Again? “You’ve got my statement already. I gave it to the officer at the scene of Sylvaine Olivet’s attack on rue de Rochechouart a few hours ago.”
“D’accord,” she said, thumbing through the pages. The woman was playing catch-up, no doubt, and had just received the file herself.
“But where did you find Zazie’s cell phone?” Aimée asked. At least they’d found some trace of Zazie. Score one for the flics. “Do you have a suspect?”
“We’re proceeding in our inquiries. A man was beaten up.”
With a guilty start, Aimée realized someone had reported seeing her at the man’s beating. An undercover officer?
Admit nothing, the first rule with flics. She looked at the police officer blankly.
“Tonight a merchant seaman was a victim of a brutal mob attack,” said Madame Pelletier. “He appears to match the rapist’s description, or at least the crowd thought so. So we’ve got a possible suspect lying in critical condition at H?tel-Dieu. Unable to give a statement.”
Her heart sank. But she’d tried to stop the crowd. What if he died?
“Why am I here?”
“I’m checking for any discrepancies in the crime-scene report on Sylvaine Olivet.”
That had to mean the arriving police officer’s scribbled notes didn’t mesh with the crime squad’s findings. Or evidence had been compromised. Bottom line: the flics had botched it. Minus two points.
“Zazie, I mean, Isabelle Duclos, had been en route to study with Sylvaine, the young girl who was raped and murdered this afternoon,” said Aimée. “I last saw her at two P.M., and no one’s had word since then. Caring for minors is your job. She’s a thirteen-year-old in danger. Missing. That’s what you should be investigating. Don’t you understand?” She picked up a police flyer labeled KNOW YOUR QUARTIER and fanned herself. “I think Zazie witnessed Sylvaine’s attack,” said Aimée. “Or hid, and the rapist found her. Kidnapped her to prevent her talking … or worse.”
“That’s all conjecture at this point,” said Madame Pelletier.
Like she didn’t know that?
“But she’s a missing minor, a possible witness. That should make her a priority. Look, my godfather’s Commissaire Morbier. If he were here, he’d tell you—”
“How to do my job? Doubtful. Morbier’s in a different branch. Mais oui, I know about you.” A sigh.
Meaning the flic had warned her.
“Get real, Madame Leduc.”
“It’s mademoiselle.”
“Then I’ll get to the point, Mademoiselle.”
About time.
“Sylvaine’s father denies Zazie came to study with her this Monday. Or ever. Zazie lied to her parents.”
Aimée wanted to push that aside. Couldn’t. Yet even if Zazie had lied, it didn’t explain her disappearance. “Even if that’s true …”
“We’re treating Zazie’s disappearance as an unrelated case. One that isn’t under our jurisdiction yet because she hasn’t been missing twenty-four hours,” Madame Pelletier interrupted. She tapped her pen. “The fact that she was caught in a lie tells us something about Zazie. Her parents confirmed she’s lied about going to her friend Sylvaine’s every Monday. There’s no evidence that she ever went to rue de Rochechouart.”
“Because no one saw her?” Aimée’s fist clenched. “No one saw the rapist either. You can’t discount the possibility that he took her as a hostage.”
The officer sighed. “Nine times out of ten, missing teenage girls turn out to be runaways, or they met a boy,” she said. “We found her phone on the number sixty-seven bus. Probably fell out of her pocket.”
“Isn’t a thirteen-year-old who might have been at the scene of a rape and murder a priority?” Aimée pulled out the newspaper clippings from Zazie’s file. “Look at this, please. Zazie was following a man she thought had raped her schoolmate Mélanie Vasseur. A serial rapist who’d attacked two other girls in this arrondissement.”
Madame Pelletier glanced through the clippings. Nodded. “I’m aware of these, but I can’t speak to them or about our ongoing investigations.” Her tone flattened. No doubt she’d said this many times. “We respond to and investigate reported crimes against minors, and in the case of Isabelle Duclos, there isn’t such a crime, at least not at this time. Consult the public record, but I’m sure you know our mandate.”
The standard line.
“But now there’s a murder she might be connected to as a witness,” said Aimée. “That’s the Brigade Criminelle’s turf.”
“Up to le proc in a case involving a minor.” Madame Pelletier checked her watch. “Look, back off and trust our team on this matter of the rapist, and give your friend Zazie time to come home on her own. We’re professionals. The whole team is on the ground, canvasing and investigating. Let us do our work.”
Tired, Aimée nodded. They had more contacts than she and René. Rape and murder cases didn’t involve rocket science—just grinding work like every other case, plodding, checking details, rechecking alibis, observation, rooting out evidence, suspects, motives, and putting it together. Time-consuming legwork. Precious time lost when there was a disappeared child. She had to fire this woman up, shake the doubt out of her eyes.
“I’ve known Zazie since she was little,” Aimée said. “This is just not like her. She’s in danger. Something’s very wrong.”
“Everything’s complicated with all the out-of-towners here for the World Cup.” Madame Pelletier leaned forward. “Here’s a little advice for a woman in your condition …”
“My condition?” Aimée sat up. Cut the condescending merde, she almost said. “I’m pregnant—not ill.” Apart from morning sickness, cravings for kiwis and cornichons, her swelling ankles and that terror waking her up in the middle of the night.