Murder in Pigalle (35 page)

His open man-child gaze and matter-of-fact tone chilled her.

“Papa sent me to a boys’ boarding school after. It wasn’t the same. I don’t like boys. Then university.”

Her gaze flicked over to the yard, calculating how many steps it would take, how fast she could run.

“Renaud, you’re married now,” she said, edging away. “Brianne’s sweet, beautiful. Blonde.”

“Six months we’ve been married, but she’s impatient.”

Six months—that was how long ago the rapes had started.

“Papa’s pushing us to have a baby, carry on his name,” said Renaud, twisting the rag. “An heir and a spare, he’s always harping. Then Brianne’s constant pressure. She doesn’t understand.”

He wrenched the greasy rag in his hands.

“So you follow little girls home from their violin lessons,” she said. “Relive being twelve years old with Paulette and force yourself on them.”

She’d reached the old stable door. Her back pressed against the handle. She could do this, she could get away, keep her baby safe. Made herself breathe and reached the handle. Pulled. Didn’t budge. Locked.

Before she could make a break and run, his arm was around her neck. She choked and tried to kick him.

“You need more than help, Renaud,” she said. Her words came out in gasps. He’d pinned her to the wall. Her arms stuck behind her. “To be … stopped. Stopped before you rape your little niece.”

“But Émilie likes to sit on my lap. Wants to cuddle with me.”

His eyes went dreamlike again, his short, soft, panting breath hitting her face. It made her insides crawl.

“She’s just a child.”

Then he stuffed the greasy rag in her mouth. She struggled, but he swooped his leg behind hers and turned her. Panicked, she tried to break her fall as best she could, but he hoisted her shoulders and dragged her back into the bushes, her heels trailing in the dirt. And then in the shadows he stuck the sharp tip of the Luger in her rib.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, Aimée,” he said. “I like babies.”

With all her might she whacked the Perrier bottle at his temple. He cried out in pain but didn’t let go. She hit harder at his face until the bottle shattered.

She jabbed the jagged, broken bottle neck in his thigh. Crying out, he dropped her, the Luger falling beside him. He clutched his bleeding head, moaning.

She spit the rag out of her mouth.

A sobbing came from the bushes. Light flicked on behind, silhouetting a shaking figure.

“How could you?” Brianne’s shoulders were heaving. Teary mascara streaked down her cheek. “All this time … when you won’t touch me, making me wonder what’s wrong with me.”

Aimée’s fingers scrabbled in the dirt and pebbles for the Luger’s black handle. Had he taken out the guard?

“Waiting for you every night.” Brianne’s voice rose. Shouting and crying. “Therapy sessions and you lied, lied, lied.”

Blood matted Renaud’s temple. “Little girls like when I’m nice to them, Brianne,” he said in a whimper. “Try to understand.”

“That you’re a pervert?” Brianne reached down and grabbed the Luger. “Can’t act like a man? But you can’t, can you? You’ll never touch Émilie.”

Aimée vibrated in fear. “Put that down, Brianne.”

“Never touch her, you hear me?” Brianne’s finger curled around the trigger.

What could she use to stop the woman?

“Aimée?” shouted René. Footsteps pounded.

“Behind the cage,” she called. “Hurry.”

“You’re sick.” Brianne’s hand wobbled. “A disgusting pervert.” Wild-eyed, she pointed at Renaud.

Aimée flung a handful of dirt at Brianne’s face. She stepped back, teetering, and squeezed the trigger. A loud crack. Glass splintered from the winter garden, sending gleaming shards over the rabbit hutch.

By the time Aimée managed to grab Brianne’s ankles and pull her down, René had grabbed the Luger and ejected the cartridges.

“Sorry I’m late.” René stood panting, looking from one to
the other. “Johnny Hallyday’s
grand-mère
sold Monsieur Lavigne a Luger
comme ça.
I’ve got the receipt dated 1978, too.”

“Why don’t you take care of Renaud?” she said, wiping the perspiration from her neck. “Let’s get some gun residue on his fingertips.”

René gave a grim nod. “With pleasure.” He judo-kicked the squirming Renaud in the crotch. Then again. With his handkerchief René wiped off the Luger’s handle, put it into a moaning Renaud’s hand and fired at the bushes.

She took Brianne’s face in her hands. “Brianne. Listen. We have only minutes. You never fired the Luger,
compris
? You discovered your husband attacking me, he confessed that he raped twelve-year-old girls after their violin lessons. That he hurt one so badly she died. He taunted you about your niece. He pulled out the Luger … thank God he missed.”

“But …”

“Do you want him off the street?”

Brianne’s shoulders heaved. “What have I done?” Her face streaked with dust and mascara. “He’s my husband. I can’t …”

Aimée wanted to slap her. “Wake up. Ten years ago his father paid off the police and Madame de Langlet. He used his influence and connections to cover up.”

“What …? You’re making this up.” Brianne gasped.

“Now old Lavigne’s doing it again, Brianne. He thought marrying you would stop Renaud. But Renaud can’t quit. He’s ill—a pedophile. With all the pressure, Renaud’s gone over the edge to hide his assaults, even killing Madame Vasseur and shooting me.”

Brianne erupted in sobs.

“You think he’ll stop? Forget that Catholic-girl guilt,” said René. “
Bon
, we’ll point out the residue on your hands and you’ll both go to prison.”

Brianne’s terror-stricken eyes pleaded. “
Non
,
non
.”

“Smart choice,” said René.

A
IMÉE WAVED TO
Zacharié as he left the café on sun-dappled rue du Louvre. She tucked a copy of
Le Parisien
in her bag and peered at him from over her Jackie O sunglasses in front of Leduc Detective’s building door.

“I explained to Zazie’s parents,” he said.

“How’d it go?”

“The version I gave?” His mouth turned in a rueful smile. “For reasons of state security, etcetera. The usual smoke screen. I’m only permitted to say blah, blah and apologized for their daughter getting involved. End of story.”

For the best and as promised, he’d kept her name out of it. At the corner she saw a flashing glint, heard a car’s screeching brakes, a ringing bicycle bell, then shouts as a bicyclist shook his fist at a Renault and pedaled away. A near collision averted. Like yesterday. She gave an inward sigh of relief.

“I owe you, Aimée,” he said.

She nodded. “I might take you up on that one day.”

“And your friend Saj. For a Rasta hippie, he’s a genius.”

“Glad you followed his advice.” She neglected to mention Saj’s scanned addendum copy she’d messengered anonymously to Morbier this morning. Or the description of the Corsican she’d supplied to Beto.

Women with shopping bags stood fanning themselves in the heat at the bus stop. Freshly watered red geraniums from
the iron-railed balcony above the café overflowed and trickled onto the pavement, sending out a humid vapor.

“The subbranch in the Ministry offered me a job like the one I did before,” he said. “In Belgium, with a flat and international school for Marie-Jo.”

Close enough to watch, but not close enough to cause trouble.

“You worked a deal,” she said.

The price of his silence.

The 67 Pigalle bus approached, wending its way across rue de Rivoli. Zacharié pulled a
carnet
of bus tickets from his pocket. “Deep down you’re thinking I’m wrong,” he said. “That it’s all wrong. But I can protect my daughter now and obtain full custody. That’s all that means anything to me.”

The bus shadows blocked out the lozenge of light playing on his face. Ripples of hot air laced with diesel exhaust and lime-blossom scent filled her nose. She felt a flutter as the baby kicked.

“I understand.”

“You’re just saying that, Aimée,” he said, joining those in line for the bus. Then he paused, turned to her, letting people file past, and took her hand. “But I can’t live with Marie-Jo like a fugitive. I won’t.”

For the first time, she really did understand. “
Bonne chance.
”

He enveloped her in a hug and patted her stomach.

On the corner she saw Beto shutting a taxi door, pâtisserie box in the other hand. He was staring at her. At them. Zacharié boarded the bus. And when it took off, the taxi had gone and so had Beto.

T
HANKS GO TO
so many: Dot, Barbara, Max, Jan, always Jean Satzer, Jeffrey Phillips, Ken the Judge, Pascaline Lefebvre of Alliance Française de Portland.

In Paris, Carla Chemouni-Bach; Alex Toledano, Ph.D; Anne-Francoise and Cathy Etile; Gilles Thomas; Benoît Pastisson; Agnès Chauvin at the Conservation Régionale des Monuments Historiques; Jean-Pierre Gauffier; Thierry Cazaux of the Conseiller d’Arrondissement et Délégué au Patrimoine et à la Culture Mairie du 9ème; Valérie Vesque-Jeancard; Marie-Claire, detective privé; Daniel Catan. Boundless mercis to Annie-Laure Assis and Claude Etienne for sharing music, walks and their ’hood; Jean Abou, partymaster; dear Joanna Bartholomew; Denise the photographer; Valérie Mayer-Denarnaud; Areski Garidel of Pigalle; Thierry Boulouque, Commissaire Divisionnaire Chef de la Brigade de Protection des Mineurs; Maryse Leclerc-Joly, Commandant Fonctionnel de Police Chef de la Section des Enquétes; Céline Plumail, Commissaire de Police, Brigade de Protection des Mineurs; Commmissaire Central Laurent Mercier de Police Judiciare 9ème arrondissement; Peter Olson; Monsieur X at Hôtel Drouot.

Nothing would happen without Dr. Terri Haddix, medical pathologist; Dr. Laurie Green, who saves lives; James N. Frey without whom; the Soho family: Rudy Martinez,
Rachel Kowal, Janine Agro, Paul Oliver, Bronwen Hruska, who helms our ship, and my whipsmart editor extraordinaire, Juliet Grames; and always to Jun and my son, Tate.