Zacharié’s hand tensed.
God in heaven, how stupid he’d been to agree to Jules’s plan. Yet his only alternative—at the time—had been enduring eighteen more months of prison while his ex and that pedophile decamped with Marie-Jo. Now, with his ex’s DUI, he’d have been sure to gain custody of Marie-Jo, but Jules had forced him to jeopardize all that.
At every step he’d racked his brains for a way to pull out yet still satisfy Jules and guarantee Marie-Jo’s return. For the life of him he couldn’t think of a dodge. Trapped. Like in this tunnel—no way to turn except straight ahead into Jules’s web.
“I need this gate opened,” he said. “And I need you to figure in twelve more minutes.”
“Here?” Dervier’s flashlight beam played on the dripping tunnel. “Why?”
“So I can get out via the sewer while you’re packing up the vault. Compris?”
The whole thing was a tight wire, a balancing act. Deep inside, a sliver of fear vibrated—what if Jules refused to release Marie-Jo? Knowing Jules, hostages were more trouble than they were worth. He pushed that thought down.
Play the chump again. Play right into Jules’s palm.
“Something in it for me, Zacharié?”
He’d hooked him.
“This should sweeten it, Dervier.” Zacharié put a wad of francs into Dervier’s waiting hand.
Tuesday, 1:30 P.M.
VIRGINIE STOOD ON the narrow street, fingers picking at her knotted scarf. Doubt wavered in her eyes. “There’s no call-in hotline. You’re sure this interview will work, Aimée?”
Aimée groaned inside. She hated to put Virginie through this.
“Nothing’s sure, Virginie,” said Aimée. “But it stands to reason Zazie didn’t go far.”
It seemed the best shot yet at finding her. Maybe the only one. With every hour that passed, chances faded.
“Think of it as reaching out to anyone who might have seen and remembered her—the bus driver who found her phone, a concierge, shop keeper, kiosk vendor, mother in the park.”
Water spluttered by them, running downhill in the gutter. The curled iron lamplight imprinted its mirror image in shadow on the flat butterscotch stone. A few bystanders had gathered near the corner.
“I’ve brought her school picture.”
“Parfait.” Aimée squeezed Virginie’s hand. She noticed the parked media vans, antennas sprouting. “Looks like more channels have picked up on this. More coverage. Remember, Virginie, you’re appealing for help finding your daughter. Acknowledge the police effort and just say after last night’s attempted attack no girl’s safe and you’re worried. Speak from your heart.”
Virginie chewed her thumbnail. “If Zazie’s nearby, why hasn’t she come home? The flics assume she ran away. You think you know your child, then …” Virginie wiped her tearing eyes. “But you’re going to be a mother. The biggest worry is keeping them safe.”
Aimée’s insides wrenched. Part of her wanted to stay out of this ugliness and concentrate on her baby. Yet she’d gotten involved. Couldn’t abandon Zazie.
Was it wrong to give Virginie hope? Aimée prayed that Zazie was alive. “Virginie, the girl the rapist tried to attack last night was another blonde, twelve-year-old violinist—just more proof Zazie’s not his type. I’m no expert, but I think there’s more to this story, and we need to figure out what it is. Time’s crucial.”
A microphone was thrust into Aimée’s face. Attached to the microphone was a denim-jacketed arm—a reporter with a bob of black hair and a clipboard under her arm. The woman wore no makeup. She had a pointed chin, small, piercing eyes and a beak of a nose. “I’m Nadine from On the Rue. Can you identify yourself for the listeners and tell us why you alerted On the Rue?”
Her father’s words played in her head—any detective worth their salt avoided the media. Too much exposure. Keep your face out of the paper unless you want desk work all your life. Aimée took Virginie’s arm and guided her forward. “This is Virginie, Zazie Duclos’s mother.”
Irritation showed in the fine lines radiating from Nadine’s forehead. “And you? Aren’t you Aimée Leduc, the detective who discovered the twelve-year-old murder victim?”
Not what she’d bargained for. A camera crew hovered behind Nadine.
“Speak up, please.”
The last thing she wanted was to step into the spotlight. “A terrible thing, yes.”
“The murdered victim’s mother alleges you interfered—”
“This isn’t about me,” Aimée interrupted, hating to rise to her bait.
“But the victim’s mother’s threatening to press charges against you,” said Nadine. “Any comment?”
“I’m so sorry for this distraught mother’s loss.” She had to deflect this to Zazie. Her mind raced.
“Sources say you put together a pattern of rapes in the ninth arrondissement that the local police had missed and the Commissariat had ignored,” said Nadine. “Can you tell the viewers how feelings ran so high after your inquiries that a mob of angry parents took the law into their own hands, sending a man to the hospital …”
Aimée’s own fault—hadn’t Martine warned her? A gutter journalist throwing her own spin to smear everyone. Sensationalize. But Nadine had done her homework.
“The mob picked a victim who matched a computer-generated image from a twelve-year-old victim’s glimpse of her rapist,” Aimée said, trying not to grit her teeth. Hot lights beamed on her in the already sweltering air. Her hands shook.
“Which resulted in the attack on an alleged suspect, a man who hasn’t yet been charged,” said Nadine. “He’s on life support in H?tel-Dieu, according to the Commissariat.”
Did the muckraker side with flics? What tactic was this?