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eye to keep his mouth shut. “Can you give me any specifics? His name?” asked Aimée.
    “His friend was looking for him earlier today, too.”
    That could fit—if this was the rapist, maybe he was supposed to meet his friend, and instead he’d followed Sylvaine from school. But where was Zazie?
    “His name?”
    “Think I’m an information service?”
    She willed herself not to throw her Perrier in his face. This bartender might fleece farmers from the countryside, plumbers from the provinces, traveling salesmen hoping the red lights of Pigalle still shone for a racy interlude away from their wives. Or René. But not her.
    “I think you’re willing,
non
, let’s say eager to assist in capturing the rapist who attacked and killed a twelve-year-old girl on rue de Rochechouart this afternoon.”
    “What?” said René.
    She kicked him to keep quiet.
    The bartender blinked. “I don’t want trouble.” He hefted a crate of empty bottles onto the
monte-charge.
Pressed the red button and with a clanking it descended. “
Ecoutez
, we’re under surveillance, like all the clubs, checked for anyone underage, licensing regulations. Vice keeps us on a tight leash.”
    René made a clucking noise. “No wild gangland like the fifties and sixties?”
    “Commerce, little man. I operate a business, pay taxes. If we step out of line, we’re closed for fifteen days. Next time it’s six months, and we’re dead. No more club.” He grabbed a towel. “We’ve kept up the tradition since Le Chat Noir opened in 1890. Keep our nose clean and continue shining the red light of Pigalle, Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergère. All the world knows and comes to see.”
    He talked the talk. Sounded like the businessman he said he was. But if his “house” was white as pearl, why did she notice the dove-grey shutters?
    “You were saying,” she prompted, tapping the FotoFit.
    “He goes by Nico, if that’s who I think you mean.”
    “A local?”
    “A Lille accent.” The bartender studied the FotoFit again. The cap, the small eyes, weak chin. “But look.” Shook his head. “Too generic. This could be anyone. A dozen
mecs.
Who says it’s him?”
    “Who says it’s not? His last victim—one who survived—came up with this description for the FotoFit.”
    He hesitated. “Two nights ago two men hung out at the bar. No table. Cheapskates. But if this was him, this Nico,
d
é
sol
é, I had no clue. I don’t serve pedophiles.”
    “Have to draw the line somewhere, eh?” said René.
    His lip curled. “My daughter’s ten. If he’s the rapist, then I’ll be first in line to nail him. It’s a village here,” he said. “We watch our own. After closing, my bouncer walks the girls to the Métro.”
    This bartender had turned helpful. Too helpful? When had she gotten so jaded? Or had she caught René’s skepticism?
    Laughter came from the table as the provincial drank champagne.
    “Look, the
flics
questioned me about him,” said the bartender. “Parents, too. I told them what I told you.”
    A dead end?
    Maybe Johnny Hallyday kept his nose clean. Maybe business was so tough, he was a
mouche
, an informer. Everyone had to survive.
    “Here’s my card,” she said. “I’m looking for Zazie, the girl with curly red hair. She was supposedly studying with Sylvaine, the girl who …” Her throat caught. “Didn’t make it.”
    René’s jaw dropped. “What?”
    “Zazie told me she’d followed this
mec
here, asked me to check on him,” said Aimée. “That’s all I’ve got to go on. When do you remember seeing her?”
    “Yesterday, I think, after six. A delivery came, that’s right.Didn’t see her anymore. Nor tonight.” The bartender shook his head, his eyes serious. Noticed her baby bump. “Look, I’m a father, too. I live here. Trust me to put out the word.”
    O UTSIDE ON HUMID rue Pierre Fontaine, the lights of theater marquees and clubs glittered in the descending twilight. Shouts came from the bars. The news