She removed the elastic band she kept on her wrist and tied her hair back. It had turned blonde, as it did every summer, but soon a deeper chestnut tone would start reasserting itself. Capestan smoothed her dress with a mechanical motion and pulled on her sandals, without so much as a flinch from the cat on the armrest. Only the pinna of the feline’s ear twitched into action, tilting toward the door to monitor her departure. The commissaire hitched her big leather handbag onto her shoulder and slipped in the copy of The Bonfire of the Vanities that Buron had lent her. Nine hundred and twenty pages. “That’ll keep you busy while you wait for my call,” he had assured her. Waiting. She had had enough time to read all thirteen installments of Fortunes of France and the complete works of Marie-Ange Guillaume. Not to mention stacks of detective novels. Buron and his hollow words without dates or promises. Capestan closed the door behind her, turned the key twice, and set off for the stairs.
Rue de la Verrerie was deserted in the soft morning light. In August, at this early hour, Paris seemed restored to a natural state, cleared of its inhabitants, as though it had survived a neutron bomb. In the distance, the flashing light of a street sweeper gave off an orange glow. Capestan walked past the window displays of the BHV department store, then cut diagonally across the square outside the Hôtel de Ville. She crossed the Seine and continued to the far side of Île de la Cité, arriving at the entrance of 36, quai des Orfèvres.
She went through the enormous doorway and turned right into the paved courtyard, pausing to glance at the faded blue sign: STAIRWAY A, POLICE JUDICIAIRE SENIOR MANAGEMENT. Following his promotion, Buron had set up shop on the third floor, the cushy level for the force’s decision makers. No gun toting on that corridor, even for the real cowboys.
Capestan pushed open the double doors. The thought of this meeting made her stomach lurch. She had always been a police officer, never considered any other options. Thirty-seven’s hardly the age to go back to school. The restlessness of the past six months had already taken its toll. She had done a lot of walking. She had followed every single line on the Parisian métro at street level: 1 to 14, terminus to terminus. She was desperate to be welcomed back into the fold before having to tackle the suburban trains. Sometimes she wondered if she might be forced to run the length of the high-speed TGV train tracks, just to give herself something to do.
Face-to-face with the gleaming, brand-new engraved plaque bearing the name of the regional chief of the police judiciare, she gathered herself and knocked three times. Buron’s deep, booming voice instructed her to come in.
2
Buron stood up to greet her. His basset-hound face was framed by military-cut gray hair and a beard. Everywhere he went, he wore a kind, almost downcast expression. He was a good head taller than Capestan, who was not exactly short herself, and a good stomach wider, too. But despite his hearty appearance, Buron radiated authority: no one joked around with him. Capestan smiled at him and handed over the Wolfe novel. There was a small scuff on the cover, which prompted a flicker of disapproval from the chief when he noticed it. Capestan apologized, even if she failed to see what the fuss was about. It was nothing, he said, but he clearly did not mean it.
Behind Buron, sitting in large armchairs, she recognized Fomenko, the former head of the drug squad and now deputy regional chief, and Valincourt, who had recently left a senior role at the brigade criminelle to become top brass at brigades centrales. Capestan wondered what these big guns were doing there. Given her current status, the prospect of her being snapped up by one of them seemed unlikely. She smiled at the lordly law enforcement triumvirate, sat down, and waited for the verdict.
“I have good news,” Buron said, diving straight in. “The IGS investigation has wrapped up, your suspension is over, and you are formally reinstated. The incident will not go down on your file.”
A huge sense of relief washed over Capestan. She could feel the joy coursing through her veins, and with it came a sudden urge to rush out and celebrate. But she managed to retain her focus as Buron continued:
“Your new post takes effect in September. You’ll be heading up a new squad.”
Capestan could not help raising an eyebrow at this. Her reinstatement had been enough of a surprise; entrusting her with a position of responsibility was starting to look suspect. Something about Buron’s little speech had the effect of the crack of knuckles that usually precedes a punch.
“Me? A squad?”
“It’s a special, force-wide initiative,” Buron explained with a distant look. “As part of the police’s restructuring that aims to optimize the performance of various frontline services, an ancillary squad has been formed. The squad will report directly to me, and will comprise some of the force’s least . . . conventional members.”
While Buron delivered his spiel, his associates looked bored beyond belief. Fomenko was studying the collection of old medals in Buron’s glass cabinet without any real interest. From time to time he ran his hand through his white hair, tugged at the bottom of his vest, or gazed at the points of his cowboy boots. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed hairy, muscular forearms: a reminder that Fomenko could unhinge your jaw with one swing of his fist. As for Valincourt, he was fiddling with his watch in a manner that made it plain he wished it would speed up. He had clean, angular features and a dark complexion that brought to mind an old soul that had lived many lives. He never smiled and gave off a permanent air of irritation, like a monarch who takes offense
