Rosière often concluded her diatribes with a melodramatic “pfff.” Merlot carried on smiling, nodding as he admired the spoon, apparently pleased for Rosière to have her say. Merlot loved his life. His ego functioned with eye-watering simplicity: all glory and gain was for him, and everything else was of no consequence whatsoever.
At the far end of the terrace, Orsini was now removing the dead leaves from the rose-bay. He had supplied the press with a wealth of remarkably detailed information relating to the Riverni case. Capestan had seen it coming, but even so the end result had surpassed her expectations. The perennially chic old-school capitaine filled both hands with leaves before disposing of them in the kitchen trash. Capestan realized that, deep down, she had never been afraid of Orsini. From the start, she had regarded him as a solution, not a threat.
The commissaire’s thoughts returned to Buron, whose reprimand had gone above and beyond, despite the fact that—as he acknowledged at the start—he hadn’t been at all surprised by her conduct. The directeur knew Orsini, and he knew Capestan even better. As much as she hated to admit it, she became extremely predictable the moment she was backed into a corner. She responded badly to arbitrary bans and did everything she could to bypass them. Buron had known that for a long time. All of a sudden, Capestan became certain that she was being played. Like a fiddle. And she hadn’t kicked up the smallest fuss. Now she needed to find out why.
An impulse made her turn to Merlot, who had left his spoon lying on one of the deck chairs.
“Capitaine, may I ask you a favor?” she asked.
“But of course, my dear girl. At your service.”
“If any of your contacts has heard anything about a spat between Buron and Riverni, I’d like to hear about it.”
24
They had left in the middle of the night. The deserted streets of Paris filed past them. The windows of the apartment buildings were pitch black, and the occasional sound of traffic seemed muffled, as if coming from far away. At a red light, Lebreton had spotted a small group of tipsy thirty-somethings smoking outside a club, spotlit by the neon sign above the entrance. Soon they would be joining the Périphérique, where the Lexus could finally open herself up, like a dog off its leash in a field.
Lebreton was driving smoothly, savoring the engine’s barely audible purr. The leather seats were as cozy as anything, and the orangey glow from the dashboard cast a soft light on their faces. Pilote was lying peacefully in the back on his fleece-lined blanket, letting out the occasional snore. For once, Rosière hadn’t doused herself in boatloads of Guerlain, and the Lexus’s new-car smell prevailed. Lebreton had prepared a playlist for the journey: a few country classics, some California surf tunes, and a handful of Otis Redding numbers. A soundtrack for a road trip to the coast.
Rosière had been asleep since they got off at the A11 after Saint-Arnoult, only waking up when they had to slow down for the Roche-sur-Yon toll booth. She stretched and leaned down to grab her handbag, insisting on paying, but Lebreton had been too quick with his card. As he pulled away, she asked a question that she must have been sitting on for a while.
“Is it true you used to be a RAID negotiator?” she said casually.
“Yes. For ten years.”
Ten years that went by in a heartbeat. Lebreton had adored that job. It had been all about action, composure, discipline, and listening. Identifying peaceful solutions in the heat of crazed situations; focusing on the last line of defense—negotiation—before the guys with guns and balaclavas came storming in. Ten years of training, honing his skills, and he had never been bored for a second. The commandant had an instant flashback to the day before, back in their commissariat, where he had noticed that his computer keyboard was missing its A and ENTER buttons.
Lebreton chose not to expand, so Rosière took the reins:
“RAID, that’s pretty classy. What took you to IGS?”
“Nothing took me—it wasn’t my decision.”
During the recruitment phase, Lebreton had never mentioned his sexual orientation. The rapid-response unit was like testosterone HQ, rife with prejudice, and he had wanted the job. And he had gotten it. After that, his performance had placed him beyond suspicion.
“Why?” Rosière said, twisting in her seat so she could see him more easily.
“Do you know what it’s like to be gay in the police force?”
“For starters, I’m guessing the word ‘gay’ doesn’t come up much . . .”
Lebreton smiled.
“Yes, for starters.”
And then Vincent had arrived on the scene. The years went by and he grew tired of keeping secrets. One morning, on the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin, Lebreton and his boyfriend had bumped into Massard, a RAID commandant. Lebreton had introduced Vincent, making no bones about who he was. At the time, Massard had played the worldly, liberal card, not that they were seeking any reaction at all.
“When the word got out, I was transferred in two weeks flat. They promoted me to commandant to sweeten the pill.”
The IGS: the elephant graveyard, the end of the earth, the hole. Lebreton did not think it was possible to descend any lower. At least, not until Capestan’s squad came along. In the end, however, the work hadn’t been entirely without interest. There was a constant stream of officers mistaking their ID badge for a blank check.
“Is it true you grilled Capestan while you were there?”
Prime example, Lebreton thought to himself. Batman syndrome. He kept this to himself, however, and simply turned away. The leaves on the trees at the top of the embankment
