Murder in Pigalle by Cara Black Page B

world.”
    Clicking off the call, Aimée shifted on her side and readjusted her pillow to support her stomach and relieve the pressure on her back.
    Suzanne’s words spun in her head. Why would you want to do it all? Should she cave in to that up-and-comer Florian, head of Systex, who emailed her once a week with the same proposal—join computer security forces and expand delivery systems? Then she could take a decent maternity leave and later work part-time. Should she put the baby on a waiting list for a
crèche
, which Martine insisted she should have done on conception? Should she move to the country, make marmalade,be a full time
maman
and go stark raving mad? Should she consider putting this baby up for adoption?
    Or should she put her swollen feet on the cold wood floor and get a Badoit before the creeping nausea overtook her? A few gulps later, she stood at her window overlooking the dark, misted Seine. Burped.
    Relief at last.
    Miles Davis curled at her bare feet as she punched in Beto’s number.
    “Who’s this?” Trance music thumped in a languid wave in the background.
    “Suzanne gave me your number. I’m Aimée Leduc.”
    Pause. “So you say,
chérie.
”
    “Check me out. Then I’d like to talk.”
    “And I’d like the Mercedes parked across the street. We’ll see.”
    He clicked off.
    Out working undercover, she figured. Anyone worth their salt would verify her identity. All she could do was wait. And hope.
    She tried René.
    “Before you ask, the bouncer remembered seeing Zazie last week. End of report. Go to bed.”
    She was about to tell him she was sick of people telling her to go to bed, but René had hung up.

Monday, 11 P . M .
    Z ACHARIÉ PLAYED M ARIE -J O ’ S message. “Papa, this man says he’ll take us to you. Should I believe him? But my friend thinks he’s lying … where are you?” Marie-Jo’s voice quivered.
Non
,
non
, don’t go, he wanted to yell. Then what sounded like chairs or a table scraping across the floor. “Put that down,” and the phone went dead.
    Panicked, he punched in her number. Out of service. After trying his ex-wife’s flat, where the phone rang twenty times, he remembered she’d gone to rehab. Again. He paced back and forth in the rain on rue Chaptal. No lights showing from the third-floor windows.
    His ex-wife’s restraining order hadn’t been rescinded. Only a matter of time, he knew, since he’d gain custody of Marie-Jo. Still … he had to chance it. What if someone burgled the house, or what if it was this rapist he’d heard about on the radio this evening?
    He pressed the buzzer. Nothing.
    “Monsieur?
Vous me permettez
?” He recognized the middle-aged woman, Cécile the concierge, unfolding her umbrella next to him in the doorway.
    Would she recognize him? Report him to the lawyer?
    “Ah, Monsieur, quite a long time,” she said with a smile. She unbuttoned her raincoat. A gold cross glittered around her neck.
    Make the best of it. Use this.
    “
Bonsoir
, Madame,” he said. “I’m dropping off those forms for my ex-wife. She told you to give me the key,
non
?”
    Doubt flashed across Cécile’s face. “
Mais non
, but
entrez
, come in out of the rain.”
    Dripping wet, he stood at the doorframe of the concierge
loge.
A crucifix above the minuscule brown sofa, a galley kitchen and brown tiles. Mail slots and keys to the left, in the old style. He wondered how much longer the building would pay for a concierge.
    “
Désolée
, I’ve been at Saint Rita’s—I volunteer for the procession,” she said. “It’s every year, you know, in honor of Saint Rita, the patron saint of hope. It’s organized by us fallen women.” She gave a grin. “I once walked the streets. But Saint Rita saved me.”
    A born-again convert. The worst.
    Zacharié nodded. “But Marie-Jo …”
    “That’s the thing,” she interrupted. “Marie-Jo promised to come down and help out at Saint Rita’s like last year. So sweet, your daughter. She took