About damn time. Béatrice, an actress, was deep in her love affair with the bottle and pills. He wondered how she still performed nightly. And why a besotted public paid to watch the wreck she’d become.
But it made him think. “She’s proved she’s an unfit mother. I’ve been saying that since our divorce. Can’t I regain custody? I’m Marie-Jo’s father.”
“At this point you would have a case: an upcoming job, your apartment. We can request a hearing, Zacharié.” His parole officer’s eyes narrowed. “Keep straight, get this job, and I’ll go to bat for you. The law favors the parent over foster care or a relative.”
The cotton-ball clouds parted outside the window, revealing a cerulean spot of sky. A sign. He’d get Marie-Jo back.
A weight lifted from his heart. “Merci, Monsieur Faure. My little girl means the world to me.” He’d pull out of the heist, stay straight, not jeopardize his chance of obtaining custody. Somehow he’d figure it out. For now he stuffed down his worry. “I will do anything. You have my word.”
The truest words he’d spoken since coming into Faure’s office.
Out on the street he shooed away pigeons from the fretwork grill at the base of a plane tree. Under the shade of its branches, he clicked on the messages on his phone: Béatrice’s garbled rantings about checking into a spa—translation: rehab. Again. Followed by her lawyer’s no-nonsense messages—could he pick up Marie-Jo from the Conservatoire tomorrow? His heart beat faster. Her last piano recital was tomorrow. The lawyer suggested Béatrice had reconsidered full custody. Scared. They were scared.
The lawyer knew the judge would declare her an unfit parent. Now they wanted to talk before the hearing. Negotiate. For the first time in years he held the power, knew he could change Marie-Jo’s life. His life.
He’d have his daughter back. All he’d ever wanted. The world stopped for a moment; the heat faded; the whoosh of the sidewalk café’s milk steamer blended into his thoughts. Her last letter: Papa, I want to live with you like when I was little. I miss you.
All he could think of was how he would meet her after school, fix her croque monsieur, her favorite, for dinner while she practiced her piano. Zacharié, uneducated, unrefined, had somehow made this little genius, who could translate the black notes on a page into strains of music that elevated his heart.
He’d take that job. Any job. Sweep gutters with a broom. But he’d live straight.
This was his chance.
Jules wouldn’t like it, but c’est la vie. He’d decided.
He hit Jules’s number. Heard him answer and clear his throat. His throaty smoker’s cough.
“Took you long enough, Zacharié.” In the background he heard muffled voices, then the slam of a door. “We’re moving up the schedule.”
“What now, Jules?”
“Change of plans,” Jules said.
The salaud would make it difficult, like always. Every project with Jules doglegged and spiraled. But he hadn’t had a choice in prison. Now the situation played out differently.
“We’re moving up the schedule,” Jules said again.
Zacharié stepped over a splattered cloud of pigeon droppings and braced himself. Time for the tricky part—to extricate himself from the job he’d set up. He’d keep it short, make it a chain of command issue.
“Let Dervier know the new plan,” Zacharié began. “He’s the one handling—”
“Au contraire,” Jules interrupted. “You deal with the labor issues. Run your team.”
“Dervier’s a pro.”
“More old-school than pro, n’est-ce pas?”
“He’s experienced. What this job needs,” Zacharié said. Thank God he’d talked Dervier out of retirement. This heist demanded a seasoned pro, with steady nerves. Dervier’s forked tongue, split after a territorial gang dispute near Barbès, had put him on the sidelines last year. But he’d heisted buildings with much more complex security systems than this target. “Dervier grew up in the quartier, the son of a concierge, knows the sewers and old tunnels like the back of his scarred hand.”
“My contract’s with you, Zacharié,” he said. “Didn’t I fix the judges, arrange your parole?”
Zacharié wanted to throw the phone. Stamp it to pieces. Forget this deal and what he owed Jules. If he did this job now, he’d jeopardize his chance of gaining custody of Marie-Jo. He needed to convince Jules of Dervier’s skill so he could back himself out.
“Speaking of parole, the officer makes me check in every day, monitors my job interviews,” he said, searching for an excuse. His mouth felt dry. Why couldn’t he summon the courage and shout no?
Jules gave a small sigh. “Work it out, Zacharié. The job’s tomorrow night.”
The supplies hadn’t arrived. The team wasn’t ready. “But we planned on after Fête de la Musique. Everyone goes crazy in the quartier.”
“That’s why it’s perfect timing,” Jules said. “Make it work, Zacharié.”
“Jules, my parole officer watches me like a hawk. If you move the job up, then count on Dervier. He’s perfect. You don’t need me. The team’s primed. I guarantee it.”
There, he’d said it.
Pause. Already he felt better. Jules would see reason.
A horn blared over the phone. But the sound came from the boulevard—a car in front of him. The passenger window of a black Peugeot rolled down in front of him. Jules’s smiling face peered out of it. “Get in, Zacharié. You love your daughter, don’t you?”
Monday, 8 P.M.
AIMéE PERCHED ON a sticky leather stool at NeoCancan, a Pigalle bar fronted by a smoked black-glass window with a RECHERCHE H?TESSES sign. The bar Zazie insisted the rapist frequented, and none too elegant.
She needed to know if Zazie had come here tonight. She glanced at her moisture-clouded Tintin watch face. Hours already since she—or anyone—had seen Zazie.