She’d found zero on Zacharié’s present address or a contact for him. Yet he knew this “nice man,” had warned her off. Right now he was the only avenue to pursue—if she could find a name, a contact, then meet Beto and give him the information … Back inside the penal database she checked his release date again—just last week. He’d report to a parole officer, of course.
Stupid. She wished she’d twigged on that right away. She’d wasted more than an hour.
It took twenty more minutes to locate his parole officer, a Monsieur Faure, and his office number. It was late, but she thought up a story. But Faure’s voice mail answered. Didn’t public servants have to perform the public service of answering their phones? She slammed the desk with her fist. Then left a message stressing the urgency of reaching Zacharié Plessis concerning a lucrative job offer for a man of his skills. If that didn’t a get a call back, she didn’t know what would.
Frustrated, she entered Zacharié’s info in her red Moleskine, giving him a full page after the “formula vs breast milk” benefits comparison René had made for her.
She tried René. Only voice mail.
Tuesday, 6:30 P.M.
RENé STOOD FUMING on bustling rue des Martyrs next to the fishmonger’s—he’d lost le Weasel. Zazie could be locked up … buried. Shame and anger at himself prevented him from answering Aimée’s call.
Money, always follow the money, he thought, desperate. That was Saj’s second-favorite mantra, after the Hindu one tattooed on his wrist. How would a gambler refresh his funds? Pay debts without a ransom demanded for kidnapping?
Forget that, he realized. Le Weasel had been living off his druggie actress girlfriend, but he couldn’t count on that now with her in rehab. Just a male model for GQ, caught clubbing in the pages of Le Parisien …
A trumpet blurted from the corner, a crash of cymbals—the damn Fête de la Musique had started. He couldn’t hear himself think.
As he turned he hit his head on a door handle. Cursing and rubbing his temple, he happened to catch sight of the tabloids used for wrapping fish at the fishmonger’s counter. If paparazzi could track him, then so could René.
Think like a paparazzo.
FIVE MINUTES LATER he got through to the head booker at Stylisme—the model agency à la mode. “Erich von Wessler doesn’t wake up for less than a thousand francs a day,” said a bored voice.
“I’m not booking him,” said René. “Something fell out of his man-purse at the photo shoot. A delicate item, compris? I’d like to show him before we publish.”
A long sigh. “I detest you paparazzi.”
“Non, you love us,” said René. “We make him bankable. Indiscretions cost, remember, and drive his price up.”
“He’s under contract. We’ll take you to court,” said the voice, alert now.
“Non, you’ll give me his number,” said René. “I’ll work it out with him.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“He’s small fry, but these allegations could stick to his lady, Béatrice de Mombert. Can you risk not giving me his number?”
“He’s booked all week. Busy. All I can do is pass your name and number to him.”
Booked? He’d just lost him at the casino. René consulted his map, trying to figure out how to lure him. “Tell him to meet me at ten rue de Parme, the café.”
“He’s busy.”
“He’ll make time. I’ll be waiting. Tell him I know about Marie-Jo.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER René sat in the café on rue de Parme across the street from the Commissariat. Le Weasel would have a short walk to justice. Without any actual proof against him, René would use one of Aimée’s tactics. Lie.
Le Weasel strode into the café alone. Despite dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he was wearing those damn monogrammed velvet loafers, he still looked like GQ material.
He sat down at René’s table and snapped his fingers at the man behind the counter. “Un express.” Several men stood watching the match on the télé over the counter.
Le Weasel’s quick glance took in René’s short legs. He moved the water carafe and set down his man-purse. “I recognize you from the casino,” said le Weasel. “You want me to cough up, non?”
Chalk one to le Weasel. Chalk minus two for René’s surveillance technique.
“Then you know,” said René, “you’ve been identified. The last victim provided your description.”
“Eh? Cut to the chase, little man,” said le Weasel. “Where’s Marie-Jo?”
“Nice try,” said René, disgusted.
He gave a weary sigh. “How much this time?”
“What?”
“So she’s run off with a boy, partied, and now, quoi, she’s hiding in some basement squat with a hangover? The usual?”
This wasn’t going how René had planned. “Where’s Zazie?”
“Who knows?” Le Weasel waved a pinkie-ringed finger, dismissive. “What does it take to keep Marie-Jo off the front page?”
Le Weasel acted like René knew more about Marie-Jo than he did. Did he really believe she’d run off? Or was le Weasel bluffing to hide his guilt?
Why did René feel tongue-tied? Why did he almost believe this dandy with monogrammed velvet slippers?
“You scum always turn up,” said le Weasel. “But one only three apples tall takes the prize.”
Three apples tall—René hadn’t heard that since a bully’s taunts in the village school.
Something snapped inside René. The smirking, long-haired Eurotrash’s insolence, his aching hip, his fear over Zazie—it was too much. Up like a shot, René planted his feet in the offensive karate position. They never expected a dwarf to be a black belt. Aimed and kidney-kicked the surprised fashion sensation off his chair, spun and twisted his arm until he was down to the tiled café floor.
“I call half-men like you scum, preying on little girls,” he said. René pressed the groaning man’s arm back. “You’re going to tell me where Zazie is and then we’re walking across the street to a cell. Compris?”
“What are you? Some demi-tasse flic?”
“First I’ll break your arm, then I’ll work my way down.”
The waiter stood by the table, tray in hand, and shook his head. “Attendez, I want no trouble in my café. Take it outside.”