“Explanations later.” Right now, she had to prioritize getting them to safety. In a kitchen drawer she found a cobwebbed meat mallet. “Here, take a swing and bust the lock.”
But Marie-Jo didn’t move. “My papa told you where we were. Where is he?”
Of all times. The girl was as stubborn and impatient as her father. “He wants you safe, Marie-Jo. We need to get out before …”
“What aren’t you telling me?” The hollow-cheeked girl was a bundle of nerves. “That man will hurt Papa when he finds us gone.”
“She’s right, Aimée,” said Zazie, but she took the mallet and swung.
If only the impatient salaud had waited instead of searching in the theatre. “He’s got a plan,” she said, improvising. “We meet him after I get you to safety.”
The bolt broke under Zazie’s repeated whacks. “Now shove it open,” Aimée said. “Go!”
But the door didn’t budge. It must be bolted or barred from the other side.
“We’re running out of time,” said Zazie. “He’s late already.”
Aimée pulled out her cell phone and hit Zacharié’s number. If only he were there to help them force the door. No answer.
Aimée thought quickly. “I’m going back through that secret passage to find your father,” she told the girls. “You need to push the kitchen table and those cupboards to block the door. Meanwhile keep shoving that back door. Let no one in, do you hear me?”
“Why can’t we go with you?”
“And risk you running into Raoul? And whoever else might come with him? Stay here.”
“But my papa—” said Marie-Jo.
“He’ll be all right if you do exactly what I say.”
“Like I believe you?” Tears ran down Marie-Jo’s face, and she tried to push past Aimée. “The man’s going to kill him.”
Aimée caught her arm and held her back. Damn teenager. She was right.
“But you believe me, right, Zazie?” Aimée said, her glare making it clear Zazie should back her up.
Wide-eyed, Zazie nodded.
Taking no chances, Aimée pulled the Beretta from her bag, loaded a cartridge. She tried René’s number. Busy. Next she tried Saj.
“About time, Aimée,” said Saj, his voice raised. “René’s been—”
“I’ve found Zazie,” she interrupted. “Right now we need to escape. I need backup. Jump in a taxi.”
Saj choked. “Location?”
She stared through the grime covering the kitchen window to try to see what was outside. A small concrete courtyard with trash bins five floors down. No balcony, not even a railing with flowerpot geraniums. No way out from here.
“Look for a courtyard exit, on the east side of rue Pigalle, maybe two doors down from the rue Pierre Fontaine corner,” she said. “This apartment wall’s flush with Le Bus Palladium’s lighting booth.”
She heard keys clicking over his keyboard. “On it.”
“Have you figured it out?” Her breath came in short gasps. “It’s the fourth-floor service stairs, and the door’s barred.”
“Got it. Fifty-nine rue Pigalle.”
“Bring your bag of tricks. Call my phone when you get here—I’m giving it to Zazie. She will be the one to answer.”
“I’m bringing an ax.” Saj clicked off.
She handed Zazie her cell phone. “Keep trying the door. Stay in contact with Saj. Can you do that?”
Zazie nodded.
Marie-Jo averted her eyes.
“Help Zazie if want to see your papa, compris, Marie-Jo?”
Marie-Jo gave a sullen nod.
“Now barricade yourselves in.”
AFTER SHUTTING THE kitchen door, she waited until she heard furniture shoved behind it. She stuck the Beretta in her leather maternity pants’ back pocket. Removed her wig, scratched, then took a bottle of water and splashed it over her head. Alert now, she took a breath.
Noises came from tunnel to the lighting booth. Shouts. Her neck prickled.
In the time it took until Saj arrived she had to hold Raoul off and find Zacharié. She crawled back through the hole to the lighting booth. The voices were louder. Zacharié was bent from the waist over the catwalk railing, a man pinning his arms behind him as he struggled. Not Raoul from the photo, but a blond, curly-haired man with broad shoulders, wearing a blazer and jeans. Aimée saw that he’d secured Zacharié’s hands behind his back using yellow plastic flex-cuffs.
She ducked behind the partition in the lighting booth.
“Can’t you keep to our deal, Zacharié?” the man was saying.
“You call having the Corsican murder my friends part of the deal?” Zacharié gasped. Keys and change rained down from his pockets to the stage below. “You planned it all along. Fool that I am, I believed you. Jules, just let Marie-Jo go and you get the file.” He coughed. “Even bonus material.”
Jules hesitated, shadowed under the stage lights.
Perspiration beaded her upper lip. Hot, it was so damn hot. And with the shadows she wouldn’t have a clear shot.
“Bonus material? Nice touch,” Jules said. “Like what?”
“Just let my baby go.”
“Look, you think I want to do this? I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Zacharié,” Jules said. “Cooperate. Easier all round.” He let Zacharié up. “Let’s go backstage. Marie-Jo’s safe and sound, and you’ll see her as promised. Now hand over what you owe me.”
Liar. She scanned the control panel, looking for the house-lights’ control switch.
“Marie-Jo’s backstage?”
“First the file.”
“You think I’ve got it on me?” Zacharié laughed. “I’m not that stupid.”
“Bon,” Jules said, checking his phone. “I’m late. This has caused my connection no end of worry. Life will be difficult all round if I don’t deliver.”
“Someone’s blackmailing you and your cronies, that’s why you’re so desperate?”