The car was still at a halt and Torrez was staring at the commissaire in silence. She felt as if she had just told him he was transferring to Minsk.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You know what,” Torrez said after a few seconds’ hesitation, “I’ve been a cast off for years. Before it was just me, but now there’s a whole team of us. As far as I’m concerned, that’s progress.”
The brake lights on the Volvo ahead went out, and they were on the move again. Torrez joined the right-hand lane, taking care to avoid a bike that was studiously ignoring the cycle path six feet to its side. The lieutenant’s face suggested he was chewing over a question but was hesitant about spitting it out. Capestan knew precisely what it was, and decided to give him until Châtelet to come out with it. He finally cracked at Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.
“Did you really shoot that guy, then? That’s quite something to pin on you bearing in mind . . . what you’d done before.”
Bull’s-eye. She had plenty more to say on the matter, but she trotted out the familiar phrase instead:
“Self-defense.”
Torrez screwed up his face with skepticism and kept his hands tight on the wheel. The second question would come soon. The same inevitable follow-up. But Torrez abstained: he was saving it up for later.
They arrived at boulevard de Sébastopol and pulled into the Vinci parking garage, where a few spaces were reserved for the squad. One of them was filled with a sumptuous jet-black Lexus.
“What the hell is that?” Torrez said.
“My guess is it’s Rosière’s car.”
“I bet she’s got a siren.”
12
When Capestan and Torrez reached the landing, they noticed that the door was locked from the inside with the key still in it. She had to stoop to ringing the bell to get into her own commissariat. The sound of barking came from inside, and she couldn’t for the life of her think what was going on. Lebreton opened the door, a furious dog at his feet. He nodded at them and returned to his conversation, the little hound walking alongside him.
All four of them went to join Rosière, who had furnished her Empire desk with remarkable opulence: a chic leather blotter, an intricately gilded pen holder, and a bronze lamp with false candles and a shade with the Napoleonic bee-print pattern. She had also unashamedly expanded her territory, adding two large armchairs—upholstered in stripy green-and-cream satin—opposite her own mahogany throne. Sitting in one of these chairs was a woman with blonde curly hair. She was holding a file and turning the pages in a perfectly measured manner. A new recruit, the commissaire thought to herself.
“I found it in that cardboard box,” the young woman explained, pointing to one at her feet marked DRUG SQUAD. “Supposedly a closed case, something about a dealer operating in parc Monceau.”
She stood up when she saw Capestan.
“Good morning, commissaire, I’m Lieutenant Évrard. I used to be in the gambling task force, but they transferred me here. When I found out you were in charge of the squad, I thought . . .”
She held out her hands in a manner that roughly translated as “got to be worth a try.” Capestan put on a welcoming expression at the same time as returning to her internal list of CVs. Évrard . . . lieutenant, yes, but also a compulsive gambler who had been banned from all casinos and sidelined for suspected foul play involving underground gambling dens. She looked perfectly clean-cut and open, with big innocent blue eyes. Not your everyday bluffer—that must have been a bonus for her.
“Hello, lieutenant. Delighted to have you on the team. Is that your dog?”
“I’m going to get a coffee,” Torrez said, heading into the kitchen.
Évrard suddenly turned pale. She had just recognized the notorious Malchance and was automatically reaching for a salt shaker or a lucky charm of some sort. She thrust her hands into her pockets and managed to regain a semblance of calm. After pouring his coffee, Torrez looked at her irritably and then disappeared down the corridor to his office.
“Whose dog is this?” Capestan said again.
“Mine,” Rosière answered. “You don’t mind, do you? We can say he’s a police dog . . .”
“He’s not even eight inches high, your police dog.”
“Don’t listen to that lady, my little Pilou. She’s talking nonsense,” Rosière said in a falsely consoling tone, then added: “He’s got flair, you know.”
Capestan felt the need to assert a basic level of authority. But the dog plonked his rear on the floor as if it weighed three tons and stared back at her with his ears and nose in the air. His enormous paws and disproportionately large head gave him the appearance of a perpetual puppy. In any case, Capestan had never been overly fond of authority.
“What breed is it?”
Rosière answered by numbering on her left hand:
“There’s some corgi, like the Queen of England has, then some dachshund, some mutt, a bit of pooch, and some mongrel. He’s even more hybrid than my Lexus,” she chuckled, delighted either by her joke or by the dog itself. “His name is Pilote, but you can call him Pilou.”
“Oh, I can? He won’t get upset?”
Rosière smiled, leaned down, and tickled the neck of her dog, who stretched his muzzle as far forward as possible to take full advantage of his mistress’s attentions. Capestan was about to go and join Torrez when Merlot appeared in the doorway. He greeted the mere commoners in the room with a gesture that was almost as expansive as his waistline:
“Ladies and gentlemen! And canines,” he added, acknowledging the world’s least effective guard dog.
After much bowing and scraping, Merlot made the most of the introductions to plant an enthusiastic kiss on the hands of the unfortunate Évrard and Rosière, whom he had never met before. Reeking of cheap wine that was potent enough to strip wallpaper, he embarked on yet another round of urbane conversation. He held forth one way and the
