cordon.
Never dropping her plastic-doll smile, the reporter went on.
“I’m standing in front of the
Vauvert listened closely, his face becoming grimmer with each word.
“While homicide investigators are refusing to comment, a source close to the police has informed us that this murder is likely one of two identical slayings. The other victim is a twenty-year-old woman whose identity has not been revealed to us yet, but whose body was found earlier this morning.”
Vauvert searched for his cell. His found it under the couch.
He scrolled through the directory. Before he got to the letter S, the phone vibrated.
Detective Svarta had been quicker. It was her number on the screen.
Vauvert cleared his throat and swallowed a couple of times before picking up.
“Vauvert?” Eva’s voice came right away.
“Himself. You look great on TV,” he said.
“Shit. They’re already reporting this?”
“Live breaking news. You must be all over the channels by now.”
“I hate reporters,” she said.
Vauvert wanted to ask her how she was doing after all this time, to tell her that her voice had not changed. It was like velvet but just a little rough at the edge.
Instead of that, he asked, “Need a hand?”
“Do you have the Salaville file handy?”
“Uh.” He glanced at the trashcan in the kitchen. He could see sheets of paper sticking out of the blue plastic liner. “Sure,” he said, crossing the room and tightening the belt of his bathrobe. “Give me one sec.” He opened the lid and plucked out the papers, one by one. “I have the entire file.” He grimaced as his fingers touched something wet. “Here.”
Over the phone, the Eva laughed softly.
“I’m not surprised. You always knew this wasn’t over, didn’t you?”
“Hmm. Something like that.”
He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and used both hands to sift through the loose sheets. Beer from a tossed can had leaked on some of the papers. Vauvert let out a muffled grunt.
“Alexandre? What’s going on?”
“Just putting a few things away at the same time, everything’s fine,” he lied. “Now, you tell me. The TV lady just said that two women were murdered and mutilated. It means they no longer have faces, right?”
“That’s what it means, yes.”
“But there’s more to it, right?”
“The mirrors were broken. At both victims’ places.”
“I see. Inscriptions?”
“Same kind of esoteric crap as last year. The writing seems to be the same. The whole thing reeks of the Salaville brothers.”
Vauvert moved his mug from the table and started arranging the papers. The photos of the twenty-four victims streamed under his eyes.
“We let one get away in the mountains last year, didn’t we,” he said.
“Do you have any other explanation?”
Vauvert took a long sip of coffee.
“Remember that question I asked you? The one you never answered?”
After a short silence, Svarta said, “Whether I thought it was all over?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“I figured that much. Actually, I have to tell you something. Something maybe meaningless, but that I could never fit into any of my reports.”
“What’s that?”
“When I shot Roman Salaville…” Vauvert concentrated on finding the right words. “When the son of a bitch was about to die, he said something. ‘Someone ain’t gonna be happy.’ Those were his last words. I can still hear his voice in my head.”
“And you don’t think that he was talking about his brother?”
“At the time, I thought it might be possible, except it doesn’t make sense. We did miss something. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I just don’t know what it could be.”
“About that. I was wondering. In the files you’ve got or maybe even in your memory, did anyone make any mention of the killers actually bathing in their victims’ blood?”
Vauvert frowned. He couldn’t’ see where she was going with this.”
“Bathing? No, not in those terms.” He walked over to the window and pulled up the shades. Outside, a fine translucent rain was falling. “Okay, listen, I’m calling my boss right now to tell him I want this case back, right where I left it. And I’ll get back on track. I was supposed to be off duty this weekend, but since I actually have the file at home, I’ll take the opportunity to go over it with a clear head and see if there’s any lead we might have neglected. We’ll touch base on Monday morning, what about that?”
“I expected no less of you,” she said. “Give me a call at eight. That’s when we have the daily debriefing with my team. We can all get on the same page then.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Thank you, Alexandre.”
Vauvert hesitated for a moment before saying, “Eva.”
He realized that she had hung up already.
23
The rain started again. With wicked pleasure.
The drops bombarded the asphalt on the Quai des Orfevres, and the wind blew umbrellas inside out. Hunched-over pedestrians hurried to their destinations.
Eva’s feet were getting cold and wet as her heels hit the puddles, which were quickly becoming a river. She finally reached the huge doors of No. 36, Central Police Headquarters, and paused before crossing the cobblestone inner courtyard. She could not help looking behind her.
To make sure
Eva knew this was ridiculous. She should not allow herself to give in to such bouts of anxiety. But she just couldn’t help it.
A sick heart never heals.
She stared at the people rushing by on the riverside road, one after the other. They were all adults. None of them was actually paid any attention to her.
There was no little girl with white hair.
Eva, her heart still racing, crossed the courtyard.
Inside the building, she walked along the narrow and faded hallway that led to the stairs. She greeted her Forensics Identification colleagues with a quick wave of her hand as she passed by, and they did the same, though they looked quite surprised to see her back. She took in their sideway glances, their silent questioning, but she kept on walking. She had not set foot in here for two months, almost to the day. That had given them plenty of time to gossip.
Gossip was nothing new to her. It had accompanied her all her life. She expected it.
