Madame Pelletier reached forward, took her hand and patted it. “Listen, we’ve got team members who are parents, of course. Life goes on. It’s about not letting your emotions get in the way, keeping focused. Our work deals with children, innocent victims of life’s ugly side. To do this job well, you’ve got to compartmentalize.”
She remembered the work her father brought home, the files piled on his desk and his tired smile in the morning. How he’d change the subject when she asked him about a case.
“You’re blinded by your personal connection right now, and not thinking clearly about what’s best for the general investigation or for the well-being of the victims. Pick your battles, Mademoiselle. This isn’t one you should fight.”
“That’s why you called me in here? To tell me this? Warn me off?” She pulled her hand back from the condescending woman.
“We found your number on Zazie’s cell phone,” said Madame Pelletier, consulting the report. “Correction, her uncle’s cell phone.” Pause. “Okay, let’s say you’re right, and Zazie’s involved,” said Madame Pelletier, leaning back in her chair again. “You’re going about it all wrong. Your sniffing around sends witnesses or informers underground. The last thing we want. After this man’s beating, much of the forensic evidence we hoped to recover has been contaminated and compromised. Who knows when, or if, we’ll obtain his testimony.”
All her fault.
“We discover and compile evidence for le proc. She won’t green-light a case without evidence.”
Aimée got why they wanted her to stop. But she wouldn’t.
“Zazie’s not a criminal. She’s a victim.”
Her collar felt damp. Her peep-toe heels’ leather instep dug into her skin, and she wanted to kick them off. The fluorescent light strip flickered over the cracked linoleum floor.
“Now get this in your head,” said Madame Pelletier. “We’re doing all we can and more. Top priority is tracking down the rapist. He is the only thing that would lead us to hostages, if there were any. Stay where Zazie can contact you and don’t shout her head off when she rolls in at dawn sheepish and afraid.” Madame Pelletier locked eyes with Aimée. “But be assured, finding her whereabouts is a high consideration for us right now.”
Aimée nodded acquiescently. But her mind spun.
“By the way, Mademoiselle,” Madame Pelletier said. “A woman matching your description riled up a Pigalle bar owner earlier. He in turn incited the mob, resulting in the violent chain reaction that has landed this man in the hospital.” The police officer looked her in the eye. “Consider this a warning, for your own sake.”
“I get it,” Aimée said, wanting to kick something.
“Let us do what we do our way,” said Madame Pelletier. “No informant wants to draw attention. They lay low. But we depend on them, and if all this ruckus drives them away, it will hamper our investigation. Let us do our job, and you’ll see how it works. The quartier’s united on this. No one likes a pedophile.”
“Is the suspect conscious? Has he confessed?”
Madame Pelletier shook her head. She glanced at her phone.
“So for you it’s a waiting game? But there’s no time.”
“We’re proceeding with the investigation, Mademoiselle,” she said. “Go home.”
“I assume you’ve contacted all the numbers on Zazie’s phone.”
“You’re mixed up, Mademoiselle Leduc. You answer questions here, not the other way around.”
What else wasn’t Madame Pelletier telling her? Aimée yearned to read those conflicting reports and see Zazie’s cell-phone log.
Madame Pelletier looked her in the eye. “And now it is my duty to inform you that Madame Olivet, the murdered victim’s mother, wants to press charges against you.”
Aimée blinked. “Me? Why?”
“She claims you prevented her from taking care of her daughter.”
Saddened, Aimée realized the grieving woman was trying to take control the only way she knew how. “She’s devastated. Distraught. I understand. I only tried to talk her out of wiping away possible DNA evidence. She lashed out and hit me.” Aimée touched the still-red mark on her cheek.
It had taken all this time for Madame Pelletier to make her real point.
“Forewarned, Mademoiselle. This could turn nasty.”
“Nasty? We should be focusing on her daughter’s murderer now.” Calm down. Act helpful. She’d learn more using her brain than her mouth. “But you’re right. Désolée.” She aimed for contrite. “On my way out I’ll copy Zazie’s notes and this photo for you.” She stood.
The woman expelled air from her mouth. “The copier’s only for official police use. May I see them now?”
Aimée passed Madame Pelletier Zazie’s folder so she could page through. Drunken shouts erupted in the hallway near the cells. The fan kept blowing hot, stale air, and she needed to pee. Again.
After taking a few notes, Madame Pelletier handed the folder back to Aimée. “Merci,” she said, sounding preoccupied. “That’s all.”
So she could have the information shuffled to the bottom of the report?
Before Aimée could protest, Madame Pelletier had stuck the file in the desk drawer and taken her jacket from its hook. “I’ve got a team meeting.”
Blocked. So far she’d learned little besides the fact that Zazie’s phone had been found on the 67 bus, that Madame Pelletier wanted her to butt out and that Sylvaine’s mother was ready to press charges against her.
“I’ll accompany you to the front desk,” the policewoman said.
Like hell she’d be shown out.
“Nature calls,” Aimée said and patted her stomach. “My condition.”
“Down to the left.” Madame Pelletier pointed. “Second door around the corner.”
Aimée headed to the left. By the time Madame Pelletier’s espadrilles hit the corridor, Aimée had edged back into the cubicle, her palm-sized digital camera in hand. She slid the drawer open.
Monday, 10:30 P.M.