The buses and taxis clogged rue de Rivoli to a standstill. Dusk hovered, and the twilight rays shimmered off the Louvre’s tall windows. Her mouth soured in the air laced with diesel exhaust fumes.
Determined, she got on the Métro, stood most of the way until a young woman offered her a seat, then changed at Concorde for Line 12 toward Pigalle. Three stops later she ascended the Trinité station steps across from the hulking church, its high columns blurred in approaching darkness.
En route, she’d come up with a plan. A plan to lure him out.
She walked one uphill block of rue Blanche, turned right into rue de la Tour des Dames. Her insides wrenched. The scene of last night’s shooting, right before her. Yellow strips of crime-scene tape fluttered.
The old Electricité de France building looked proud despite its sagging scaffolding. The cobbled street of elegant townhouses appeared as deserted and lifeless as it had last night.
At the gatehouse, a new guard looked her over.
“Aimée Leduc to see Monsieur Lavigne.”
His flushed face and loosened tie indicated he hit the bottle or didn’t do well in the heat. Or both.
“Concerning? You have an appointment?”
Inquisitive and irritable, just her luck.
“Last night I forgot my scarf here at the reception,” she said, mustering a big smile. “Silly.” Patted her stomach. “But there’s sentimental value—it was my grandmère’s.” She sighed. “She died last week, and it’s all I have.”
His eyes softened. “Will Madame Lavigne, the daughter-in-law, do?”
You caught more flies with honey than vinegar, as her grandmère said.
“Parfait.”
He dialed a number.
A moment later the door opened.
Dusk hovered. Light from the rooms in the townhouse glimmered in the lengthening shadows. Purple wisteria dripped from the trellis in the cobbled entryway. A scent of honeysuckle wafted. From the lighted entry Brianne ran down the curving outdoor staircase, smiling. Again those large, bright teeth.
“I’m just thankful you’re all right after what happened. Your baby’s safe, they told me.” She hugged Aimée. Innocence shone in her eyes. “Tragic. The flics asked questions all day. I’m so sorry.”
“I need to speak with Renaud.”
“Désolée, he’s gone out. A dinner, maybe?… I don’t know exactly, but he’s coming back late. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
Until another girl had been raped?
“It’s important … can you call him? There’s memorial planning for Madame Vasseur. But her husband’s at the Commissariat. In garde à vue. It’s a mess.”
“Mon Dieu.” Brianne blinked.
“I’m sure Renaud wants to help. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“But of course. My phone’s inside.”
Guilt wracked Aimée.
A uniformed maid on the terrasse waved to Brianne. “Madame, that phone call from the ship has come through.”
“Excusez-moi,” she said. “That’s my mother. My father suffered a stroke on their cruise to Istanbul. I must take it first, do you mind?”
“Of course, but this heat.” Aimée fanned herself with her trembling hand. “May I have a glass of water?”
“Biên sur, please.” She took Aimée’s arm. Walked her up the stairs.
In the state-of-the-art kitchen, open windows overlooking the courtyard, Aimée accepted the tall bottle of chilled Perrier and a glass. “I wondered where you kept the rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Brianne, distracted, glanced down the hallway. “Ah, Renaud put the cage beside the old jardin d’hiver.” She gestured out the window to the glazed, gazebo-like Belle époque affair by the old stables that had been converted into a garage. “Excusez-moi.”
Brianne’s heels clicked over the parquet floor.
With Brianne engaged on the phone, Aimée took the Perrier bottle and slipped back out the front door.
The old stable doors were rolled shut. She saw no one. She kept to the shadows at the side of the building, creeping along until she heard a scratching. She shone her penlight to reveal a sniffing black rabbit with floppy ears in a chicken-wire cage. Beside the rabbit on the tamped dirt and clumps of grass lay half-chewed anise bulbs, their feathered leaves nibbled. The anise gave off a licorice odor.
Now to find more proof. Assemble her ducks in a row …
The familiar rumble of a motorcycle came from near the old stable. Her heart immediately started pounding.
Where the hell was René? She hit his number. Busy. Time to get out of here.
She turned and shone her penlight toward the path. On Renaud, who stood wiping his oil-stained hands with a rag. “Shh, don’t tell Brianne.”
That he liked little girls? She scanned the wall, the shrubs, looking for an escape.
He put a dark, smudged finger over his mouth. “I forgot to feed Basil.” He pulled a leaf-topped bunch of carrots from his pocket. Dropped it in the cage. “We’ll keep it our secret, non?”
Like hell she would. Somehow she had to deflect his attention, call the guard. “It’s just that …” She clutched her stomach with one hand. Groaned. “These pains, must get to the doctor.”
“Afraid not, Aimée,” he said. He held the ends of the rag in both fists. Snapped it taut. “I wish you’d left me alone.”
Her eyes darted for an escape. He had blocked the path. Stupid not to plan this out better.
“The guard’s drunk. No one will hear you scream.”
His words chilled her. Stall him and play for time.
“Renaud, you were a boy ten years ago.” She tried to keep her voice even. “I understand. So will Brianne, but you need to get help.”
The leaves rustled as he edged closer.
“You sound like everyone else.”
“Me? Last night you murdered Madame Vasseur and almost killed my baby.”
“But I like babies,” he said. “I love children.”
She cringed inside. His words sickened her.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But I had to stop her.”
His old family friend? Then framed her husband after raping their daughter?