“I don’t know.” His tone turned serious. “It’s all circumstantial.”
She wanted to spit. Instead took a deep breath to calm down. Covered the phone and burped. “Could you live with yourself if you didn’t check it out?” she said. “Or deal with me on your back for the rest of your life?”
On his back … she wondered what he wore to bed. Or if he wore anything at all. Where had that thought come from? Down, girl.
“I forgot about irrational pregnant women,” he said.
Did she care what he thought? Or his tone of condescension? Or more that he had big, protective arms and knew how to wake a woman up?
Time to put the brakes on her hormonal overdrive.
“So humor me,” she said, trying for charm. “S’il vous pla?t.”
“Promise you won’t throw up pastries again.”
“Deal.”
He clicked off. Good thing he couldn’t see her wide grin.
A knock came from the door. “Aimée?”
“Entrez.” She pulled her now-dry feet in from the window ledge.
Pierre entered with Zazie’s brother, little Lucien, in his arms. “Virginie’s upset,” he said.
The toll and strain showed on Pierre’s furrowed brow.
“Ecoutez, I apologize for putting her through that interview, but …” Aimée trailed off, feeling at sea. “We needed the quickest way to get word out and find Zazie.” More than twenty-four hours had elapsed now. “Pierre, I’m sorry, but believe me, time’s crucial.” Keep it positive, forward-moving. “Any word yet?”
“The Brigade des Mineurs established a hotline. Got a call. There’s been a sighting.”
The hair rose on Aimée’s neck.
“They’re telling us not to raise our hopes, but …”
“Where?”
“A warehouse near le périphérique.”
Not what she had been expecting. “A creditable tip, Pierre?”
Lucien squirmed in his arms. “They think so. Dispatched a team.”
For once she kept her mouth shut and nodded.
“The Brigade wants you hands-off, Aimée. Désolé, but we can’t risk jeopardizing this operation.”
Warned off by Marie-Jo’s father and now Zazie’s. She realized Virginie couldn’t face her and had sent poor Pierre in her place.
“It’s gotten compliqué, Aimée.”
Life threw complications at you when you loved your child. You’d do anything to cooperate, no matter how tangled or messy. Listen to whoever you believed could save her.
But an operation out in God’s country, way out on le périphérique? This smelled. A ruse to get people out of the way. Deflect attention.
But right now, she didn’t have much. She had le Weasel’s computer tracked—worth little after Cécile’s information and no contact from René. All she had to work with was proof Zazie had been at rue Chaptal, Cécile’s sighting of her leaving with a “nice man,” Zacharié warning her off. The only thing she was certain of was that she had to find this “nice man.”
“I understand, Pierre,” she said, glad not to lie. “No fear I’ll jeopardize the operation.”
She would run her own instead. If you could call it that.
Her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. When she looked up, Pierre had gone.
“All??”
“My daughter Mélanie left me a message,” said Madame Vasseur. No bonjour, and her voice in a low whisper. “But I don’t understand it.”
Aimée sat up.
“Mélanie sounded upset. It’s garbled, but if you can understand …?” Pause. “The FotoFit tech got the rapist’s description wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Aimée reached for a pen. A chord of anticipation rippled her spine.
“Maybe it will help Zazie.”
“Mélanie left a message on your cell phone?” Aimée said. “Let me listen.”
“What do I do? All these dual functions but …” Beeps, the sound of her hitting the keys. “Sorry, Mélanie knows how to do that. Not me. But I’ll try.”
It must have cost the woman to call her. Touched, Aimée’d never expected any help from this haute bourgeoise professional. Maybe she’d misjudged Madame Vasseur. Or Madame Vasseur had hit cement and was scared, didn’t know where else to turn.
At last, Aimée heard a buzzing, muffled voice. Inaudible. She needed to hear it in person. “Where can I meet you, Madame Vasseur?”
“I’m in contract negotiations. Impossible.”
“What time do you finish?”
“But I’m a cosponsor of the Conservatoire de Musique benefit tonight.” What sounded like a pen clicking came over the line. “Must go. They’re starting again.”
Talk about complicated. But she couldn’t let this go.
“Give me the address.” Silence. “Please, it will take, what, a few minutes?”
“Madame Vasseur, we’re waiting …” came from the background.
“Ten rue de la Tour des Dames. Eight P.M.”
Two hours. Which would make it twenty-seven hours since Zazie was last seen.
AIMéE SPENT AN anxious two hours on her laptop trawling Zacharié Plessis’s penal history and gleaned precious little information, only that his charge was “corporate theft” in the court documents and lawyer’s statements.
To her it appeared someone had expunged his court records, picked through the documents and combed out every nit. Alarms sounded in her head.
Pressure exerted by his ex-wife’s influential family? Friends in high places? Béatrice de Mombert’s father, a member of the Comédie-Fran?aise, had been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. Smelled like the crème de la crème didn’t want their reputation curdled.
Too bad they couldn’t muzzle their daughter and keep her antics out of the papers. Or maybe after so many incidents even the press couldn’t be bought.
Not Aimée’s business.
Still …