Read Murder in Pigalle for Free Online Page B

he said. “Say the rapist’s using the chaos of the World Cup crowds, the Fête de la Musique and the disconnect within the Commissariat branches as a cover for his activities. Say he’s an insider.”
    “Like one needs to be an insider to know the forces don’t cooperate?” she said. “Try paying a parking ticket and you discover that.”
    “There’s always more to it, Aimée.”
    A voice came on the line. “Direct inquiries and messages for Commissaire Morbier to extension two-zero-four,
s’il vous plaît.
”
    Gone on leave. The
flic
at Sylvaine’s had been right. Worse yet, he’d not told her. Whenever she needed Morbier, he became elusive. They had a problematic relationship—at best. He’d neglected to mention his plans when he’d taken her for lunch last week—a pretext, she’d discovered, for hounding her to register for Lamaze classes over the lobster terrine.
    She pictured his napkin tucked under his chin and spread across the front of his brown corduroy jacket, his age-spotted hands working the silver cheese knife.
    “Pwah, Leduc,” he’d said, snapping his fingers for
l’addition.
He took a last swig of Kir Royale and pulled out his pack of Gauloises. “Aah
non
, secondhand smoke,
c’est interdit au bébé.
”
    Champagne and cigarettes, the two things she missed most.
    “I hope you read those baby books I gave you and have given some thought to a name.”
    “What’s the hurry?” She sipped an
express décaféiné
and clenched her other fist. For two centimes she’d rip that cigarette packet from his pocket. Take just one puff.
    “Have you signed up for that cooking class yet?” He peered down at the bill through his readers, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Slapped some francs on the tablecloth. Only enough for a tip. She hated how they’d dined off his reputation. Or maybe the waiter was his informer.
    “Tell Franck
délicieux, comme toujours.
”
    “
Oui
, Commissaire.” The waiter bowed and slipped the wad in his pocket.
    “You’ll get nailed for doing that one day, Morbier,” she said.
    His drooping basset-hound eyes narrowed. “Leduc, I hope you’ve redeemed the coupon for Maman et Moi yoga sessions that Jeanne recommended.”
    Jeanne, his former grief counselor, now his new squeeze. Like two mother hens.
    “Have you told Melac yet?”
    With a suicidal ex-wife and his daughter in a coma? Tell him as he camped by her hospital bed in Brittany? She kept putting off returning his calls.
    “That’s my business, Morbier.”
    “Still haven’t, eh? He’s the father of your child, Leduc,” he’d chided.
    A rumble of thunder, crack of lighting brought her back to Pigalle, the heavy evening air. Oppressive, like in that horrific bedroom on rue de Rochechouart. Zazie. She had to find Zazie.
    “Earth to Aimée,” René said. “Call your hormones to order. Did you hear me? I said this all seems similar to the Guy Georges case—a rapist who goes for a specific type. They’re secretive, lead hidden lives.”
    She shuddered. “René, I saw poor Sylvaine. Her mother lashed out at me, so terrified, so full of shame her daughter would be seen that way. So helpless. So sad.”
    “Of course, it’s affected you,” René said. “I’m sorry.”
    “Because I’m pregnant? It would sicken anyone. An innocent child, broken and violated. Dead. And I’m afraid for Zazie.”
    René grimaced. “What about Zazie’s friends, her classmates who might know where she went? Aren’t the
flics
putting out a net?”
    Aimée gave him more details. “Virginie’s calling everyone. The Brigade des Mineurs will search for her—as a witness, not as a missing person.”
    “What’s this?” He gestured to the file sticking out of her bag.
    “Zazie’s ‘report.’ ”
    “How she trailed the rapist?” René shook his head. “Trying to be a detective.”
    “My fault, René. I should have stopped her.”
    “Stop a thirteen-year-old? Impossible.” René shook his head.