and rereading her notes. “You’re okay, René?” Although he never let on that he was suffering, she knew dampness and rising air pressure aggravated his hip dysplasia, common in dwarves his size.
“I can handle this. Tomorrow we’ll see how creative Saj got on the taxes.”
She rubbed her stomach and felt an answering flutter. “It moved, René.”
René’s face broke into a smile. “
Voilà
, the Bump has spoken. It wants to go home.”
She sat back. Thought. “While you’re at rue Chaptal, show this photo of Zazie to the bouncer at the disco Le Bus Palladium.”
“What?”
“Ask about the …” She racked her brain. “What’s it called, something like
la nuit du teenybopper.
”
“Zazie’s underage, Aimée. They wouldn’t let her in.”
“Then why did she have this Bus Palladium postcard for a boy-band concert?” She waved the postcard. “They had those groups when Martine and I were at the
lycée.
The club switches over to adult and open bar after ten P . M .”
René shook his head. “Don’t be scattershot. Keep your focus.”
Plan B. She had to figure out what Zazie meant. But with the passing hours the danger she was in increased.
“Every avenue needs exploring. I’ve got homework of my own,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing, René. But it’s on your way. Matter of fact, the disco’s around the corner from rue Chaptal.”
T EN MINUTES LATER the rain stopped, and Aimée walked Miles Davis, her bichon frise, along the dimly lit quai. MilesDavis was sporting his new Burberry rain apparel. Algae odors rose from the gurgling Seine and mingled with the smell of wet leaves. She stood lost in thought as Miles Davis did his business under the dripping lime tree. But she needed to walk to think, and Miles Davis needed exercise. Her steps took her around the corner of Ile Saint-Louis to the church she’d been christened in. Her christening outfit sat boxed in an armoire—but she couldn’t think that far ahead.
Several members of the evening choral practice group clustered at the wooden door to the Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile church. Candles sputtered, and she heard the chant of a novena. She picked up Miles Davis and slid into the last pew. The smoking incense, the red glass lanterns and the drone of prayers took her somewhere else.
Her mind cleared. She said a little prayer for Zazie. Patted her stomach. Dipped her fingers in the holy water font, touched them to Miles Davis’s paw and slipped out.
Now to decipher what she’d found in the café kitchen.
S WATHED IN A cotton duvet and propped up by feather pillows, her one indulgence until tax time, she spent ten minutes reading the musty, yellowed chapters of the Resistance book Zazie had marked.
Code names, dead letter boxes and dry narrative. Techniques for secret communication. For surveillance.
Then Zazie’s note fell out again—
Go to Plan B.
Had her surveillance of the so-called rapist stemmed from this school project? Was there some hint here of how she had trailed her suspect?
Why the hell hadn’t Zazie told her everything?
The church bell on Ile Saint-Louis rang midnight, muted and dulled by the Seine gurgling outside her open window. She hated calling people so late, but there was no other choice. She reached for her cell phone.
“H OW SERIOUS , A IMÉE ?” Suzanne said. “Look, I just walked in the door and paid my babysitter. We’re short with Melac gone. But of course you’ve heard,
non
?”
She’d left Melac’s messages unanswered, not ready to deal with his decision to stay in Brittany. She understood deep down, and she knew if she told him about the baby, his life would change. He didn’t need that right now with his daughter in a coma.
“Child endangerment. A twelve-year-old rape victim murdered. Serious enough for you, Suzanne?”
“
Zut
! Let me take off my wet shoes … ahh, better. Okay, give me a quick rundown.”
Aimée did.
“The Brigade des Mineurs’s priority’s the rapist,”
“I can handle this. Tomorrow we’ll see how creative Saj got on the taxes.”
She rubbed her stomach and felt an answering flutter. “It moved, René.”
René’s face broke into a smile. “
Voilà
, the Bump has spoken. It wants to go home.”
She sat back. Thought. “While you’re at rue Chaptal, show this photo of Zazie to the bouncer at the disco Le Bus Palladium.”
“What?”
“Ask about the …” She racked her brain. “What’s it called, something like
la nuit du teenybopper.
”
“Zazie’s underage, Aimée. They wouldn’t let her in.”
“Then why did she have this Bus Palladium postcard for a boy-band concert?” She waved the postcard. “They had those groups when Martine and I were at the
lycée.
The club switches over to adult and open bar after ten P . M .”
René shook his head. “Don’t be scattershot. Keep your focus.”
Plan B. She had to figure out what Zazie meant. But with the passing hours the danger she was in increased.
“Every avenue needs exploring. I’ve got homework of my own,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing, René. But it’s on your way. Matter of fact, the disco’s around the corner from rue Chaptal.”
T EN MINUTES LATER the rain stopped, and Aimée walked Miles Davis, her bichon frise, along the dimly lit quai. MilesDavis was sporting his new Burberry rain apparel. Algae odors rose from the gurgling Seine and mingled with the smell of wet leaves. She stood lost in thought as Miles Davis did his business under the dripping lime tree. But she needed to walk to think, and Miles Davis needed exercise. Her steps took her around the corner of Ile Saint-Louis to the church she’d been christened in. Her christening outfit sat boxed in an armoire—but she couldn’t think that far ahead.
Several members of the evening choral practice group clustered at the wooden door to the Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile church. Candles sputtered, and she heard the chant of a novena. She picked up Miles Davis and slid into the last pew. The smoking incense, the red glass lanterns and the drone of prayers took her somewhere else.
Her mind cleared. She said a little prayer for Zazie. Patted her stomach. Dipped her fingers in the holy water font, touched them to Miles Davis’s paw and slipped out.
Now to decipher what she’d found in the café kitchen.
S WATHED IN A cotton duvet and propped up by feather pillows, her one indulgence until tax time, she spent ten minutes reading the musty, yellowed chapters of the Resistance book Zazie had marked.
Code names, dead letter boxes and dry narrative. Techniques for secret communication. For surveillance.
Then Zazie’s note fell out again—
Go to Plan B.
Had her surveillance of the so-called rapist stemmed from this school project? Was there some hint here of how she had trailed her suspect?
Why the hell hadn’t Zazie told her everything?
The church bell on Ile Saint-Louis rang midnight, muted and dulled by the Seine gurgling outside her open window. She hated calling people so late, but there was no other choice. She reached for her cell phone.
“H OW SERIOUS , A IMÉE ?” Suzanne said. “Look, I just walked in the door and paid my babysitter. We’re short with Melac gone. But of course you’ve heard,
non
?”
She’d left Melac’s messages unanswered, not ready to deal with his decision to stay in Brittany. She understood deep down, and she knew if she told him about the baby, his life would change. He didn’t need that right now with his daughter in a coma.
“Child endangerment. A twelve-year-old rape victim murdered. Serious enough for you, Suzanne?”
“
Zut
! Let me take off my wet shoes … ahh, better. Okay, give me a quick rundown.”
Aimée did.
“The Brigade des Mineurs’s priority’s the rapist,”
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