“Nothing, nada, zilch,” she answered, not disguising her frustration. “It’s been three days now. . . . I’m getting pressure on all sides, including Paris.”
He nodded, knowing that Paris meant the Élysée. He realized there might be a positive side to only having to deal with a crooked mayor and not having to explain to the president of France why you haven’t yet caught kidnappers. He asked, “I assume you’re calling about the information concerning Agathe Barbier that Daniel de Rudder requested be sent to me.”
“Yes, although Rudder has pissed me off royally. If he has concerns or worries, he should ask me to go through that stuff.”
“But with the kidnapping . . .”
She sighed. “Yes, I’m passing the affair on to you, but only because I’m too busy. A car driven by two of our slower officers left here two hours ago with the Agathe Barbier report. They should be there any minute, unless they stop in Saint-Tropez for lunch, in which case their next assignment will be at a school crossing.”
He laughed, remembering her humor and her impatience.
She went on: “You’ll have to send the papers back here in a police car. Or you could bring them yourself.”
“I’m too busy.”
“As you wish,” she replied. “I have no idea why Rudder is all of a sudden interested in reopening that case. He must be senile. Agathe Barbier died in 1988. That’s when we were . . .”
Verlaque cleared his throat. “Yes, it was a long time ago. You must be married with teenage kids by now.”
“Divorced, no children. And you?”
“Married, no children.” He didn’t think it any of her business to know that he was only recently married.
“My sister says that having children is the only important job one can do while on earth.”
“Well, then, we both seem to be failures,” he said, playing with his pen. Chantal could have easily asked an underling to call him about the delivery, but here she was, making the call herself. She probably had the président de la République on hold on the other line. Chantal Sennat hadn’t changed a bit. She did as she pleased, not caring who she offended or kept waiting. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her when they were studying in Bordeaux together. That, and . . .
“So it seems,” she said, sounding amused. “My sister may have six children, but she’s an unhappy wretch. Plus, when she and her good-for-nothing husband decided to have kids, they forgot that three would be in university at the same time. Guess who’s working her ass off to pay for their studies, as none of them got into a grande école?”
“I’m sure they’ll remember that when you’re old,” Verlaque said, laughing.
“Yeah, right. Well, you sound good, Antoine. I’ve got to go. Rudder is wasting your time, but, still, you’ll contact me if you discover any overlooked evidence when you go through the boxes?”
“Certainly,” he answered.
“You’re such a liar.” He could hear her breathing, and she waited a few seconds before adding, “Listen, think again about coming to Cannes . . .”
“I don’t think so, Chantal.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” she answered. “But when it comes to women, you always change your mind—don’t you?” She hung up.
“Merde!” Verlaque hissed as he hung up his phone. He got up and paced the room. He walked over to his bookshelf and opened his small mahogany humidor, pulled out a short but thick Partagás D4, snipped off the end, and, fumbling with his lighter, lit it. He opened the windows of his office and sat on the ledge, smoking. Memories appeared before him like color postcards: weekends with Chantal in Prague or Rome. Wine-filled evenings with friends, in garret apartments that overlooked the gray city, before Bordeaux had been cleaned up and gentrified. Verlaque had money, even as a student, and she had energy and drive in spades. In that way they were a good match and the envy of their fellow students: he was a posh Parisian who excelled at debate and rugby; Chantal was a fiery beauty who was raised in the remote region of Corrèze by a mechanic and a beautician, and had worked her way up from a mediocre village school to one of France’s most elite law schools.
His stomach growled, and he decided to go for lunch in Puyloubier. And he knew exactly who to invite. He stubbed out his cigar and left it in his hiding spot, safely wedged between the outside wall and a metal bracket on the shutter. Grabbing his jacket and phone, he walked out just as Mme Girard was gathering her things. She looked at him and curled up her nose.
“I’m going to lunch and then to Puyloubier, if anyone asks,” he said, trying to ignore the cloud of cigar smoke that seemed to have followed him. “Any minute now there will be a delivery of important evidence from Cannes, escorted by two policemen. Could you call down and tell the guys at the front door to keep it with them under lock and key until I get back?”
“Certainly,” she answered, picking up the phone. “Have a nice lunch.”
“Thank you. You too,” he answered. Mme Girard, in his opinion, was far too thin, and he didn’t like to imagine her meager lunch of a bit of cold tomato and tuna from a can. He was in a sour enough mood that he almost said his thoughts aloud. A younger Antoine Verlaque would have. But he stayed quiet and walked downstairs and out of the building as quickly as he could. As he walked up the rue Mignet, to get his car out of the garage, he scrolled through the list of contacts on his phone. He wasn’t sure if he still had Auvieux’s phone number, but it was there, third from the top. He dialed, and after three rings Auvieux answered.
“Jean-Claude, it’s Judge Verlaque. How have you been?”
“Monsieur le Juge! Well, my oh my. I can’t believe it’s you,” Auvieux answered, with obvious delight in his voice. Verlaque smiled; it
