“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 Citro?n—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.