Capestan looked at the lieutenant: he really was resourceful. He was beaming with paternal pride. Baby monitors in an old woman’s apartment. The world’s least discreet spying tool, and yet no policeman would ever notice their presence.
32
Évrard stealthily worked her way up the tired wooden steps, involuntarily stroking the baby monitor in her pocket. It was as round and smooth as a lucky pebble.
The key was putting it in a good spot. If Évrard nailed this task, they had a chance of solving both Guénan murders and being recognized as legitimate police officers rather than a bunch of has-beens. But if she failed, she would be done for attempting to engage in illegal tapping. Double or quits.
Discretion, going unnoticed, passing like a shadow . . . Évrard knew how to do all this and more. Not quite a blonde or a redhead or a brunette, she had always slipped under the radar. Over time, this tactic proved to be her undoing. No one saw her anymore. Soon she grew tired of duping her dull, insipid opponents and went off to get her fix in increasingly seedy spots.
At first she had taken to gambling for the thrill of victory, but then, like any addict, she had started playing to lose. For the thrill of standing at the roulette table with your whole life in your hands, gobbling up savings, sinking deeper into debt, breaking up families. The lure of the abyss. Not often you get to look chance in the face and see it waver.
She had never had much to lose, but right now she was happy in her new squad. Évrard felt like she was closer to the surface. She was walking along the ridge of a mountain, slightly off-balance, but advancing nonetheless. And now she had to plant the baby monitor.
The timer suddenly cut out and Évrard was plunged into darkness. She froze instinctively, then groped around for a light switch. She heard Merlot stumble and swear heartily as he clattered onto the landing. The light returned with a click and Évrard saw a young agent rushing downstairs, his hand sliding down the banister. She automatically dropped her eyes and pressed herself against the wall, and the man brushed past without noticing her. Merlot’s voice rang out a few yards below: “Whoa there! Easy does it!” The agent apologized and reduced his speed before disappearing from sight. The gift of Merlot’s gab was going to torpedo any attempt at subtlety. He caught up with her, desperately trying to regain his breath, and held his hand aloft:
“Allow me to lead the way, dear girl.”
Against her better judgment, Évrard nodded: he was going to ruin everything.
Eventually they arrived at the fourth floor. Through the half-open door they could make out the sounds of various teams at work. A square-jawed detective from the police judiciaire in a hoodie left the Guénans’ apartment. Évrard saw an officer from the organized crime division she had come across back in her gambling task force days. She felt a sudden cold sweat: if he recognized her, they were screwed. Évrard’s hand trembled in her pocket and she renewed her grip on the device. The officer’s first glance passed over her, but something told her it would linger for longer the next time. Of all the times for someone to remember her, it had to be now.
Just as the officer was about to click, Merlot bellowed at him like a bon vivant fresh from his country estate:
“What a delight to see you again, mon vieux! It’s been an age since the Canal de l’Ourcq!”
As square-jaw stopped to say hello to this jovial colleague, racking his brains for any canal-related memories, Évrard seized her chance to slip into the apartment.
In the chaotic living room, the crime scene investigator was switching on his dictating machine to record the preliminary findings; around him, the forensics team was finishing collecting fingerprints. Évrard let out one of those greetings that sound more normal than silence, quiet enough not to draw anyone’s full attention. The officers returned the lieutenant’s hello, while barely registering her presence. Évrard was like an ultrasonic pulse: she was there, but nobody heard her. A phantom bird call.
She tightened her grip on the baby monitor in her pocket and placed her thumb on the power button. She switched it on and a faint crackle snuck into the room. Heads shot up.
Évrard stopped herself from swinging around suddenly. One of the technicians examining the carpet stood up and turned off his walkie-talkie, which was lying on a chair, before going back to work. Évrard walked over to a toy basket in a corner of the living room and set the monitor down in the middle of some rubber blocks. A bit of adhesive tape covered the “on” light.
Now all she needed to do was grab the journal. “Slide it up your sleeve,” Rosière had teased her. That was exactly what Évrard was planning. She spotted the telephone, walked over and swiped the journal using her best sleight of hand.
Mission accomplished.
Before leaving, she glanced at the filing cabinet.
There was no doubt about it. Someone had forced it.
33
The group had ordered coffee while they waited for the spies to return. Lunchtime was approaching and the brasserie was livening up with the background clink of cutlery. Capestan was watching Lebreton, who still had his back to the window. An anxious furrow had appeared above his right eyebrow that ran perpendicular to the line running down his cheek. He seemed to be mulling over the recent turn of events. For the first time in his career, he was directly engaging in illegal activity. It was for a just cause, but the methods employed were like a stain on his immaculate shirtfront. He must have had enough of skipping so many steps. Capestan was surprised to find herself sympathizing, despite her long history of not so
