Free Murder in Pigalle by Cara Black Page A

find Zazie.”
    “Any more ideas?”
    “Mélanie’s in a Swiss clinic, traumatized and not talking.But her teacher, Madame de Langlet, is nearby on Square d’Orléans.”
    “It’s late, Aimée,” said René.
    “And she’s a night person, according to Mélanie’s—”
    “Clueless mother, from your description?” René interrupted. He gestured to the public phone cabin, getting rarer to find these days. “Better to call first.”
    She didn’t agree—time was of the essence, and in person worked best. But he’d lumbered out of the car onto the cobbles. He was unable to reach the phone, but in the glare of the car headlight she watched him thumb through one of the directories hanging on a chain. Not for the first time it saddened her to think of all the daily obstacles he faced with his short legs. She saw him punch a number into his cell phone.
    A moment later he rejoined her and hit the defroster button.
    “Madame de Langlet isn’t answering at her
atelier de musique.
Sounds ancient, from her answering machine. I left her a message.” René pointed to the map showing Place Gustave Toudouze, a block from where the beating took place. “Looks like this might be the Wallace fountain in Zazie’s photo.” René put the photo up on the dashboard. “And there’s the kiosk and that tree. So let’s say he’s at the café, watches Sylvaine, I don’t know, and follows her.”
    Aimée wiped her forehead. “But Sylvaine wouldn’t come this way from the
lycée.
She’d go home down rue Turgot.”
    René shrugged. “Since when does any kid go right home after school?”
    “You’re right, she’d gone to a music lesson.”
    “And he sees her en route home but say she’s met Zazie and …”
    Aimée’s phone trilled, and she glanced at the number. Her heart leapt. “René, it’s her.”
    She hit answer. “Zazie! Zazie, are you all right?”
    “Mademoiselle Aimée Leduc?” said a woman’s voice.
    “
Oui
.” Her throat caught. “Where’s Zazie?”
    “We need you to answer some questions.”
    A cold chill crept up her neck.
    “Who’s this?”
    “You’re familiar with the Commissariat on rue de Parme?” But the voice wasn’t asking a question. “We’ll expect you within ten minutes.”
    “Has something happened to Zazie?”
    “There’s a patrol car in the area,” the voice continued. “Off Avenue Trudaine. If you would prefer us to escort you.”
    A IMÉE ’ S HEART WAS thumping so loud she thought the drunk snoring on the Commissariat bench would wake up. Why hadn’t the
flics
told her anything? She sat in the Commissariat on rue de Parme, a former townhouse behind Gare Saint-Lazare, where the streets were named for European cities: Bucharest, Moscow, St. Petersburg.
    The drunk shifted and drooled. From a cubicle she heard a man’s raised voice, his German accent becoming more pronounced as he related his being pickpocketed in the Métro. All suspects in the district were routed through here. That hadn’t changed since her father’s time on the beat nor had the old wire-cage holding cells filled to capacity.
    A quick knock on the open-doored cubicle and then a woman in her early forties, a Madame Pelletier, from her badge, of the Brigade des Mineurs, entered and sat at the desk. She wore a Jean Paul Gaultier striped sailor shirt, jeans and espadrilles. Summoned back from holiday or going for the beach look, Aimée thought.
    Madame Pelletier kept her eyes on the file she was consulting. Silent apart from a perfunctory “
Bonsoir
.” The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee vied with the odor of stale cigarette rotated through the room by the ancient wall fan.
    “Refresh my memory about your movements this afternoon,
s’il vous plaît.
”
    Again? “You’ve got my statement already. I gave it to the officer at the scene of Sylvaine Olivet’s attack on rue de Rochechouart a few hours ago.”
    “
D’accord
,” she said, thumbing through the pages. The woman was playing catch-up, no