Aimée’s lip trembled. “I owe it to her family to find her. To find out.”
René nodded. “So say last night after it went so wrong with Sylvaine, he needs to clear his head. He goes back to Madame de Langlet’s studio, where he hears Nelié’s violin. She’s his type …” René looked up. “Then, frustrated again by Nélie’s getting away, he … I’m not sure.”
Aimée pulled out the map. Added the time, noted the location of Madame de Langlet’s studio. “Go on, René.”
“So he’s a musical fanatic. Paganini pieces are difficult—not anyone could just hum one,” said René. “You’d have to know the piece very well.”
Aimée didn’t know anything about Paganini, but it was a good point—she wouldn’t be able to recognize any classical piece, let alone hum it. “Okay. Does anything at all connect le Weasel? Could he be this music lover?”
“If we compare the FotoFit, Zazie’s photo of the men on the street, le Weasel’s newspaper photo and my photos of the mecs entering Twenty-one rue Chaptal last night …” René shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Try Marie-Jo’s mother’s number, René.”
René dialed. Shook his head. “Only a recorded message. I’ve been trying all morning.”
On the table by the bowl of wrapped sugar cubes, she set the newspaper photo next to Zazie’s photo of men standing in the square.
“See a link, René?”
“What are we looking for, Aimée? ‘I’m the rapist’ tattooed on his arm?”
His frayed temper indicated he was exhausted. She needed him alert right now; his help was crucial.
She studied Zazie’s photo. What wasn’t she seeing?
“So according to Tonette, Zazie disobeyed her parents and continued to spend time with Marie-Jo, worked on this surveillance project with her. We know Marie-Jo lives here, a few doors down on rue Chaptal with her mother and le Weasel,” said René, lining up the sugar cubes in a row. “The girls followed le Weasel to dig up dirt on him. Zazie thought they’d discovered le Weasel was the rapist, based on what she told you, but where’s their proof? We still don’t know anything about this photo. It wasn’t taken from the rue Chaptal flat—impossible since the flat doesn’t overlook this scene. Nothing points to le Weasel in this photo.”
No way to cement this theory.
And then Aimée noticed the squared toe of the shoe the figure in the photo was wearing, the loafer shape and crest the unmistakable trademark of Polo by Ralph Lauren. “Look at the shoes, René. The figure in the hoodie’s wearing the same dancing pair as le Weasel.”
She saw the wheels turning in his head. “Maybe at first to prove to her mother that he was carrying on other affairs,” he said. “Fits with what Tonette told you, that they were trying to prove he wasn’t what he said he was. Classic case of slimeball live-in boyfriend. The daughter wants her mother to dump him.”
“She’d go to those lengths?”
René sat up. “What if he hit on her?”
“But how does that fit with the rapist’s profile? Secretive, single-minded, targeting twelve-year-old blondes after violin lessons?”
“But that’s it. He hits on her school friends. Specifically the ones who take violin.”
That only fit if they knew more about le Weasel, sniffed out some musical connection.
“Like I said, he’s escalating because he’s under some kind of stress.” René nodded to himself. “He steps it up now that Zazie’s onto him.”
“The flat’s on this street.” She put her phone in her pocket. “Time to ask him.”
“No one answers, Aimée.”
“But the concierge will.” She took a last deep breath of the warm, rose-scented sunshine and stood. “Coming?”
René’s phone trilled. He checked the number. “Saj and I need to go over the hiccup in today’s virus scan.” He pulled out a paper covered with notations. “Takes ten minutes.”
Ten minutes she didn’t have. “Call me when you finish. You’re the backup.”
“For what?”
“I have a weasel to catch.”
SHE LEFT RENé to walk a few doors down rue Chaptal. Pigalle teemed with people. Locals who would normally be packing to head to the train stations and the countryside were staying at home this year, crowding the streets and cafés with World Cup chatter.
Twenty-one rue Chaptal’s facade of freshly sandblasted limestone, subtle and solid, breathed wealth. A couple paused before the high, green, carved doors in the arched former carriage entrance. Aimée waited, pretending to consult her phone until the couple hit the digicode. A smaller door in the large one clicked, and they pushed it open. She waited until it had almost shut before sliding inside.
She adjusted her eyes in the cool, paved porte-cochère entrance. Trellised ivy climbed the back of the courtyard, still dripping from a recent watering. The concierge’s loge held a sign: FERMé.
There went that idea.
She found de Mombert on the nameplate—TROISIèME éTAGE, GAUCHE. They were more security conscious here, with a solid Fichet lock to the glass door, behind which she could see a marble floor and twisting staircase.
She continued into the courtyard, where the carriage house and stables had been converted into garages. Like everywhere around here. She looked up at the massive backs of the buildings and realized the sixth floor held small windows for the chambres de bonnes, maid’s rooms. From the looks of the ten or so small, dust-colored mailboxes, the former maid quarters were now rented as single rooms. But these buildings had stairs for the help—escaliers de service. So there would be a back door—one likelier to respond to her lock-pick set than the Fichet.