Aimée spotted her own number on his cell’s display. “Zazie. I gave her my phone.”
“Where’s Marie-Jo?” he said into the phone. He leaned against the wall. Listened. His shoulders relaxed. “Ma puce … you’re okay.”
Thank God. She saw a taxi, waved at it. But, spurred by the arriving rush of flic cars, it kept going uphill.
Merde.
They couldn’t stay here. Determined, she hooked her arm through Zacharié’s. She didn’t relish the long uphill climb to Place Pigalle with his noticeable limp. Still, her stomach appreciated being back on terra firma.
“Where are they?” she asked him as he hung up.
“At the apartment on rue Chaptal. Your friend Saj said there’s a taxi stand by the Sexodrome.”
Thank God. But first the hurdle of getting there unnoticed.
“Look, I can’t get caught in this,” she said. “Nor can you.”
“Marie-Jo’s going to go home to pack her things,” he said, his breath labored. His weight dragged on her arm. “I need to figure out what to do before things hit the fan.”
Fugitives. But she couldn’t think about that now. By the time they’d piled into the idling taxi just outside the Sexodrome, perspiration was dripping into her eyes.
DURING A TEARFUL reunion in the apartment on rue Chaptal, Aimée pulled Saj aside. “Good job. We need to talk.”
“Haven’t you let Zazie’s parents know?” said Saj.
She shook her head. She needed a game plan. Jules’s death complicated everything. Plus she felt bile rising from her stomach. Damn morning sickness, or nerves—or both.
“You look pale, Aimée,” he said. “Nausea again?”
She nodded.
“What about all our asana sessions, the centering meditation?”
Fat lot of good that did with a gun aimed at her.
From his orange cloth bag, stenciled with OM, Saj handed her a paper twist of brown powder. “Sprinkle it under your tongue. Let it dissolve. It’s an ayurvedic remedy.”
Right now she’d try anything. It resembled dried mud. Tasted like it, too.
“Zazie’s safe—thank God,” Saj said as she struggled to swallow. “The sooner we get the little troublemaker home the better.”
If only. Dry-mouthed, she shook her head. “Events went all sticky. I feel like I got caught in flypaper.”
She’d caught René up a minute ago, after she’d recovered her cell phone from Zazie. The girls were safe, but there was too much still to sort out—her own involvement in a murder, a rapist still on the loose and no leads left to follow. And a stubborn, desperate man who would be separated from his daughter forever if they couldn’t figure something out quick. “Listen. I want to help Zacharié.”
“But you already have.” Saj smiled. “Earned good karma helping each other.”
“If only it were that simple, Saj.”
Saj’s amber prayers beads caught between his fingers. “What did you do now, Aimée?”
She gave him a quick version. Told him about Jules. Minimized the shooting.
“Shooting … in your condition?”
“Zut! Pregnancy’s not a disease. Look, it was either him or—”
“No way whoever contracted Jules for this information will let Zacharié get away,” interrupted Saj. “Or you. You’re implicated all right.”
Her thoughts, too. Fear vibrated through her. “What if the bent cop left insurance?”
“We need to think this through,” said Saj.
She pulled out what she’d discovered in his pockets. His phone, the police ID from his wallet—Assistant Chief of Internal Affairs, a b?uf-carotte. Saj whistled. “He must have been desperate, or he wouldn’t have made stupid mistakes. How’d Zacharié get involved?”
Before she could answer, Zacharié appeared in the doorway. His shoulders heaved. “That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Jules used everyone to pave his way from Internal Affairs to the Ministry. For years he’s kissed ass, lied, covered up and looked the other way. With the information in the file, he’d seal the evidence. Get his Ministry post. No one could afford for him not to.”
Internal affairs and links to the Ministry … did that connect to Morbier’s corruption investigation?
“Apart from the Corsican, his henchman, only Marie-Jo and I …” His throat caught. “Link to him.”
She scrolled Jules’s call log. One number repeated. “Except this caller. I’d say he’s implicated, or a client for the hands-off material.”
“Merde. I’ve got to think this through,” Zacharié said. “Act smart for once. Outwit the salaud.” He glanced back to the bedroom, where Zazie sat talking to Marie-Jo as she packed. “After I married, Jules came back into my life,” he said. “He’d risen in the force. Changed. But I had a crazy wife and my little girl. I was weak. Took the easy way. Let him wrap me around his finger. I did things for Jules I shouldn’t have.”
Doubts assailed her. At the end of the day, she had risked her baby’s life to nail a bent flic. The price of recovering Zazie and Marie-Jo? Yet she still didn’t know anything about the rapist—who was still on the loose.
“What did you mean when you told me Jules created a diversion in Ivry?” Aimée asked. “I don’t get it. The girls were tracking a rapist who attacked their friends. This must connect.”
“Connect?” Zacharié shook his head. “Apples and oranges. It was convenient when it came up, so Jules used it. And to mask a robbery …” His words caught.
A bent flic to the core, resorting to emotional blackmail. She’d seen it before.
Then it sank in—in saving Zazie, Aimée had gotten herself implicated in whatever heist Jules had organized. From the fight she’d overheard between Zacharié and Jules, she knew there was a trail of dead bodies now—and something had been stolen that was so valuable that Jules had been willing to kill for it.
“I need to know about this file you stole,” she told him.