Capestan had followed Lebreton’s advice and called the vet. He had confirmed that Tunafix, a young cat in full health at the time of the crime, did indeed have a carrier, which he happened to remember was a gray and dark-red model with a plaid rug covered in cat hair. Earlier that morning, the commissaire had returned to check the house. The carrier was nowhere to be seen: the murderer had indeed taken the cat with him. So that it wouldn’t die? So that it wouldn’t alert the neighbors with its meowing?
Capestan was still thinking this through as she removed the baby monitor from its box. A moment later, Lewitz arrived and parked his car—a yellow Chevrolet Laguna with spoilers and four rows of brake lights—on the pedestrian crossing. Lebreton waved his cigarette at the windshield, ordering the brigadier to move along: he was blocking the way for strollers and wheelchairs. Lewitz obliged. Maneuvering his Renault as if it were a Smart car, he boldly parked at right angles with the curb, swinging his two rear wheels onto the pavement and presenting his exhaust pipe to the unfortunate patrons of the terrace. Lebreton admitted defeat with a sigh.
Torrez was sitting to one side, keeping an eye on things from a bench pushed up against a defunct old pinball machine. In addition to his childcare equipment, the lieutenant had shared some news from his research into Marie Sauzelle’s timetable. Through calling various clubs to identify the infamous get-together she was supposed to be attending, he had hit on several dates: on the evening of May 30, she had attended—and even participated vigorously in, as far as the instructor recalled—an end-of-term tango show. On June 4, however, she had missed the summer raffle at her tarot club, despite having expressed an interest in one of the prizes (a leg of lamb, the chairman had specified). Marie must have died between the two. That tightened the net, but they still did not have the key date. Torrez had called Marie’s brother back about the dance show, but André was adamant that she had spoken at length about a “reunion.” So it couldn’t have been the tango.
Capestan switched on the power button on the receiver. The squad huddled together on the window seat like a gaggle of teenagers around a single can of beer. On the table, the crackling baby monitor took center stage among the coffee cups, saucers, and crumpled sugar packets. Suddenly it emitted a clearer sound, followed by the tinny timbre of an amplified voice. Success! Évrard had managed to plant the other monitor in the living room. The officers all leaned closer to the speaker.
“. . .—iminary forensics . . . occurred this morning between six and eight . . .”
The whole team nodded: they had the time of death. The speaking was dotted with lots of pauses, no doubt for the purpose of note taking.
“That’ll be the crime scene investigator,” Rosière said.
“. . . no sexual assault . . . no sign of self-defense . . .”
“The murderer was either quick or the victim knew her attacker,” Capestan said.
“. . . knife wound . . . no money or jewels left . . . no computer . . .”
Behind the distorted voice, they could make out the scraping of furniture, the rustling of plastic sheets, the sound of a zipper, and some more distant conversations that were barely audible.
“. . . five knives identical to the murder weapon in the kitchen . . . burglary . . .”
“Of course,” Lebreton said with a frustrated pout.
The commandant was right: the burglary had only been intended as a decoy. That said, the computer had been stolen.
“. . . one son, Cédric Guénan, twenty-four years old, resident of Malakoff . . .”
Valincourt would already be over there telling him the sad news. Capestan felt a knot in her stomach.
Other than these basic elements, the squad did not learn a great deal, apart from that Commandant Servier—a quai des Orfèvres thoroughbred—was heading up the inquiry. Capestan and Rosière knew him fleetingly, but he was hardly someone they could ask for inside information for old times’ sake.
Merlot and Évrard marched in a few minutes later like triumphant heroes.
“Leave it to the professionals!” Merlot shouted, holding up his arms with a self-satisfied gurgle.
After warmly accepting his colleagues’ congratulations, Merlot cleaved through the crowd toward the bar, his belly jutting out like the prow of a ship, to claim his just reward. Évrard stayed by the table, a few strands of hair still clinging to her clammy forehead.
“So?” she said. “Where are we? Are we ahead of the game?”
Rosière answered as she untangled Pilou’s leash from around her chair:
“We’ve got a small head start thanks to the husband’s case, but nothing substantial: there are more of them and they have more resources, plus every officer in the neighborhood is chomping at the bit to help out crim.”
“It’s an inquiry, not a competition,” Lebreton said.
“Tut-tut-tut!” Rosière shot back. “Of course it’s a competition, my chicken! How do you think we’ll earn our stripes? By wrapping up the case and handing it to them with a nice little ribbon on top? Why not throw in your bank card and PIN number while we’re at it?”
“Let’s just say that it’s not a competition, but we’re eager to cross the finish line first,” Capestan intervened lightheartedly.
“So what are we going to do, then?” Évrard said.
“We stay here until they back away, just in case they find something new.”
Capestan stood up and went to find Merlot before he made too big a dent in the bar stocks.
“Capitaine . . .”
“The governor!” he proclaimed, hoisting his glass of pastis. “How might I be of service?”
“I asked you to check if there was any history between Buron and Riverni—did you find anything out in the end?”
“Indeed you did! I had forgotten.”
Merlot protectively returned his glass to the bar, patted his jacket to locate his glasses, and slid them on to read a tattered scrap of paper he had pulled from his trouser pocket.
“2009. Buron was all set to take the helm at the police
