“Where are you off to?” Rosière asked.
“To the commissariat.”
“On foot?”
“It’s ten minutes away . . .”
Rosière let out a puff.
“You’re so cute,” she said, at which point she twirled a set of car keys and zapped a powerful-looking Lexus—a gleaming black full-hybrid luxury—parked on the corner of the street.
8
Twenty minutes later, the Lexus was still purring at the lights on rue Dauphine. A yellow pine-tree air-freshener was fluttering beneath the rearview mirror. Lebreton looked out at the tourists from the passenger seat as they snapped away at Pont-Neuf and the statue of Henri IV. With their sleeves rolled up and windbreakers tied around their necks, they were enjoying the mild weather and the lovely view down the river. Even walking backward, they were going faster than the cars.
“You married?” Rosière said, gesturing toward the silver rings on Lebreton’s left hand.
“Widowed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. For how long?”
“Eight months and nine days.”
Rosière cleared her throat awkwardly, even though her instincts were screaming at her to probe further.
“What was her name?”
“Vincent.”
“Ah.”
Every time, without fail. The same “ah” that carried a mixture of surprise and relief. So this was not a real broken family; we were not dealing with a proper tragedy. Lebreton had lived with Vincent for twelve years, yet everyone seemed to think that he was not experiencing any real pain. Or at least not the same pain. Louis-Baptiste Lebreton had grown accustomed to it, but every “ah” was like being stabbed with a spike. By the end of the year he would resemble a porcupine. This squad was no different from all the others.
The few remaining minutes of the journey were dominated by Rosière’s embarrassed silence. Lebreton carried on gazing at the crowd casually. Soon, however, they pulled up alongside the Habitat on rue Pont-Neuf, and Rosière spotted some striped canvas deck chairs that she absolutely had to look at. She parked at an angle across a loading bay and bundled her partner into the shop.
She picked four to be delivered to rue des Innocents, along with a round iron table and some chairs to brighten up the terrace at the office. Rosière was already on to the next thing, and her most urgent plans concerning Lebreton now revolved around making him lug a potted rhododendron plant from quai de la Mégisserie to the terrace at the commissariat. The commandant was quite happy to offer his services, not that she gave him much choice in the matter. Rosière dropped him at the foot of the building and went to find somewhere to park.
Up on the landing, shrub in hand, Lebreton managed to knock on the door with his elbow. He heard some shuffling footsteps followed by a furtive slide of the steel flap covering the peephole. After two turns of the key, the door swung open to reveal a familiar face: Capitaine Orsini. A sudden coldness fell over the commissariat. Maybe a window had been left open somewhere—or maybe it was simply Orsini’s being there.
Lebreton set down the rhododendron and shook the icy hand of the former investigator from the brigade financière. He was only fifty-two, but he looked a good ten years older. He always wore the same gray chinos, with a white shirt and black silk scarf (navy blue every once in a while). Maybe a V-neck sweater in the same tones to keep him warm in the winter. His shoes were the only thing with any sparkle—the capitaine could not bear sloppiness of any kind.
Orsini had taught violin at the Lyon Conservatory until he was thirty-four before passing his exams for the police judiciaire. A curious change of career, especially since he loathed the police and always seemed intent on bringing down the force: on more than one occasion, Lebreton’s internal investigations had been substantiated by evidence gathered by Capitaine Orsini. In the informant’s defense, he had raised only well-founded corruption cases, backing up his accusations with persuasive proof. He provided plenty of ammunition not just for the IGS, but also for the press. If this irreproachable individual had landed in this squad, it was because of his address book and his penchant for keeping journalists in the loop with every secret at the HQ. He had never been reprimanded for his failure to respect confidentiality, but some divisionnaire must have considered him to be the source of one inside story too many and decided it was time for him to go elsewhere—to hell, for example. Exit the bean spiller; enter one more soul into the lost brigade.
Orsini was going to have a field day with his new colleagues. Lebreton could not help thinking that his arrival did not bode well for Capestan.
Eva Rosière checked that she had not left anything in the driver’s door. She ran a grateful hand over the Saint Christopher sticker on the dashboard, then gripped the handle of her leather bag on the passenger seat. Before getting out, she turned to her dog, sitting at attention on the back seat.
“Listen up, Pilou. As with most places, I’m fairly certain dogs aren’t allowed here, but we’re going to give it a shot. So behave yourself—understood?”
“Yep!” Pilote replied, concise as ever.
“Good. Now be polite to everyone. Especially the boss.”
9
The traffic along the river was fine, and the scooters weaved in and out of the cars like a flock of starlings. A few minutes earlier, Torrez had needed to take a moment when the beat-up carcass of the 306 rolled into view. Capestan had tried to explain with a reassuring smile that this Peugeot—along with a rusty Renault Clio and a Renault Twingo missing its bumper—represented the extent of the squad’s fleet of cars. Clearly the state allocated its vehicles according to merit.
Torrez had initially refused to take the wheel, but Capestan had insisted: she
