. “Where’s Marie-Jo?”

  “Nice try,” said René, disgusted.

  He gave a weary sigh. “How much this time?”

  “What?”

  “So she’s run off with a boy, partied, and now, quoi, she’s hiding in some basement squat with a hangover? The usual?”

  This wasn’t going how René had planned. “Where’s Zazie?”

  “Who knows?” Le Weasel waved a pinkie-ringed finger, dismissive. “What does it take to keep Marie-Jo off the front page?”

  Le Weasel acted like René knew more about Marie-Jo than he did. Did he really believe she’d run off? Or was le Weasel bluffing to hide his guilt?

  Why did René feel tongue-tied? Why did he almost believe this dandy with monogrammed velvet slippers?

  “You scum always turn up,” said le Weasel. “But one only three apples tall takes the prize.”

  Three apples tall—René hadn’t heard that since a bully’s taunts in the village school.

  Something snapped inside René. The smirking, long-haired Eurotrash’s insolence, his aching hip, his fear over Zazie—it was too much. Up like a shot, René planted his feet in the offensive karate position. They never expected a dwarf to be a black belt. Aimed and kidney-kicked the surprised fashion sensation off his chair, spun and twisted his arm until he was down to the tiled café floor.

  “I call half-men like you scum, preying on little girls,” he said. René pressed the groaning man’s arm back. “You’re going to tell me where Zazie is and then we’re walking across the street to a cell. Compris?”

  “What are you? Some demi-tasse flic?”

  “First I’ll break your arm, then I’ll work my way down.”

  The waiter stood by the table, tray in hand, and shook his head. “Attendez, I want no trouble in my café. Take it outside.”

  “After this pedophile talks,” said René, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “I’m not a pedophile,” le Weasel shouted, squirming on the floor.

  “What, you prefer child rapist and murderer?”

  Before he could answer, René took a café napkin and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Ça alors, that one who attacked little girls after school, him?” The café owner’s face darkened. “Didn’t they catch the salaud?”

  “Non, he’s face down on your café floor. So let justice take its course,” said René. “Go back to fixing him an espresso. Make it extra hot.”

  The waiter gave a long look, then nodded. “It’s always the ones you’d never suspect. Sick.”

  René took the napkin out of le Weasel’s mouth and used it to bind his wrists behind him.

  Le Weasel sputtered and spit. “Let me up.”

  “As soon as you tell me where Zazie is,” he said. “Start with last night. Where did you take her?”

  “You’re crazy, little man. I went to Marie-Jo’s grandparents’ place to meet Béa’s lawyer. Look in my pockets.”

  René reached in the blazer’s pockets. A used round-trip train ticket to Fontainebleau. “That’s where Zazie is?”

  The men at the zinc counter gathered around the waiter. Not one cracked a smile. He’d use that.

  “The waiter’s preparing your espresso,” said René. “He and his friends will pour it on your face. Scald and burn that GQ cover-boy face. Now shall I let him?”

  “But you don’t understand,” le Weasel protested.

  “Oh, I understand. What is it about violinists you like so much? Classical music make you want to attack little girls?”

  “What? No. Trance and techno’s my groove,” he said. “What’s music got to do with anything?”

  “But you’re a Paganini aficionado, n’est-ce pas?”

  “After suffering piano lessons all my childhood … I prefer Chopin.”

  “And twelve-year-old blondes, little girls who play violin get you off.”

  The men at the counter huddled, listening.

  “What are you, some kind of pint-sized avenger? It’s against the law, assaulting me like this,” le Weasel said, the bravado faltering in his voice. “In public, too. You can’t do this.”

  René gritted his teeth and hoisted him up against the banquette seating. “Then I’ll drag you down to the wine cellar. After I finish, it’s their turn.” He nodded to the murmuring crowd.

  René noticed panic flooding le Weasel’s brown eyes. Good.

  “Going to tell me the truth now?”

  Le Weasel nodded.

  And then he started talking.

  “Béatrice’s parents want me to take her and Marie-Jo down south. To start over. But the brat hates the idea, refused to go and ran away. Now I’m stuck here until I track her down, Béa’s in rehab, Marie-Jo’s gone and her grandparents think I’ve got her under control. I need her, don’t you see? The lawyer insists I show responsibility so Béa can keep custody.”

  “And you get paid for it.”

  “We’ve got to live.”

  “Gambling?”

  “I’m going on a hiatus in my modeling career for the little brat. Why shouldn’t I make some coin for my sacrifice?”

  Eurotrash.

  “So you couldn’t report your meal ticket missing?”

  Le Weasel shrugged. “She hates me. Followed me with her friend, that redhead, convinced I cheated on her wild mother while I was trying to clean up after her. Taking photos of me, like little spies, trying to set me up and make me look bad to her grandparents. That’s the thanks I get.”

  He flicked his head back to get the stringy hair out of his eyes.

  “But we know Zazie was in the rue Chaptal apartment. I’ve got proof.”

  “How the hell do I know if she was there?”

  “When did you last see Marie-Jo?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. We had a fight after lunch, maybe her friend came by later. I don’t know. Look, I’ve been on assignment for photo shoots, not raping little girls. Check my bookings. Four full-page spreads for Dior Homme.”

  After a while René wished he’d stop talking. Such a pathetic, self-i
mportant pretty boy.

  Tuesday, 8 P.M.

  AIMÉE’S HEELS CLICKED over the cobbles as she hurried through la Nouvelle Athènes to meet Madame Vasseur. The über-wealthy slice of the quartier seemed almost oppressive after the vibrant, humming Pigalle and the jazz trio she’d passed on the Grands Boulevards a few streets away.

  She turned the corner to see the woman’s distinctive Mercedes, but no waiting Madame Vasseur on the dimly lit rue. Merde! Not a goddamned café in sight—not in these parts, where one paid half a million francs for a maid’s garret.

  This dark street, one of the most expensive in the ninth arrondissement, oozed wealth. Ahead of her a gate fronted what looked like a palace. Trees made a canopy over the alley, which was silent except for her beating heart.

  Had Madame Vasseur forgotten her promise to meet Aimée before the benefit?

  On her cell phone she hit callback, but Madame Vasseur’s number went straight to voice mail.

  Damn. The woman had stood her up. Two precious hours lost.

  No return call from Zacharié’s parole officer. Nothing.

  Her patience ran thin. She tapped her strappy Valentino sandals on the cobbles. A night bird trilled from the half-concealed garden of a mini-château behind massive metal-grilled gates. But she couldn’t wait anymore. Time to storm the château.

  She rapped on the gatehouse window. This caught the attention of a man in a dark blue suit, who opened the window a crack.

  “Excusez-moi. I’m meeting Madame Vasseur at the Conservatoire de Musique benefit …”

  “You have an invitation?”

  A flush of anger rose up her neck. “There’s an emergency.”

  “But this is a private affair.” The man in the blue suit had a wire trailing from his ear and looked more like security than a concierge—a retired flic. Her father’s police ID doctored with her photo wouldn’t bear his scrutiny.

  Great. She thought quick. Time to flash the business card she’d appropriated from Madame Vasseur’s designer bag.

  “I’m her administrative assistant at …” She glanced down. “… Hachoin Associates. Do we need to have this conversation on the street?”

  His expression remained the same. “But that’s Madame Vasseur’s card, not yours.”

  Apprehension filled her. What if she couldn’t get past him?

  “Of course,” she said with more bravado than she felt. She needed to get inside, hear the information from the cell-phone message, learn the real description of the rapist and find Zazie. “Madame Vasseur gave me this to authenticate my presence. We’ve had a crisis at the office.”

  He stared at her. “Try her cell phone.”

  “As if I haven’t?” Aimée pursed her lips. “But if you want to incur her wrath when she loses a ten-million-franc lawsuit because you wouldn’t let me inside …”

  The low side-door in the gate buzzed open. She walked into the rectangles of light spilling from tall windows over the dark garden and winding driveway. Faint strains of a piano drifted from a balcony.

  He opened a door leading into a white-tiled foyer. Hit a button on the elevator panel.

  “The Lavignes’ reception is on their second floor.”

  If that wasn’t an indicator of wealth, Aimée didn’t know what was. But they all put their shoes on one foot at a time, as her grand-père would have said.

  She didn’t even have time to reapply her Chanel-red lipstick in the mirrored interior before the elevator door whooshed open.

  “May I help you?” a voice welcomed her from a grand, marble-tiled reception area. Marble columns, marble everywhere. A grand salon was off to the left.

  “Aimée Leduc to see Madame Vasseur.”

  The greeter, a woman in her late forties and wearing pearls, took one look at Aimée’s secondhand Birkin bag. Or maybe it was her shoes.

  “I’m afraid your name’s not on the guest list,” she said with a frozen, coral-lipsticked smile.

  Aimée almost ground her teeth, but she returned the smile instead. “Then write it in.”

  “You misunderstand. This benefit’s private. Invitation only.”

  “And there’s an emergency. Madame and I made a rendezvous.” Aimée peered over the woman’s bouffant-haired head to the adjoining salon. She scanned the well-dressed crowd of thirty or so, hoping to catch Madame Vasseur’s eye and take her aside.

  No such luck.

  Aimée stepped around the woman into the cloying scent of blue delphiniums overflowing from the vases in the fresco’d hallway. It was all neo-Renaissance detail, from the gilded boisieries to the gleaming inlaid walnut floor. “Please tell her I’m here.”

  The woman blinked. “I’m sorry, Madame, but—”

  “The sooner you find her, the sooner I leave.” Aimée leaned closer. “Vous comprenez?”

  Flustered, the bouffant-haired woman backed away, summoning someone—a security guard? But a petite blonde waved back and mouthed, “Un moment!”

  Scanning the designer attire for Madame Vasseur, Aimée noticed intellos scattered among ancien régime types exuding the whiff of old money. Typical of those born into privilege who supported les arts et la culture with noblesse oblige. Faces from society columns. Not an arriviste millionaire in the bunch. It wasn’t that they had a lot of money in the bank—they owned the bank.

  Not her crowd, but she hadn’t come to socialize. Impatient, she nudged through the group, earning irritated looks. No one moved a centimeter. Didn’t anyone respect a pregnant woman?

  “Excusez-moi,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Air, please, I need air.”

  People parted, several eyebrows raised, until she reached the edge of the crowd. On the dais, Madame Vasseur, in a sleek white-linen pantsuit, downed a glass of champagne. Aimée noticed the sag to her shoulders, a weariness that disappeared when she pumped the hand of an old man next to her and turned to smile at the well-heeled attendees.

  “Madame!” Aimée waved. “Over here.”

  Her smile froze as she saw Aimée. A moment later she joined her by the tall window, her back to the crowd. “What right do you have to come here and gate-crash?” she said under her breath.

  “You called me, remember? I need to hear Mélanie’s message.”

  “Can’t this wait?”

  “Didn’t Mélanie give you details, some important information for identifying the rapist?”

  She stiffened. “There’s too much going on right now.”

  “Right. Zazie’s missing, and if you don’t—”

  Her words were drowned out by a white-haired man standing on the dais. He boomed into the microphone, “Mesdames et Messieurs, allow me to introduce Madame Vasseur, our Conservatoire de Musique committee chair.”

  She raised her hand and smiled at the white-haired man beckoning her. “That’s Monsieur Lavigne. I’ve been working on this program all year,” she said, smiling between clenched teeth. “You will wait and show some politesse until I’ve finished my speech. If you make a scene, I’ll call security and have you thrown out.”

  “… Madame Vasseur has several wonderful announcements,” the old man was saying.

  Thundering applause greeted him. Disappointed, Aimée drifted to the back. In the meantime she’d try René again. Check if Beto had left a message.

  “Madame Leduc?” said the petite blonde, attractive apart from her overbite and large teeth. She wore a little black dress Aimée figured cost more than Leduc Detective paid in rent.

  “Oui?”

  Loud shhhhes from those around her.

  “Please, over here.”

  Aimée followed the blonde into an adjoining salon. More nymphs and cherubs frolicking on the ceiling. A couple, arms entwined, broke apart at their entry, guilty looks on their faces, then beat a quick exit. Several attendees passed through, stopping at a white-linen-draped banquet table for fizzing flutes of amber champagne.

  “My father-in-law goes on a bit,” the blonde whispered. “But I’m sorry, Madame Vasseur’s
busy giving the highlight presentation.”

  Like Aimée didn’t know that?

  The blonde’s brow knit at Aimée’s nonplussed expression. “Désolée, I’m pinch-hitting as hostess. Only married a few months, I don’t know all the ropes.” Before Aimée could reply, the young woman gave a smile that revealed her big teeth. “Aaah, you’re having un bébé, how wonderful.” Her smile reached her eyes. “Congratulations. I know we’ve just met, don’t want to be indiscreet, but my husband and I are trying, too. I want a baby so much. Champagne? Oh, silly me, of course not! Some juice?”

  She seemed overwhelmed but genuine. Better get this woman on her side.

  “Non, merci.” Aimée took her hand. It was warm to the touch. “Madame Vasseur’s got information for me. A girl’s life’s in danger.”

  “Danger?” the blonde said, worry clouding her open face. “Does this have to do with her poor daughter, Mélanie?”

  Aimée nodded, looking back into the filled salon. Madame Vasseur spoke, smiling, holding the audience in thrall, thanking donors. Aimée prayed this wouldn’t take long, so she could get the hell out.

  The blonde leaned closer, her grip on Aimée’s hand tightening. “Has Mélanie’s condition worsened?”

  Before Aimée could answer, a young Asian cellist began playing her instrument to the side of the speaker.

  “You’ve met my wife, Brianne?” A beaming twenty-something man slid his arm around the blonde’s shoulder. He had a fresh, angular face and bright blue eyes. His velvet-collared smoking jacket was unbuttoned, a green, leafy stalk of anise sticking out from his shirt pocket. He reached to shake Aimée’s hand. “Renaud Lavigne.”

  He noticed Aimée’s look at his pocket and grinned.

  “We’re babysitting my niece Émilie’s pet rabbit. He loves anise, go figure.” He gestured to the little girl, about ten, standing by the chamber ensemble in a mauve velvet dress and matching patent shoes. The girl smiled back. Renaud pecked Brianne’s forehead. “My wife doesn’t want me to forget to feed him.”

  Brianne answered with a look of adoration.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “My father’s endowing a music chair in Madame de Langlet’s honor at the Conservatoire.”