She shook off her duvet and ran to the armoire. Not much in it fit her anymore. She’d been getting by with a slouched silk blouson and the oversize Gucci jacket, layered over a Dior skirt sans zipper. Soon she’d have to break down and find maternity clothes.
But for now she pulled on black leggings that came up to her hips and Melac’s old oversized T-shirt from a jazz concert at the Olympia, stepped into her red heels and scraped her tousled hair into a clip.
On the black and white tiles of the landing stood a bear of a man with stubble on his chin and black hair pulled into a ponytail. Butter smells wafted from the boulangerie bag he held. Delicious.
“Those still warm?”
He nodded. “I figured you’d provide the coffee, chérie.”
Typical mec working Vice and les stups, she thought, rough around the edges but trained in the art of waking a woman up.
“Entrez.” She gestured him inside. Miles Davis sniffed his jean cuffs and growled.
In the kitchen she started up the espresso machine, took out the butcher’s packet for Miles Davis. She spooned the horsemeat into his chipped Limoges bowl and a wave of nausea rose.
She emptied the bag of brioches into a basket on the table. Not a good idea. The smell of butter wafted through the close kitchen. “Excusez-moi.”
She backed out of the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?”
No time to answer as she ran, her heels clattering in the hallway to the bathroom. Just in time. She heaved. Then again. When the shaking and nausea had subsided, she washed her face, squeezed the last bit of Fluocaril toothpaste from the tube and brushed her teeth.
After a swipe of Chanel Red and a quick brush of mascara, she felt better.
In the kitchen he’d helped himself to coffee.
“Do you always greet guests this way?” He plopped a brown sugar cube in his demi-tasse. Stirred and swigged it.
The whiff of butter made her gag.
“Or only the ones you want favors from, chérie?”
The queasiness hit again, and the words caught in her mouth. How stupid—why couldn’t her body cooperate?
“Then I’ll finish my coffee and leave.”
“Non, désolée,” she managed. “Forgive me … I can’t eat … in the morning.”
He put his cup in the sink. “I don’t waste time with hangovers, chérie.”
“Mais non … it’s morning sickness.”
His dark eyes lasered the bump under Melac’s T-shirt. “So it’s true.”
Her heart hammered. Did Melac know? Had Morbier opened his big mouth?
“What do you mean?”
“Rien, not my business, chérie.”
“Then keep it that way. You know nothing, compris?”
Flustered, she opened her suitcase of a fridge. Cornichons, capers and kiwis. Not even marmalade for his brioche.
He checked his phone. Yawned, revealing big white teeth. “I’m going home to bed. I thought it was urgent.”
She nodded, wiped her damp forehead. “Off my game for a moment, désolée. I need your help finding a missing girl.” Aimée briefly outlined the situation. “Zazie’s disappeared. I think it’s connected to the attack on Sylvaine Olivet. Zazie’d been surveilling a mec she thought was the rapist in Pigalle. That’s your turf, right?”
“A little redhead?”
Hope sparked in Aimée. “You’ve seen or heard something?”
“I’m repaying Suzanne a favor,” he said, chewing a brioche. A flaky crumb caught on his chin stubble. “Consider this a one-off. No more.” He poured himself another coffee. “The sailor the crowd beat up last night looks good for the rapist.”
She figured in Vice speak that meant le proc had sent the case to the juge d’instruction. Which indicated evidence, a solid base of investigation and a quick trial. Child rape and murder got the green light.
“So there’s DNA, and he confessed?”
“History of priors,” said Beto. “They’re checking his merchant seaman records. Ports of call. Ships’ logs. Takes time, some are out at sea. But he looks good for it.”
“Why does he choose girls in the ninth arrondissement?”
“They discovered he bunks with a retired seaman who lives … let’s see … on rue Cadet. His friend likes kids, too. They found lots of photos. Checking evidence at the flat.”
“But if he’s admitted …”
“The mec’s unconscious,” he interrupted, checking his expensive sports watch.
She couldn’t let him leave—not before she learned more. “Say he’s in a coma for days or never comes out of it.”
“Got to go,” he said.
Unease ground in her gut on top of the nausea. “Please. Zazie’s missing, and no one knows for a fact this seaman from Lille’s the rapist. No actual proof or evidence.”
“Not yet,” he said. “Lab results and DNA take twenty-four hours. They’re compromised, from what the Brigade des Mineurs said. But trust me, if you’d seen his priors …”
“But what if he’s the wrong man? By the time the DNA comes back, it will be too late.” She held up her hand to stop him from cutting in. “Zazie’s been missing since two P.M. yesterday. You know how important the first twenty-four hours are when a child is in danger.”
“I’m telling you, this seaman looks good for it. Figure her disappearance is coincidental.” Beto poured himself more coffee.
“But you admit it’s possible.”
“Mais oui, possible. But more like doubtful. And what do you want to do about it, chérie?”
Aimée took a Badoit from the fridge, twisted off the cap. “I’d appreciate details on the other victims. These rapes started six months ago.” She swallowed a packet of prenatals from her bag, washed them down with a sip of Badoit.
“You don’t ask much, do you?”
“But easy for you to find out, non? In Vice I’m sure you keep tabs on sexual offenders out on parole in the ninth.”
“The Brigades des Mineurs pulled them all in, believe me.”
Madame Pelletier had made a move after all.
“The rest is above my pay grade.” He brushed the flaky crumbs from the counter into her porcelain sink.
“Quoi?” He had to say it twice before she understood. Some Americanism he’d picked up at FBI training at Quantico.
In the meantime he’d accepted a third cup of coffee.