But a duo of branchée sisters, both with heavy seventies-style bangs, boarded the elevator with them. In loud voices they gushed over the event all the way to their taxi at the gate, talking about how excited they were to support the Conservatoire. In a whoosh they’d gone.
“Now if you’ll let me listen to Mélanie’s message—”
But Madame Vasseur already had the phone to her ear, deep in a conversation with someone else. Looking agitated, she shook her head. Aimée caught the words “stalled negotiation.” Couldn’t this woman even give her two minutes?
Aimée kept up with her as she strode along the pavement. The dusk had turned the street into a shadowy canyon of buildings. No Fête de la Musique quartets playing on street corners here, no impromptu courtyard concerts—quiet reigned. No ballyhoo of rabid World Cup fans drinking at bars in this part of town.
Her damp collar stuck to her neck. Madame Vasseur stepped out into the narrow, cobbled street, heading toward her black Mercedes.
“Let’s talk in your car,” said Aimée.
“No way, I’m running late as it is,” said Madame Vasseur. Her voice was tight. She rooted in her Hermès bag. “Can’t find my damned car keys.”
“How can you say that?” Aimée said. She was hot and tired of wasting time. “I’ve waited for you for almost three hours, come all this way to hear one voice mail that may save a child’s life! I’m asking for two minutes of your time here.”
“You know what, forget it!” said Madame Vasseur. “Between you and talking to the flics over and over—I can’t deal with any of this.”
Aimée grabbed her arm. “How dare you?” She’d had enough. “How would you like all your music friends to know you didn’t help find a missing girl? A girl taken by the same man who raped your daughter?”
Madame Vasseur backed away. Surprised, Aimée realized her eyes were brimming with tears. “Shame,” she said, her voice low. “I can’t deal with this shame. But my daughter’s safe now.”
For a moment she felt sorry for this woman. “You think sending Mélanie to a Swiss clinic will make it go away?” said Aimée. “Your daughter needs you, her mother.”
Madame Vasseur stood helpless, tears dropping into her purse. Was there something else? Was she holding back? Afraid?
In the sudden silence, Aimée felt a chill. The quiet street was too quiet.
“Give me your phone.” She reached out, and Madame Vasseur relinquished her phone. “Where’s Mélanie’s message?” Aimée asked, flicking through the log. “Was the rapist familiar to her? You said she mentioned his hair …”
A motorcycle revved, shattering the quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of its headlight, bright and steady. So out of place on this shadowy street. The blinding headlight made it impossible for her to read the cell phone’s display.
“What’s wrong?” Madame Vasseur asked.
“Let’s drive to the Grands Boulevards. We shouldn’t linger.”
“Why?”
The motorcycle was coming the wrong way down the oneway street. A wave of fear hit her. “Get in the car. Now.”
Madame Vasseur stood by the door, still digging for her keys, as the blinding light got closer and closer.
“Watch out.” Instinct took over, and she yanked at Madame Vasseur’s arm, trying to pull her out of the street.
But too late. She heard a low pop so distinctive it chilled her blood. Only a gun with a suppressor made a sound like that.
“Get down!” she yelled, pulling at the woman’s shoulder with one hand and shielding her stomach with the other as they hit the pavement. The woman shook off her grip as Aimée rolled on the sidewalk toward the shelter of a massive doorframe. Another pop pop followed, echoing in the street. Metal pinged, glass shattered by her ear. A stinging in her shoulder, then a cold, oozing wetness.
When the revving of the motorcycle had faded away, Aimée pushed herself up to her hands and knees. In the dim streetlight, she saw something glinting under the car. Bullet casings.
She reached out, grabbed the door’s metal carriage protector and crawled, keeping low. Madame Vasseur sprawled on the cobbles. Blood seeped from the grey-ringed holes in her white linen jacket. Her eyes were wide open to the night sky. The last whine of the motorcycle echoed, and Aimée turned to see the red brake light disappear.
“Non, non,” she gasped. With shaking fingers, she felt for a pulse. Faint but beating. “Hold on … stay with me.” Despair and frustration mingled with regret for this difficult, sad woman.
Where was the woman’s cell phone? She needed to call for help. Frantic, on all fours, she crawled on the dark pavement looking for it. Her fingers came back wet and sticky.
Had the shooter been after Madame Vasseur or her? Cell phone, where was the damn phone? When Aimée tried to stand, waves of dizziness hit her.
“Mesdemoiselles, mesdemoiselles,” came a drunken shout. Two men were coming down the narrow street. Laughing. “Join us for a drink.”
Aimée’s vision blurred. Doubled. The two men were now four men. “Can’t you see? She’s been shot. Call an ambulance.”
Why didn’t these men respond? Why were they staring at her, backing away?
“Now!” she yelled. “Call eighteen.”
She tried to stand, staggered against the side of the Mercedes, clutching her stomach. But her hands were red, sticky. Blood.
Pain choked her, and everything blurred and spun. “Oh my God, my baby …”
Tuesday, 9 P.M.
ZACHARIé PACED ACROSS the old tiled bathhouse in the shadowed courtyard, alert to car horns, a muted saxophone, high heels clicking on the pavement. His neck was tense with fear. He squeezed the cell phone so tight he thought he’d break it in half, cursing Jules for the millionth time.
He’d tried every crony and gotten nowhere. Either Jules had paid them off, or they owed him silence. And the piece of merde wouldn’t answer his cell phone.
His palms were wet, perspiration beaded his lip. Dervier and the team, right on schedule, entered the misty courtyard, followed by Jules’s driver, the Corsican with a scar-rippled eyebrow.
Zacharié froze. The Corsican had never been part of the plan.
“What the hell are you doing here?”