“Haven’t you’ve got another connection in Vice?” René said. “You know people, n’est-ce pas?”
She racked her brains. A lot of them had retired. But apart from Morbier, she knew someone who would know someone. Suzanne, Melac’s team member, formerly in Vice. Transferred to his elite unit that was so hush-hush he couldn’t tell her what he did.
Virginie sat down, gripping her dishrag. “Pierre’s on the phone with the flics again. He can’t file a missing persons report until tomorrow.”
Aimée reached out and held Virginie’s damp fingers. “But they put out an alert for her as a potential witness, Virginie,” she said.
“Thanks to you, I know that.” She squeezed Aimée’s hand.
“When did you last see Zazie?”
“She made herself a coppa tartine, then stood at the bus stop outside. I watched her until the bus came—like usual …” Virginie’s lip quivered. “Say two P.M.”
“Bon, she’d come to my office just before and mentioned her friend who had a camera. Any idea who that could be on your list?”
“Camera?”
“High-end with a fancy telescopic lens?” René said.
“I’m trying to think. Besides her school report, that research she had to do for it, all she talked about was Mélanie.”
“Was she still in contact with her old friends from l’école maternelle?” said René.
“I wrote down everyone I could think of.”
“But she was friends with Mélanie and Sylvaine, who were both attacked,” said Aimée. Coincidence? “If Zazie didn’t take violin lessons … did she know them from some club at school?”
Virginie gave a quick nod. “Tout à fait. The girls worked together on a quartier-wide science-fair project in spring. Became friends. But look at my list, Aimée, I spoke to all the parents except those two.”
Aimée thought back. Tried another angle.
“Didn’t Pierre ground Zazie about a month ago after she stayed out late with a friend?”
“That girl’s out of the picture,” Pierre said, joining them. “That actress’s daughter. Screwed-up family.”
“You’re sure?”
“Screwed up as in a father in prison, mother’s a druggie actress with a younger live-in lover,” said Pierre. “A younger lover with a title, according to Le Parisien the other day.”
René shot her a look.
“But I called them already. The housekeeper hadn’t seen Zazie.”
René nudged her under the marble-topped table.
“Have her address, Pierre?” asked Aimée.
“Somewhere on rue Chaptal. I wrote it down, think it’s in the back.”
She had to pee. Again. “While you look, Pierre, I’ll hit the WC.”
She’d forgotten about the old, cracked Turkish squat toilet. Each day it got harder to bend down. She pulled the chain and stepped back before the water gushed over her peep-toes. Research … Zazie’s words about research kept coming back to her.
“Found it, Pierre?”
But he’d gone out front to serve a customer. Aimée scanned the kitchen counter, sink at one end and cluttered paperwork space on the other. Virginie tabulated their accounts and Zazie did homework here. There was Zazie’s report, labeled “Madame Toullier: Resistance Agent in Corrèze.”
Why hadn’t she taken that report to Sylvaine’s? Feeling na?ve, Aimée realized Zazie had had no intention of studying. How could she have been so stupid?
Aimée riffled through the papers for more. She found a postcard for Le Bus Palladium. She and Martine had clubbed there in the ’80s.
A worn, leather-bound book, Resistance and Espionage in 1942. Colored Post-its on different chapters highlighting dead letter boxes, invisible ink, surveillance techniques, evasion, chalk markings.
For her class project?
Aimée shook the book and a paper came out. Written in Zazie’s hand she saw:
Go to plan B
Zazie had some plan and a backup for when it failed. But what it could be Aimée had no clue.
“May I borrow this tonight?” she asked Virginie. She’d picked up Zazie’s report, the book.
Virginie nodded.
RENé HAD THE Citro?n idling in front of Leduc Detective. Thunder rumbled. She ran to the passenger door and climbed in before the rain started.
“Pierre gave me that bad girl’s address on rue Chaptal,” he said. His wipers slashed the fat raindrops pelting the windshield. “But first I’m taking you home. Got to think of the baby, Aimée.”
“As if I don’t?” she said. But she had little energy to argue. Her time would be better spent going over Zazie’s report and rereading her notes. “You’re okay, René?” Although he never let on that he was suffering, she knew dampness and rising air pressure aggravated his hip dysplasia, common in dwarves his size.
“I can handle this. Tomorrow we’ll see how creative Saj got on the taxes.”
She rubbed her stomach and felt an answering flutter. “It moved, René.”
René’s face broke into a smile. “Voilà, the Bump has spoken. It wants to go home.”
She sat back. Thought. “While you’re at rue Chaptal, show this photo of Zazie to the bouncer at the disco Le Bus Palladium.”
“What?”
“Ask about the …” She racked her brain. “What’s it called, something like la nuit du teenybopper.”
“Zazie’s underage, Aimée. They wouldn’t let her in.”
“Then why did she have this Bus Palladium postcard for a boy-band concert?” She waved the postcard. “They had those groups when Martine and I were at the lycée. The club switches over to adult and open bar after ten P.M.”
René shook his head. “Don’t be scattershot. Keep your focus.”
Plan B. She had to figure out what Zazie meant. But with the passing hours the danger she was in increased.