She used her sleeve to pick up the soggy pictures and turned them over. Tessa aged seven, Tessa aged nine, Tessa at confirmation … A horrible taste filled her mouth. “René, look.” She pulled out his carte d’identité: Nico Destael. “He’s from Lille, a merchant seaman.”
René grabbed the wallet from her with his handkerchief, rubbed it off just in case, and threw it back on the ground. Sirens echoed in the canyons formed by the dense Haussmann buildings. He dragged her around the corner and pushed her into the Citro?n, switched on the ignition and ground into first.
Terse messages erupted on the police scanner. “Alert …”
She felt numb. Useless. It was all her fault.
“I’m not condoning mob mentality, Aimée, but they dispensed their own justice,” said René, checking his rearview mirror. “Now let them deal with it. He attacked their children. It’s their battle.”
That didn’t make it right—especially if they had picked the wrong man. She felt sick to her stomach.
Sweat beaded René’s brow. He pulled his Glock from his pocket and opened the glove compartment.
Aimée gasped. “René, tell me you weren’t going to use that.”
“Didn’t have to,” he said.
“What happened tonight?” she asked. “Where did that mob come from?”
“They held a candlelight vigil in front of Sylvaine’s. Things got out of hand.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “He raped and killed a twelve-year-old girl. Put yourself in the parents’ place. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing if you had to.”
She had a little life stirring inside her. Part of her wondered what she would do to protect it. And it scared her.
“First I’d find out where Zazie is. Then … I don’t know.”
But guilt invaded her. It had already been a powder-keg situation, and she’d lit the fuse, fanned the flame by showing the FotoFit around, pointing out the man to the NeoCancan owner. Doubt gnawed in the back of her mind.
“René, those pictures …”
“You’re saying what, Aimée?”
“What if they were his daughters?”
“That’s up to the investigating team.”
“But what if he’s not the rapist?” she said. “What if Zazie was wrong?”
Monday, 10 P.M.
COLD AIR DIDN’T keep the sweat from trickling down Zacharié’s spine in the vaulted stone cellar where his team had rendezvoused. The cellar was a former foundry nestled underneath rue Condorcet’s wrought-iron shop, a purveyor of cast-iron plaques cast made from sixteenth-century Versailles molds. Firebacks and wrought-iron railing samples were piled by remnants of the old smelter. No one would ever think they had planned a heist down here.
“C’est normal. Changing the plan ups the price,” said Jules, matter-of-fact. “So I’m offering to increase your take twenty-five percent.”
Not that Zacharié was here for the money—not anymore. Jules had threatened Marie-Jo; Zacharié had no choice but to cooperate until he could figure out how to extricate himself. His plan was to try to demonstrate the crew’s expertise to Jules firsthand—he still hoped to take himself out of the operation.
“Ten thousand spreads the butter. Up front,” said Dervier.
Dervier’s three-man team—Tandou, the digger; Ramu, the locksmith; and Gilou, the trust-fund bobo who sidelined in explosifs—nodded. They were the best at what they did. Zacharié knew; he’d gone to school with them—la classe de crime, they’d joked. This Pigalle quartier, where the affluent lived amongst blue collars and émigrés roughed the edges, hadn’t changed since they were kids—apart from the flocks of trendy bobos moving in and upscaling rue des Martyrs. The now aging ancien régime generation still rented out their upper-floor chambres de bonnes to the poor, only now the latter didn’t work as servants, they just slaved to pay rent.
Jules took an envelope from his suit jacket. “Bon, show me your plan. Here’s a deposit.”
Gilou counted the bills with his manicured fingers. He looked up with a smile and nodded to Dervier.
“Alors, it’s a simple in and out,” Dervier said and pulled a map down from the wall. Zacharié tried not to wince at Dervier’s lisp or the spittle on his chin that accompanied it. But then outlining the break-in plan with a split tongue couldn’t be easy.
“Can you explain how you’ll navigate this segment here?” Jules pointed to the underground sewer on the map tacked to the wall.
Tandou, the big-shouldered mec, frowned. “I’ve got it covered.”
These professionals hated dilettantes who contracted a job then questioned their expertise. Zacharié shot a warning look at Jules.
“Making a fuss over a simple question?” Jules said.
Why couldn’t Jules leave it alone?
“The segments that appear blocked,” said Dervier, “connect Gare Saint-Lazare via the old Banque de France rail tracks. Once they were used for transporting bullion, but they’ve gone unused since the war. They’re forgotten shunting tracks.”
“A fascinating historical detail, but how …?”
“All you need to know,” Dervier said, “is that my boys and I can navigate your several-block radius underground—in and out—in under twelve minutes.”
Jules nodded. “Impressive.”
“Now all I need you to tell me is how much weight we’re transporting. Not ballpark—specific to a kilo, more or less.”
Ten minutes later, Zacharié stood upstairs with Jules in the old shop, which was hotter than a furnace. He’d made nice with Jules, introduced the team—obvious professionals—and outlined the heist plan. Hadn’t Jules said he was impressed?
Time to stand up and get out of this. Now.
“You’re in good hands, Jules. Now time for me to bow out. I can’t draw attention to myself. It’s too dangerous, with my parole officer sniffing around. Look, the team’s professional, the best there is. Consider your favor repaid, Jules.”
“Repaid?” Jules shook his head. “You’ve just begun to repay me, Zacharié. Remember our deal? These thugs provide the window dressing. It’s your expertise that makes this work.”