“Every avenue needs exploring. I’ve got homework of my own,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing, René. But it’s on your way. Matter of fact, the disco’s around the corner from rue Chaptal.”
TEN MINUTES LATER the rain stopped, and Aimée walked Miles Davis, her bichon frise, along the dimly lit quai. Miles Davis was sporting his new Burberry rain apparel. Algae odors rose from the gurgling Seine and mingled with the smell of wet leaves. She stood lost in thought as Miles Davis did his business under the dripping lime tree. But she needed to walk to think, and Miles Davis needed exercise. Her steps took her around the corner of Ile Saint-Louis to the church she’d been christened in. Her christening outfit sat boxed in an armoire—but she couldn’t think that far ahead.
Several members of the evening choral practice group clustered at the wooden door to the Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile church. Candles sputtered, and she heard the chant of a novena. She picked up Miles Davis and slid into the last pew. The smoking incense, the red glass lanterns and the drone of prayers took her somewhere else.
Her mind cleared. She said a little prayer for Zazie. Patted her stomach. Dipped her fingers in the holy water font, touched them to Miles Davis’s paw and slipped out.
Now to decipher what she’d found in the café kitchen.
SWATHED IN A cotton duvet and propped up by feather pillows, her one indulgence until tax time, she spent ten minutes reading the musty, yellowed chapters of the Resistance book Zazie had marked.
Code names, dead letter boxes and dry narrative. Techniques for secret communication. For surveillance.
Then Zazie’s note fell out again—Go to Plan B.
Had her surveillance of the so-called rapist stemmed from this school project? Was there some hint here of how she had trailed her suspect?
Why the hell hadn’t Zazie told her everything?
The church bell on Ile Saint-Louis rang midnight, muted and dulled by the Seine gurgling outside her open window. She hated calling people so late, but there was no other choice. She reached for her cell phone.
“HOW SERIOUS, AIMéE?” Suzanne said. “Look, I just walked in the door and paid my babysitter. We’re short with Melac gone. But of course you’ve heard, non?”
She’d left Melac’s messages unanswered, not ready to deal with his decision to stay in Brittany. She understood deep down, and she knew if she told him about the baby, his life would change. He didn’t need that right now with his daughter in a coma.
“Child endangerment. A twelve-year-old rape victim murdered. Serious enough for you, Suzanne?”
“Zut! Let me take off my wet shoes … ahh, better. Okay, give me a quick rundown.”
Aimée did.
“The Brigade des Mineurs’s priority’s the rapist,” said Aimée. “Zazie’s peripheral.”
“Standard procedure, Aimée,” she said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not working that angle, too.” A sigh came over the line. “The team’s fifteen people, specialists all trained in psychology, family dynamics. And trained first as police, for God’s sake. They know the field. Deal with the perverts on a daily basis.”
“No doubt, Suzanne, but they’re playing catch-up. Don’t ask me how but I saw the reports.”
“Good, because I’m tired,” she said. “And it’s too late for me to arrest you tonight.”
“Who do you know who works Vice in the ninth?”
A pause. In the background she heard a child’s voice. “Maman, I’m thirsty.”
“It’s late, désolée,” Aimée said. “But look, you’ve got kids. Help me out here. Zazie’s mother’s frantic. I promised her I’d pursue anything I could. And please don’t tell me Zazie’s a teenager and that’s what they do.”
A little laugh.
“Right now I’d love her to walk in the door and to hear everyone tell me ‘I told you so,’ but vraiment, Suzanne, if Zazie hasn’t returned by now, in my gut I know it’s because she can’t.”
“Hold on, Aimée,” she said. “Let me see what I can find. Vice assignments changed. Let me check on a mec I know.”
A moment later Aimée heard water splashing, little footsteps. “Ma puce, back to bed, story in a minute.”
Was that how her life would turn out? A crying baby in the night, a toddler and playdates in the park, then down the road a headstrong teenager?
She envisioned a hazy future—her trying to run a business orchestrated around this little Bump. Would there be enough Dior concealer in Paris to blot out the dark shadows under her eyes?
She heard Suzanne come back on the line.
“How do you do it all, Suzanne? Work, kids, keep a relationship?”
“Do it all?” Suzanne snorted. “Why would anyone do it all unless they had to? Being a parent today comes with built-in worries: vaccinations, the right school, doing enough or not enough, giving up your career or your time with your child … I’m so sick of my friends debating this guilt in the sandbox all the time.”
Aimée thought of the mothers chatting over pastel macaroons in the Jardin du Luxembourg—it looked idyllic until it erupted in sand-throwing.
“You just do it, because that’s how things work. It’s what we’ve always done,” Suzanne was saying. “Think about it—our mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers raised families while helping on the farm or in the shop, non? They did what they could with one, two or ten children, and everyone survived. Mostly.” She paused. “Think about your mother. You turned out all right, right?”
Because she had her father and grandfather.
“Does this mean you and Melac might …?” Suzanne hesitated.
“Look, it’s late. I’ll let you go. But did you find that name in Vice?” she said quickly, afraid she’d blurt everything out—Melac’s departure, her fears, how she’d avoided returning his calls, how uncharted this all felt. No one to guide her. If only her mother …
Crazy to want help from a woman who left her when she was eight years old.