The most recent sighting of Zazie by several hours. “Can you describe him?”
Cécile shrugged. “Polite.”
“His clothes, color of his hair?”
“I had to sign for a package. Too much going on to notice.”
“Can you just look at these and see if you recognize him?” Aimée pulled René’s camera from her bag, showed her the small screen, clicking each photo. “Was the man who took them—the friend of Marie-Jo’s father—was he any of these men?”
A shake of her head.
Standing in the heat, feeling her ankles starting to swell and at the end of her rope, she pulled out her last shot, the FotoFit. “What about him?”
Cécile blinked. “Jean-Michel!”
Aimée’s heart caught.
“So you know him. Where does he live?”
“Live? But he’s in Marseilles. Talked to them this morning. He’s my nephew.”
“You’re sure?”
“My sister’s boy. But his eyes are bigger.”
Great. The generic FotoFit matched half of the French male population.
“Un moment,” Cécile said. “Show me the ones in the camera again.”
Had this jogged her memory?
Aimée clicked forward.
“Go back. Mais oui, this one, that’s Marie-Jo’s father. Zacharié.”
Aimée saw a side view of the man’s face, black curly hair.
“Did he take the girls?”
Cécile shook her head. “He asked me which way they’d gone. He seemed worried.”
Aimée filed that away. Now she had to press Cécile while her memory stirred.
“Did this nice man have an accent? Try to remember. Young or middle-aged?”
“Didn’t look like a rapist to me,” she said, dismissive.
“See, you noticed something. Then what did he look like? How did he strike you?”
“Like I said. Polite.”
“But you’d seen him before, right?”
“A long time ago, perhaps. Non, I’m not sure. So many people come through here.”
All working ladies typed men instantly. That was part of their trade and negotiations.
“Neighbor, shopkeeper? Lives in the quartier?”
“Come to think of it, he wore pressed jeans, like some of them do.”
“Some of who?”
“Off-duty flics.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. We only spoke a few seconds.”
She turned the concierge sign to FERMé and grabbed her handbag.
“I’m late for Saint Rita’s.”
Aimée’s head spun. Cécile’s observations of a nice man in pressed jeans like an off-duty flic didn’t fit with what they’d learned. Someone else had abducted the girls.
Who?
Meanwhile René had run off half-cocked to nail le Weasel.
She punched in René’s number. No answer. Tried again.
Frustrated, she started to leave a message, but the voice mail cut her off. When she tried again, his message box was full.
Merde!
Thoughts swirling, she made toward the bus stop. The dense heat hovered, caught in the valley of tall sandstone buildings. She realized she’d gone the wrong way on rue Chaptal. Merde again.
Retracing her steps, she noticed a man loitering at the now-closed doors of Marie-Jo’s building. He rocked on his heels and checked his phone. Marie-Jo’s father—she recognized him from René’s camera.
From the corner bar came loud cheering. “Score!”
She had to jump over a gutter rushing with last night’s rainwater. “Excusez-moi, but you’re Zacharié, Marie-Jo’s father?”
He started. “And you are?”
“Looking for Zazie, her red-haired friend.” She pulled out her card. “Please, she’s the friend Marie-Jo left with yesterday, around five o’clock.”
Something like pain crossed his face. He glanced down the street, moved away from her.
“Who’s your friend the girls went with? Where’s Zazie?”
“Not my friend.”
“But who? What’s happened to her?”
Fear and anger battled in his eyes. “Stay out of it. You have to stay out of this.”
“And leave them in the hands of a rapist?”
His jaw quivered. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t you understand? The girls were trailing a rapist who murdered a twelve-year-old yesterday, and now they’ve disappeared.”
A taxi pulled up on the street. “I think you’re climbing the wrong tree.” He jumped in the back seat.
“Wait!”
But the taxi took off in a splash of scummed gutter water that sprayed her ballet shoes. She ran, her feet sopping wet, trying to see the taxi number—too late. It disappeared down the hill into a winding street.
Tuesday, 6 P.M.
RENé GLANCED AT Aimée’s name on his call list. Three times already. He wished she’d take a nap.
Blue smoke spiraled toward the casino’s Art Deco stained-glass ceiling. Low conversations carried through the clink of gla?ons in whiskey tumblers, a swish from cards dealt onto the baize tables.
Behind velvet curtains in the private, roped-off area, le Weasel lit a cigarette on his maroon leather chair at the felt poker table. Gone through a pack already, evidenced by the butts in the ashtray. In front him was a dwindling pile of chips. Le Weasel played le punto banco—small stakes—and relentlessly. René couldn’t wait for the salaud to wise up—not that he ever would—and quit the game and lead him to Zazie.
Fat lot of good the tips René had dispensed had gotten him so far. The casino, all wood and brass with a wall-sized, Art Nouveau stained-glass window backlighting the nine poker tables, listed itself as a “social club” with a large membership fee to skirt the gambling regulations.
He’d slipped the smiling bouncer a “spectator” fee, indicating he’d like to get a feel for the place before he joined.
“D’accord, Monsieur.” The man had smiled and held out his hand.
But that was as far as René had gotten. “C’est privé, Monsieur,” said a short, sparse-haired waiter, barring René’s way past the bar. “Members only.”
“Bien s?r. Could I have a word with Monsieur von Wessler?”
“Not allowed, Monsieur.” The waiter indicated he should wait at the bar.