Free Murder in Pigalle by Cara Black

this segment here?” Jules pointed to the underground sewer on the map tacked to the wall.
    Tandou, the big-shouldered
mec
, frowned. “I’ve got it covered.”
    These professionals hated dilettantes who contracted a job then questioned their expertise. Zacharié shot a warning look at Jules.
    “Making a fuss over a simple question?” Jules said.
    Why couldn’t Jules leave it alone?
    “The segments that appear blocked,” said Dervier, “connect Gare Saint-Lazare via the old Banque de France rail tracks. Once they were used for transporting bullion, but they’ve gone unused since the war. They’re forgotten shunting tracks.”
    “A fascinating historical detail, but how …?”
    “All you need to know,” Dervier said, “is that my boys and I can navigate your several-block radius underground—in and out—in under twelve minutes.”
    Jules nodded. “Impressive.”
    “Now all I need you to tell me is how much weight we’re transporting. Not ballpark—specific to a kilo, more or less.”
    Ten minutes later, Zacharié stood upstairs with Jules in theold shop, which was hotter than a furnace. He’d made nice with Jules, introduced the team—obvious professionals—and outlined the heist plan. Hadn’t Jules said he was impressed?
    Time to stand up and get out of this. Now.
    “You’re in good hands, Jules. Now time for me to bow out. I can’t draw attention to myself. It’s too dangerous, with my parole officer sniffing around. Look, the team’s professional, the best there is. Consider your favor repaid, Jules.”
    “Repaid?” Jules shook his head. “You’ve just begun to repay me, Zacharié. Remember our deal? These thugs provide the window dressing. It’s your expertise that makes this work.”
    “Count me out, Jules,” he said. “My daughter’s important, and I can’t—”
    “Let your parole officer get a sniff of this?” Jules sighed. His voice lowered. “But he’ll get a big sniff if you don’t. A letter from a new witness, a phone call from that old employer, and you can kiss parole adieu.”
    “But you can’t … you wouldn’t. That implicates you, too.”
    “You were inside too long, Zacharié.” He gave a snort. “A little magic took care of that. I’m clean.”
    Magic? More like bribery and corruption. His stock-in-trade.
    Zacharié cursed the day he’d weakened. The day he’d acted like an imbecile and gotten involved with Jules again in a moment of greed. But the man was so convincing. Zacharié had gotten caught, and now he owed Jules for his parole. Maybe Jules had planned this all along. Got him sprung for this job, which was just a front for the real nugget. Jules’s take from this heist sounded more than big.
    “Of course you love your daughter,” Jules said. “Now prove it.”

Monday, 9:30 P . M .
    R ENÉ IDLED THE Citroën on Avenue Trudaine under the double row of lime trees. The quiet oasis from the red lights of Place Pigalle a few blocks away was threaded by an island row of greenery. They listened to the police scanner buzzing with static.
    Hot, humid air filled the car. “We left just in time,” René said, taking off his linen jacket.
    “
Au contraire.
” She wiped her brow and rooted in the back seat for a bottle of water.
    “You think if we’d found the rapist first … what? He’d talk?”
    “
Un peu difficile
to talk now, with a broken jaw and skull fractures, eh? René, that’s assuming he’s the one.”
    “He matches the FotoFit, Aimée.”
    “For now, stick to what we know—from his papers, this
mec
’s a merchant seaman from Lille. Was he stationed in Paris when the attacks took place?”
    “The
flics
will find out if he’s on shore leave, leading a secret life in Paris, why he gets off on attacking little girls. Who the hell knows, Aimée?”
    René turned up the police scanner volume. Disjointed voices, static.
    “We can’t sit on our behinds until he talks,” she said, pushing her doubts aside. “We’ve got to