by Cara Black
“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?
Wednesday, 5 P.M.
TACHET 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.
THE BALCONIED HAUSSMANNIAN 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.”
“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.”
Wednesday, 8 P.M.
AFTER 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 SAVE 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.
ZAZIE 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 elegan
t 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?”
