“After this pedophile talks,” said René, his breath coming in short gasps.
“I’m not a pedophile,” le Weasel shouted, squirming on the floor.
“What, you prefer child rapist and murderer?”
Before he could answer, René took a café napkin and stuffed it in his mouth.
“?a alors, that one who attacked little girls after school, him?” The café owner’s face darkened. “Didn’t they catch the salaud?”
“Non, he’s face down on your café floor. So let justice take its course,” said René. “Go back to fixing him an espresso. Make it extra hot.”
The waiter gave a long look, then nodded. “It’s always the ones you’d never suspect. Sick.”
René took the napkin out of le Weasel’s mouth and used it to bind his wrists behind him.
Le Weasel sputtered and spit. “Let me up.”
“As soon as you tell me where Zazie is,” he said. “Start with last night. Where did you take her?”
“You’re crazy, little man. I went to Marie-Jo’s grandparents’ place to meet Béa’s lawyer. Look in my pockets.”
René reached in the blazer’s pockets. A used round-trip train ticket to Fontainebleau. “That’s where Zazie is?”
The men at the zinc counter gathered around the waiter. Not one cracked a smile. He’d use that.
“The waiter’s preparing your espresso,” said René. “He and his friends will pour it on your face. Scald and burn that GQ cover-boy face. Now shall I let him?”
“But you don’t understand,” le Weasel protested.
“Oh, I understand. What is it about violinists you like so much? Classical music make you want to attack little girls?”
“What? No. Trance and techno’s my groove,” he said. “What’s music got to do with anything?”
“But you’re a Paganini aficionado, n’est-ce pas?”
“After suffering piano lessons all my childhood … I prefer Chopin.”
“And twelve-year-old blondes, little girls who play violin get you off.”
The men at the counter huddled, listening.
“What are you, some kind of pint-sized avenger? It’s against the law, assaulting me like this,” le Weasel said, the bravado faltering in his voice. “In public, too. You can’t do this.”
René gritted his teeth and hoisted him up against the banquette seating. “Then I’ll drag you down to the wine cellar. After I finish, it’s their turn.” He nodded to the murmuring crowd.
René noticed panic flooding le Weasel’s brown eyes. Good.
“Going to tell me the truth now?”
Le Weasel nodded.
And then he started talking.
“Béatrice’s parents want me to take her and Marie-Jo down south. To start over. But the brat hates the idea, refused to go and ran away. Now I’m stuck here until I track her down, Béa’s in rehab, Marie-Jo’s gone and her grandparents think I’ve got her under control. I need her, don’t you see? The lawyer insists I show responsibility so Béa can keep custody.”
“And you get paid for it.”
“We’ve got to live.”
“Gambling?”
“I’m going on a hiatus in my modeling career for the little brat. Why shouldn’t I make some coin for my sacrifice?”
Eurotrash.
“So you couldn’t report your meal ticket missing?”
Le Weasel shrugged. “She hates me. Followed me with her friend, that redhead, convinced I cheated on her wild mother while I was trying to clean up after her. Taking photos of me, like little spies, trying to set me up and make me look bad to her grandparents. That’s the thanks I get.”
He flicked his head back to get the stringy hair out of his eyes.
“But we know Zazie was in the rue Chaptal apartment. I’ve got proof.”
“How the hell do I know if she was there?”
“When did you last see Marie-Jo?”
“Yesterday afternoon. We had a fight after lunch, maybe her friend came by later. I don’t know. Look, I’ve been on assignment for photo shoots, not raping little girls. Check my bookings. Four full-page spreads for Dior Homme.”
After a while René wished he’d stop talking. Such a pathetic, self-important pretty boy.
Tuesday, 8 P.M.
AIMéE’S HEELS CLICKED over the cobbles as she hurried through la Nouvelle Athènes to meet Madame Vasseur. The über-wealthy slice of the quartier seemed almost oppressive after the vibrant, humming Pigalle and the jazz trio she’d passed on the Grands Boulevards a few streets away.
She turned the corner to see the woman’s distinctive Mercedes, but no waiting Madame Vasseur on the dimly lit rue. Merde! Not a goddamned café in sight—not in these parts, where one paid half a million francs for a maid’s garret.
This dark street, one of the most expensive in the ninth arrondissement, oozed wealth. Ahead of her a gate fronted what looked like a palace. Trees made a canopy over the alley, which was silent except for her beating heart.
Had Madame Vasseur forgotten her promise to meet Aimée before the benefit?
On her cell phone she hit callback, but Madame Vasseur’s number went straight to voice mail.
Damn. The woman had stood her up. Two precious hours lost.
No return call from Zacharié’s parole officer. Nothing.
Her patience ran thin. She tapped her strappy Valentino sandals on the cobbles. A night bird trilled from the half-concealed garden of a mini-chateau behind massive metal-grilled gates. But she couldn’t wait anymore. Time to storm the chateau.
She rapped on the gatehouse window. This caught the attention of a man in a dark blue suit, who opened the window a crack.
“Excusez-moi. I’m meeting Madame Vasseur at the Conservatoire de Musique benefit …”
“You have an invitation?”
A flush of anger rose up her neck. “There’s an emergency.”
“But this is a private affair.” The man in the blue suit had a wire trailing from his ear and looked more like security than a concierge—a retired flic. Her father’s police ID doctored with her photo wouldn’t bear his scrutiny.