Aimée could sense Virginie tensing at her side. Aimée had to get over the personal attack and use it. Use Nadine’s reach to find Zazie.
“Let’s get this clear, Nadine. With four young victims, one murdered, we alerted you, knowing that the community has to work together, not strike out, to prevent another tragedy. Now another girl, Zazie Duclos, is missing.”
“What makes you think they’re related?” said Nadine.
“We fear Zazie, who has personal connections to two of the victims, may be a witness.”
“Witness? Or a runaway scared of the trouble she’ll get in after the drama she’s created?” Nadine kept the microphone so close Aimée saw the vapor of her own breath on it.
“Zazie’s school report was due today,” said Virginie, her hands shaking. “My daughter’s got final exams. She wouldn’t throw away her whole school year like that.”
Aimée took a breath. “Virginie’s daughter Zazie has been missing almost twenty-four hours,” she said. “She’s a victim.”
Nadine stuck the microphone closer, almost poking Aimée’s lips. “Alors, you blame the police and the Brigade des Mineurs for inaction?”
Some investigative journalist. Putting cheap and salacious words in their mouths and complicating the investigation. Aimée had to turn this around.
“Virginie’s asking for help—from you and the people of the quartier. She’s counting on you and your listeners to help encourage the police and the Brigade des Mineurs to set up a tip hotline.” Aimée gripped Virginie’s arm. “Zazie was last seen here at two P.M. yesterday. We don’t know any more. She’s thirteen years old, with curly red hair and a great smile.”
Camera crews moved forward, surrounding them like vultures.
“We’re asking if anyone knows anything or has seen anything, please come forward,” said Aimée. “Her mother Virginie will tell you more.”
Nadine pushed the microphone into Virginie’s face. “Madame, do you want to tell our listeners about Zazie?”
Aimée nodded to Virginie.
Virginie held up a photo. “This is Zazie, my daughter …” She began to speak.
Aimée stepped back into the crowd, trying to edge her way out. Her arms quivered as she warded off the microphones thrust in her face. “No comment.”
Her phone vibrated. She checked. A voicemail from René.
“You need to see this, Aimée. Meet me behind the musée on rue Chaptal.”
SHE HURRIED OVER the cobbled alley, glad of her ballet flats, to the back of the Musée de la Vie Romantique. Behind the ocher walls of a former painter’s atelier—once known for a Friday-night salon of neighborhood artists and writers: George Sand, Chopin, Delacroix—nestled a garden blooming with orange and pink roses.
René sat by the rose border at a green, metal café table that came up to his chest. Dark circles puffed under his eyes, but he wore a starched shirt. A steaming celadon cup with a gilded porcelain handle sat before him.
What a relief the cool shade and woody rose scents were after the hot street and the jackal journalist.
“Saj just called. He saw you on TV.” René eyed her. “Seems you’re a celebrity. Pulled Virginie into it, too? I can’t believe you talked to that viper.”
Surprised, she wanted to slap him. Instead she sat down and rubbed her swollen ankle. Stupid water retention.
“Bonjour to you, too, René.” She took a sip of his thé citron. “Hard night?”
A shake of his head.
“Tell me another way to enlist aid of the quartier, René,” she said. “What about the people who don’t realize they know something—a nosey concierge, the prying neighbor, that curious passerby, the garbage collector sneaking a smoke who might clue us in to where Zazie could be. How are we supposed to reach all those people when the flics aren’t even treating her as missing yet? How else are we supposed to find her if she’s duct-taped and being held captive in a cellar? That’s if she’s even … alive.” Her throat caught. She blinked to combat the welling tears. And felt that damn knot at the base of her spine. “Go ahead, tell me how, René.”
“I’m worried too, Aimée,” said René, averting his eyes. “But On the Rue doesn’t exactly garner you friendship with the flics.”
“Alors, my fan club diminishes.” With all the bogus tips sure to be called in, they’d dislike her even more. Still, it only took one real lead. “Did Saj give you an update on the taxes?”
“All kosher, whatever that means,” said René. “He made the tax deadline. Care to explain how money fell from heaven?”
She owed René an explanation of the fund source. He was her partner, had a stake in Leduc Detective.
But she cut the paycheck. And she didn’t want to get into the topic of her mother.
“Later, René.”
She felt a flutter and then a sharp jab. She cradled her stomach.
“You all right?” Alarm shone on René’s face.
“The Bump kicked. Think it likes the excitement.” She took René’s hand and put it on the side of her belly. “Feel?”
“Kicking like a soccer player.” René’s face softened. “Shouldn’t you think about a name …?”
Not him, too. Morbier had already suggested a whole list of names for either sex.
“I mean a family name—a father on the birth certificate. Think of school, children can taunt. Everyone in the village took me for the count’s bastard. Still do.”
Aimée had no idea René had suffered. Wasn’t the count his father?
He saw the question in her eyes. “The count raised me as his son. But giving me his name would entail …” He shrugged. “A title, family issues, inheritance wars. Still …”
Was René offering to put his name as the baby’s father?
Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the caller ID. Her heart skipped a little.
“Aren’t you going to pick that up? What if it’s about Zazie?”
She shook her head. Bit her lip. “Melac.”
René’s face clouded.
“It’s not the time to deal with him, René,” she said. Or to waste time wondering if he’d reject the child growing inside her.