Murder in Pigalle Read Online Free PDF Page A

codger at bay. Parole officers liked to hear about jobs. Of course, he couldn’t let on about the big job. The one that would finally get him his daughter back. Get Marie-Jo out of the custody of his crazy ex-wife, Béatrice, and her pedophile live-in lover—for good. He balled his fists at the thought of the creep eyeing his daughter. He wanted to punch something. He took a deep breath, like he’d learned in prison, to dispel the stress. It didn’t work.
    Faure’s phone rang somewhere in the pile of papers on the desk. “
Un moment
,” he said.
    Zacharié contained his anger. He would keep to the plan. Marie-Jo’s letters to him in prison had caused six months of worry and anguish. And now that he was out, he was struggling to find a job that would pay enough for him to get custody. He needed to take matters into his own hands before somethingterrible happened. So he’d consented to this one last heist. Not his first choice, but the only way he, an ex-convict on parole, could save Marie-Jo. In three more days, mission completed, he’d spirit her over the Channel to London with their new passports and enough money to buy them a new life.
    “Bad news, I’m afraid, Zacharié.” Faure replaced the black receiver back on the old rotary phone, ancient like everything else in this high-ceilinged back office, with its dusty photos and
boules
trophies. “Your ex-wife, Béatrice de Mombert, has been charged with driving under the influence. Her license has been revoked.”
    Fear tore his gut. “Is my daughter hurt?”
    “
Soyez-calme
, she was at school. Still, it raises custody issues regarding your ex-wife’s competence.”
    About damn time. Béatrice, an actress, was deep in her love affair with the bottle and pills. He wondered how she still performed nightly. And why a besotted public paid to watch the wreck she’d become.
    But it made him think. “She’s proved she’s an unfit mother. I’ve been saying that since our divorce. Can’t I regain custody? I’m Marie-Jo’s father.”
    “At this point you would have a case: an upcoming job, your apartment. We can request a hearing, Zacharié.” His parole officer’s eyes narrowed. “Keep straight, get this job, and I’ll go to bat for you. The law favors the parent over foster care or a relative.”
    The cotton-ball clouds parted outside the window, revealing a cerulean spot of sky. A sign. He’d get Marie-Jo back.
    A weight lifted from his heart. “
Merci
, Monsieur Faure. My little girl means the world to me.” He’d pull out of the heist, stay straight, not jeopardize his chance of obtaining custody. Somehow he’d figure it out. For now he stuffed down his worry. “I will do anything. You have my word.”
    The truest words he’d spoken since coming into Faure’s office.
    Out on the street he shooed away pigeons from the fretwork grill at the base of a plane tree. Under the shade of its branches, he clicked on the messages on his phone: Béatrice’s garbled rantings about checking into a spa—translation: rehab. Again. Followed by her lawyer’s no-nonsense messages—could he pick up Marie-Jo from the Conservatoire tomorrow? His heart beat faster. Her last piano recital was tomorrow. The lawyer suggested Béatrice had reconsidered full custody. Scared. They were scared.
    The lawyer knew the judge would declare her an unfit parent. Now they wanted to talk before the hearing. Negotiate. For the first time in years he held the power, knew he could change Marie-Jo’s life. His life.
    He’d have his daughter back. All he’d ever wanted. The world stopped for a moment; the heat faded; the whoosh of the sidewalk café’s milk steamer blended into his thoughts. Her last letter:
Papa, I want to live with you like when I was little. I miss you.
    All he could think of was how he would meet her after school, fix her
croque monsieur
, her favorite, for dinner while she practiced her piano. Zacharié, uneducated, unrefined, had somehow made this little