“Isn’t he on leave?”
Morbier, a man who lived for his job, taking leave? “And I’m Marie Antoinette.”
Something shuttered behind his eyes, and Aimée was gripped by doubt. Did he know something about Morbier she didn’t? Was that why he hadn’t returned her calls?
Her phone trilled. Virginie. Aimée’s knuckles whitened, clenching her phone. What should she do?
Then something inside her kick-started, parted the hormonal fog. She would fix this herself. Zazie wouldn’t end up like poor Sylvaine. Not while Aimée had breath in her body.
Time was crucial; it must have been three or four hours since anyone had seen Zazie.
“Found her, Aimée?” A nervous timbre in Virginie’s voice.
“Virginie, listen to me. First say that you’ll listen and just do what we ask, okay?”
“What’s happened to Zazie?”
“We don’t know. Please listen.”
Screaming. In the background she heard Pierre calming Virginie. Then he got on the line.
“Where’s Zazie?”
She caught the eye of the flic, mouthed please. He shrugged.
“Pierre, I’m handing my phone to a police officer. You’ll need to give him whatever information he asks for.” She handed her phone to the flic standing by her.
Two minutes later, after a one-sided conversation, he passed her back her phone.
“All?? Pierre?”
But he’d clicked off.
“We’ll do what we can,” said the officer. “Now we’re waiting for the Brigade des Mineurs.” The squad who investigated crimes against juveniles. “Give your statement downstairs. Leave your number with the officer so I can contact you. Don’t forget to give him Zazie’s parents’ number, and Zazie’s, too.”
Not the reaction she’d hoped for, but at least he’d taken her seriously. Or so she hoped.
Procedure hobbled the police. But not her.
Outside, quiet had descended over the now-shuttered street. Nothing open, no shopkeepers to question. She turned to the courtyard entrance beside the cheese shop, deserted except for the arriving crime-scene techs tramping up the rear stairs. The windows of the small, two-story ateliers overlooking the courtyard were dark, and the concierge didn’t answer.
An old man shuffled into the courtyard lugging shopping bags from Franprix. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m looking for the concierge.”
“That’s my daughter. She’s away.” He set the bags down on the cobbles and inserted a key in the door.
“Did you see Sylvaine, the cheese-shop owners’ daughter, this afternoon?”
“Eh?”
“Sylvaine …”
“Sweet girl,” he interrupted. “Today? Think so. Usually she comes through here …”
“And her friend, a red-haired girl? Did you see her?”
He shrugged. Adjusted the hearing aid in his ear. “Speak up, will you? But I can’t say—it’s the World Cup, you know. I’m glued to the télé.”
Great.
But she couldn’t give up. “Think back a few hours, if you can, Monsieur. Did you notice anyone or hear anything here in the courtyard?”
“Like I said, I was watching the télé.”
“What about the other residents?”
“Residents? They’re on the beach. Like everyone else. I’m only here because my daughter talked me into collecting the mail for her while she’s gone.”
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said, disappointed. For now she’d follow the only other lead she had.
Her phone rang. René at last.
“Where are you, Aimée?”
“En route to the NeoCancan bar,” she said. “In Pigalle.”
“What? In your condition?”
She had to hurry. “I can’t explain now.” Glanced through Zazie’s notes. “Meet me at Thirty-four rue Pierre Fontaine.”
Monday, 4 P.M.
ZACHARIé FIDGETED, WATCHING his parole officer’s head bent over the file at his desk. Dust motes drifted in the mottled sunlight that came through the blinds. No whisper of air from the cracked-open window overlooking the parched grass below. The office was stagnant and oppressive, like everything in his life.
“Staying out of trouble, Zacharié?”
If Faure only knew.
“That firm you recommended called me back for a second interview,” he said, knowing this would keep the old codger at bay. Parole officers liked to hear about jobs. Of course, he couldn’t let on about the big job. The one that would finally get him his daughter back. Get Marie-Jo out of the custody of his crazy ex-wife, Béatrice, and her pedophile live-in lover—for good. He balled his fists at the thought of the creep eyeing his daughter. He wanted to punch something. He took a deep breath, like he’d learned in prison, to dispel the stress. It didn’t work.
Faure’s phone rang somewhere in the pile of papers on the desk. “Un moment,” he said.
Zacharié contained his anger. He would keep to the plan. Marie-Jo’s letters to him in prison had caused six months of worry and anguish. And now that he was out, he was struggling to find a job that would pay enough for him to get custody. He needed to take matters into his own hands before something terrible happened. So he’d consented to this one last heist. Not his first choice, but the only way he, an ex-convict on parole, could save Marie-Jo. In three more days, mission completed, he’d spirit her over the Channel to London with their new passports and enough money to buy them a new life.
“Bad news, I’m afraid, Zacharié.” Faure replaced the black receiver back on the old rotary phone, ancient like everything else in this high-ceilinged back office, with its dusty photos and boules trophies. “Your ex-wife, Béatrice de Mombert, has been charged with driving under the influence. Her license has been revoked.”
Fear tore his gut. “Is my daughter hurt?”
“Soyez-calme, she was at school. Still, it raises custody issues regarding your ex-wife’s competence.”