“Yup,” Rosière said, grabbing one of the black-and-white photographs. “When they fished him out, he’d been glugging down river water for some time and the fish had started taking chunks out of him. His skin’s so see-through he looks like a jellyfish. Shit . . . those guys from the river police did well not to puke when they had to handle this custard tart! They could only narrow down his time of death to the closest week.”
“We should count from when his wife declared him missing,” Lebreton said.
“That gives us July 3, 1993, then. The last time he was seen alive, he was leaving a bistro near quai Branly.”
“Long way from home . . .”
“But it is by the river,” Rosière said, instinctively toying with her necklace.
“Fair point.”
“But hold on, the murder dates back to 1993. Hasn’t it expired?”
“No, because the widow lodged a protest in 2003,” Lebreton said. “She brought fresh information that turned out not to be so fresh. But a juge d’instruction looked into it anyway, so the case was given a new lease on life.”
Lebreton paused for a moment and shifted his weight on the sofa, before saying:
“Three months to go. Then it’s all over.”
He took out a pack of Dunhills and raised his eyebrows to ask for permission. Rosière nodded, taking it as her cue to rip the cellophane off a new pack of Vogues. She lit one and took a long drag, trying her best to look like Marlene Dietrich as she exhaled, then ostentatiously lay her gold lighter on the table. The smoke rose up to the ceiling in ribbons. Pilou was kipping happily at their feet, stretched out on an authentic black and fuchsia Persian rug that had set her back six big ones.
That was what it took to furnish a place on the chic Left Bank. Hers was some way off a full-blown mansion, but it was still a pretty house. Two thousand square feet spread across three levels: more than enough for one adult and her dog. And how about rue de Seine for an address! Rosière had bought it two years earlier, all courtesy of her international royalties. She had sold tons of books in Europe, Japan, and Latin America. After this vanguard from the books, the TV series rolled in without any resistance. Ever since, as a token of respect, she had been learning Spanish. And she had added Our Lady of Luján, the patron saint of Argentina, to the medallions on her charm necklace.
As Rosière refilled her coffee cup, she wondered whether it had been a good idea to serve it in a china teapot. Maybe that was not the done thing. She made a mental note to look it up. The Aubusson tapestry hanging on the wall framed Lebreton’s aristocratic features very nicely.
“The first bullet pierced the right ventricle,” he resumed, “and the second shattered his spine. Both bullets found their target, so we’re definitely dealing with an experienced shooter firing from point-blank range. The coroner figured they were nine-millimeter bullets.”
“The most common caliber. Next the coroner will be telling us that our guy was wearing jeans and sneakers, and we can narrow it down from there . . .”
Lebreton smiled, scratching his cheekbone.
“In any case, we can’t confirm a thing: they didn’t find any cartridges, and the killer removed the bullets with a knife. There’s a nice, clean, cross-shaped incision in line with his heart . . .”
“A real pro,” Rosière said.
“Exactly. A cautious pro, too. He weighed Guénan down with a diver’s weight belt. It’s a standard model, and naturally there weren’t any fingerprints.”
Lebreton ran his hand through his thick hair and stubbed his cigarette out thoroughly. He was thinking.
“The murderer’s a man,” Rosière said. “Yann Guénan was a big guy: you’d need some brawn to tip him overboard, especially with the weight belt on. No witnesses, no noise, professional approach . . . I’d put good money on it being the work of a hit man. A contract. An execution. Not definite, but that would fit.”
“I thought about that. I started looking into it this morning, but our access to the archives is limited. The thing is, it doesn’t appear Guénan belonged to a gang of any sort. If this was a settling of scores, it wasn’t anything to do with organized crime.”
Lebreton slowly removed some papers from his jacket pocket and unfolded them.
“Two months before his death,” he said, “he was on board the Key Line Express.”
“Aha,” Rosière said, having no idea what he was referring to.
“It was a ferry that operated between Miami and Key West Island. It sank in the Gulf of Mexico. Forty-three dead, including sixteen from France. The ship owner was American, but the ferry was built in Brittany, in the shipyard at Saint-Nazaire. And Yann Guénan showed up there at the start of June.”
Rosière leaned forward and tickled her dog’s fluffy ear. His tail twitched lazily and he let out a contented sigh.
“The officers questioned the shipbuilder, but nothing came of it,” Lebreton said.
“And the widow, what does she think?” Rosière said, sitting up straight.
“She’s still living on rue Mazagran—she’s agreed to see us tomorrow.”
“Great! Shall we drop by the commissariat? I was hoping to take a couple of measurements.”
The two of them stepped into the sun-drenched street. Rosière turned the key in the lock, setting off the alarm that no code could ever neutralize: the yapping of a dog in distress. She turned to Lebreton to seek his approval, but her appeal was met with silence. Inside, Pilou was letting out a mournful whine, sniffing at the gap beneath the door. Rosière caved in.
“Okay, I’m taking him,” she announced.
Lebreton nodded his assent, but he said nothing. He was not one for throwaway comments, not about anything; he was more the sort to maintain a friendly yet uncompromising attitude, happy to
