She motioned him to the side in the dark, paneled hall. Fading, pale light from the skylight fell in a rectangle on a music stand, which lay on its side in a pool of scattered sheet music.
“Sylvaine, the girl who lives here, has been raped. And Zazie, her friend, was here studying with her, and now she’s missing. We’ve got to search the apartment.”
Georges pushed past the flic. “Zazie never comes on Mondays,” he spat at Aimée. His eyes were wild. “Today’s Sylvaine’s violin lesson.” Georges pointed to the calendar pinned to the wall. The Mondays were marked by blue stickers in the shape of a violin. “That’s why we worked late in the shop—she wasn’t supposed to be home until … When I came upstairs …” His shoulders heaved.
Was there some mistake? Had Zazie lied?
“Maybe the lesson got canceled, and Sylvaine called Zazie,” she said, grasping at straws. “Are you sure she wasn’t here? Didn’t you see your daughter and Zazie come upstairs?”
He shook his head. “Non, Sylvaine always comes in through the side courtyard next door, not through the shop.”
“So you wouldn’t have seen Zazie, or the attacker, as they were coming—”
“We’ll take your report at the hospital, Monsieur,” interrupted the flic, tall and broad-shouldered with short black hair. He gestured to another officer, who escorted the parents down the stairs.
“You are?” he asked.
She flashed her PI badge.
“Ambulance chaser, eh?”
“Call me concerned,” she said. “You need to put out a search for Zazie—thirteen years old, red hair,” she repeated slowly. Maybe he would listen this time. “The girl who was supposed to be here studying with Sylvaine.”
“Didn’t you hear what the father said?”
Aimée shifted on her heels. “But look how distraught he is. He doesn’t know for certain what Sylvaine was doing this afternoon, and Zazie said she was going to be here. What if she’s hiding in the closet or in the cellar?”
“Our team will do a thorough search and question the courtyard residents to see if anyone saw anything. After we assemble the evidence …” He paused, checking his phone.
He wasn’t taking her fear for Zazie seriously. He would be of no help to her.
“What if she was here?” Aimée tried one last time. “What if your team can’t find her? Maybe the rapist took her …” But she couldn’t finish.
“Jumping to conclusions, Madame?” The knowing look he gave her round belly infuriated her.
“She’s a minor, not where she said she’d be. Her parents are frantic; she’s not answering her phone.”
“Sounds like a typical thirteen-year-old. Do you know how many calls like this I got today?” He looked up from his phone. “If the girl is really missing, her family needs to make a procèsverbal de disparition at the Commissariat,” he said. “After the standard twenty-four hours.”
Quoting the rule book at her? Filing a missing persons report took time. Time they didn’t have.
He nodded to the arriving fingerprint tech with his kit. “Get dusting.”
Incredulous, Aimée wanted to shake him. “There’s a dangerous man, a rapist, on the loose, and a little girl is missing. Don’t you understand? Zazie’s never late—”
“Madame, you’re not being sensible. You’ve been told this girl, Zazie, wasn’t here. Chances are she’s not answering her phone because she’s out with a boyfriend or friends her parents don’t approve of. The parents enlist us, and she comes walking in the door an hour later.”
“Monsieur, I’ve known Zazie since she wore diapers. She’s not like that.”
“Open your eyes. She’s a teenager, boys and parties everywhere.” He lowered his voice. “If she still hasn’t returned by tomorrow—after the mandatory twenty-four hours—her parents file the report, and the wheels start turning.”
If Aimée’s worst fears were right, tomorrow would be too late, she thought with a sinking in her heart.
As they spoke, she stared at the school exercise books and a violin bow scattered on the duvet. She noted the blue backpack, but not Zazie’s black one. Could the flic be right? Could Zazie have lied to her parents?
A walkie-talkie squawked in the hallway. A uniformed flic tapped the officer’s arm, leaned forward and said something in his ear. The officer’s fingers stiffened on his tie.
He consulted his cell phone again and punched in a number. Moved to the corner, his broad shoulders hunched. She stepped closer, listening.
“We need le proc,” he said. The Procureur de la République, the public prosecutor.
Aimée heard a finality in his voice. Saw the look in his eyes when he flipped his phone closed.
“Sylvaine?”
“Her heart gave out in the ambulance,” he said. “Be careful where you walk. It’s a murder scene.”
Aimée gasped. “Mon Dieu.” She’d witnessed the girl’s last moments. Her insides wrenched. “Then you need to treat Zazie as a missing minor right now.” She flipped open her phone, scrolled to show him Zazie’s number. “She’s using her uncle’s phone. Track the phone pings from this number.”
“You seem convinced she was here.”
“Zazie was following a man she thought had raped her classmate.” She battled the sob rising in her throat. “We can’t just wait for something to happen to her.” If it hadn’t already.
“Her father needs to make a report at the appropriate time. Like I told you.”
“What if Zazie witnessed Sylvaine’s attack?” she said, frantic to make him take action. “Can you rule that out?”
“Our priority’s the attacker. The murderer,” he corrected himself. “Now if you’ll remove yourself …”
“There’s no waiting period to search for witnesses,” Aimée said desperately. “Organize a search for Zazie as a witness to the murder.” He didn’t look convinced. “My father was a flic …”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
“To let you know I’m no stranger to procedure,” she said. Or your time-consuming bureaucratic regulations, she thought, but she kept that back. Time to name drop. “Commissaire Morbier’s my godfather.”