Cheneau shrugged. “Maybe two days ago, down at the bar. I was there with my buddy, Gaston. We had a few beers and then ordered a pizza.”
Sophie asked, “Did a Parisian come into the bar, asking for directions to the bastide?”
“The commissioner already asked that question,” Cheneau replied. “Yesterday, in the bar. Yes was my answer. I didn’t want to make a fuss—”
“Do you want to get your rent money?” Jules asked.
Cheneau sighed. “Yeah, they were there. And they left pretty quickly, too, after they saw that fancy Parisian.”
“Do you have any idea where they might have gone?” Sophie asked. “Don’t worry, M Cheneau. We’ll protect you.”
Cheneau nodded and mumbled, “I think so. La Riviera.”
“On the coast?” Jules asked.
“No no,” Marcel replied, shaking his head. “A hunting lodge in the woods. It’s called the Riviera because, well, it has a view of a creek out back.”
It was almost noon, just before Sunday lunch, at the cave coopérative in Rians—their busiest time. They would close promptly at twelve thirty and not reopen until Tuesday. The license plates in the parking lot revealed a variety that was only found in summer: cars from the Netherlands and Germany, even a right-hand-drive English convertible, were parked beside cars and small vans from both the Bouches-du-Rhône and the Var—the two departments Rians straddled. Three other cars, Citroëns, all dark gray, were parked side by side at the far end of the lot. Bruno Paulik spread a detailed map of the area on the hood of one, flattening it out with the side of his hand.
Paulik pointed out a thin white road and said, “The hunting shack is eight kilometers northeast of Rians, off the D70. M Cheneau said it isn’t indicated, but that exactly 2.2 kilometers north of Esparron there’s a bend in the road, and immediately after, on the right, is a dirt track and a sign marked ‘privé’ nailed to an old olive tree. The shack is about a kilometer down the track.”
“There’s only one way in?” an officer asked.
“According to M Cheneau,” Sophie replied, “yes.”
“Let’s park our cars up and down the D70 to avoid suspicion,” Paulik continued. “We will meet at the olive tree and go up the track in pairs. Those of you in uniform can encircle the shack, and Officer Goulin and I will approach it, pretending to be lost hikers.” Sophie Goulin looked down at her shorts, glad that she had chosen them instead of pants. It was already over 30°C, and in shorts she looked more like a hiker. She looked at her boss, who wore sunglasses and a large straw hat, and tried not to smile. She hardly recognized Bruno Paulik like that, so she knew the Pioger cousins wouldn’t either.
Ten minutes later the cars were parked, scattered along the narrow road. Jules Schoelcher was to stay at the olive tree, phone at the ready in case he had to alert the others. He sat on a rock and got out a map, pretending to read it, while the others went into the woods. If anyone stopped to speak to him, he would reply with a German accent—easy enough for someone born in Colmar and who still spoke German with his parents—and say he was looking to get to Gréoux-les-Bains by the back roads. He’d tell them he had borrowed the car from a friend in Marseille.
Sophie’s heart was pounding as she walked up the dirt road beside her boss. She had read the files on the Pioger cousins and knew that they were violent and unpredictable. She tried not to get distracted by the woods; she grew up in the country, and knew that lizards made a surprising amount of noise as they darted back and forth between the plants.
They had been walking for about twenty minutes when the shack came into view. “Keep going,” Paulik whispered as they continued, albeit slower now. She tried not to smile at the name La Riviera—obviously a joke—for the wooden shack had a corrugated metal roof and leaned to one side, looking as if a sneeze could knock it over. She tried her best to resemble a lost hiker—someone who had no idea what lurked within the building ahead. An innocent. She realized the commissioner must be thinking the same thing as he reached out and took her hand, holding it as if she was his lover or wife.
The door of the shack suddenly opened and a man stepped out, clearly agitated. “What’s going on?” he yelled across the twenty or so yards that separated them. “What do you want?”
Paulik let go of Sophie’s hand. “I’m sorry to disturb,” he replied. “We were just out walking.”
“You get lost,” the man said. “Now. This is private property.”
“Not thinking of selling, are you?” Paulik asked, walking slowly toward the man, whom he now recognized as Hervé Pioger. He heard a muffled sound coming from inside the shack.
Pioger came closer. “Are you deaf?” he asked.
“It’s just that we’ve been trying to buy property around here for months,” Paulik said. “And this place looks like it could use some TLC.” He walked closer, until he was about a meter away.
“It’s not for sale,” Pioger said, holding up his hand. “Go now.”
“Let’s go, sweetie,” Sophie said, walking beside Paulik and pulling on his hand. She could see the sweat gleaming on Pioger’s forehead, his mouth gaping. She could also smell the liquorice odor of pastis.
“Honey, you know how much we love this area,” Paulik said, looking at his partner.
“Do as your sweetie says,” Pioger said.
Paulik saw from the corner of his eye that everything was in place. “All right,” he said, putting his hand up. “We’re so sorry to disturb.”
At that cue, the other officers barged in the back door Marcel Cheneau had told Sophie and Jules about. “Mighty useful when our hunting shack used to get raided by the local gendarmes,” he had said.
Out of instinct, Hervé Pioger swung back
