With her mind at peace from the calm of the park, Capestan headed down boulevard Saint-Michel, reflecting on the fine scent of autumn as she passed under the horse chestnuts. She reached the quai above the Seine and admired Notre-Dame to her right, so magnificently authoritative, passing judgment on all the souls of Paris.
On the other side of the quai, she saw a dog sitting at the foot of a pedestal. It was a Rottweiler. Capestan didn’t have anything in particular against Rottweilers, but she was glad that Rosière had gone for the Pilote format. As always, the commissaire looked up at the owner to see if he resembled his dog. He was sitting with his legs hanging over the wall, and no question he looked even less friendly than his dog. The man patted the stone patch next to him to encourage the animal to join him, but it was afraid and refused to jump: it didn’t know what emptiness lay behind the wall. The Rottweiler folded back its ears, tail between its legs, but the owner insisted, yanking the leash and shouting at it to jump. A wave of fury pinned Capestan to the spot. The dog was scared to death—the guy needed to back off with his vicious commands. Capestan couldn’t cross because the lights were green and the cars were flying past. The animal was lying flat on the ground now, and the stumpy owner had come down from his perch to stand over it in a menacing fashion. The commissaire could see him screaming at the poor thing, and he looked like he was about to hit it. Capestan was ready to explode with anger. It felt as if she had a hundred hornets buzzing around her head, and a red mist started blurring her vision. She paced around the pavement as the cars rushed past, glaring up at the light. She was going to cross the road, grab the bastard’s head, and smash it against the wall until he stopped yelling at his dog. She could already hear the bone crunching against the stone, so in her mind she moderated the force of the impact, but only by a touch. A primal, apelike aggression was pumping through her veins, and she responded to its beat. Suddenly the cars all stopped and the pedestrian crossing opened up before her. On the other side, the Rottweiler had managed to jump up and was sitting there with its tongue hanging out, appreciating the respite. Next to it, the scumbag owner was lighting a cigarette. Capestan was breathing heavily as she crossed the road. An irrepressible anger was still pricking at her temples, goading her on to kill the bastard. His dog had not died today, but maybe it would tomorrow. The commissaire’s sense of reason was hammering away at her skull, begging her to unclench her fists: the emergency was over; you don’t kill for that. She was not allowed to kill. The message forced its way through and prudence seeped back into her pores. Capestan swerved abruptly, redoubling her pace toward the bridge and the office beyond.
It was getting worse and worse. Now even dogs were sending her to the edge. Before long she’d be unable to face up to the ordeals that came with police work. Like skin that becomes allergic following exposure, instead of toughening over time, she was softening; her defenses were crumbling, and she was becoming entirely susceptible. Soon she would be totally unfit, as savage as the scumbag back there. As she walked along, she rolled her entire being into a corner of her subconscious in an effort to calm down.
Fury. Killing a man but saving a dog.
Capestan stopped on the bridge.
What if Marie’s cat had been alive at the time of the burglary? The food and water bowls weren’t there anymore, but the killer could always have taken them. What if he had decided to spare the cat? To adopt it?
What sort of murderer would do a thing like that?
Sitting down to enjoy a helping of smoked herring and potatoes in oil, Merlot poured himself a large glass of Côtes-du-Rhône, then thumped the cork back in with a veteran hand. As he lifted it to his lips, a flash of inspiration brought the glass to a standstill.
“Is that Rosière not unattached?”
A lusty smile crept across his face, and a hand came up to his bald pate to slick back a curl of hair that had long since disappeared. Old habits die hard. The capitaine’s head bobbed up and down.
“Ho ho. And Capestan, too,” he said to himself, full of confidence.
26
Rosière and Lebreton walked around the fishing port to reach the pier, where two lighthouses, one green and one red, faced each other on opposite sides of the channel. The green one was slightly tilted, like a palm tree assailed by one storm too many. The view encompassed the vast bay of Sables-d’Olonne. Little waves were rolling in from the ocean, which was still calm at this early hour. Up on the long promenade hugging the beach, a waiter in an apron and sneakers was laying the tables on the terrace of Brasserie Le Pierrot.
They sat down and ordered a coffee, along with a bowl of water for the dog. Once their order had arrived and the waiter had gone back indoors, Rosière took a deep breath and summarized the facts before they went into battle.
“Objectively speaking, it’s simple enough: if Jallateau doesn’t talk, we’ve got nada, diddly-squat. He’s our number one
