At number 36, this sudden shoot to stardom ruffled a few feathers. If former policemen Olivier Marchal or Franck Mancuso want to go in search of fame in screenwriting, then fine. But for a woman—from the backwaters of Saint-Étienne, to make things even worse—to be blessed with a big brain and a vocal pen . . . it did not sit too well with the head honchos in Paris. Once she had made her fortune, Rosière had curiously applied to resume her duties as a police officer, without taking a step back from her screenwriting activities. And the police had been obliged to accept.
But what was permissible on the page soon became hard to swallow on the screen, what with its broader audience. She starting rubbing her police judiciaire colleagues the wrong way by flaunting her millions, and soon the top brass got fed up, too. The digs that started off as harmless banter started puncturing egos: you tend to be less forgiving of people when you envy them.
And so when the television series kicked off with stellar ratings, a veritable cabal formed as the administration set about trying to gag the artist. The fact that Rosière had washed up there today showed that round one had gone to the management. As for Capestan, she was glued to the series—she found it funny and, contrary to all the fuss, perfectly lighthearted.
Rosière smiled at Capestan, then looked hungrily over at Lebreton. Athletic frame, bright eyes, delicate yet manly features . . . there was no denying he was a fine specimen. The only thing marring his Hollywood good looks was a deep, vertical line running down his right cheek, like the seam of a pillow. Well accustomed to such close inspections, Lebreton leaned forward in a friendly manner and offered Rosière his hand.
“I’ve got two delivery men waiting downstairs with my Empire desk,” the new arrival announced. “Where can I put it?”
“Okay, then . . .”
Rosière spun on her heel, surveying the layout of the apartment.
“How about I sub it in for this piece of crap, would that work?” the capitaine said, gesturing toward the other makeshift trestle table in the corner.
“That would work.”
At 6:00 p.m., Capestan found herself standing in the entrance like a hostess who had been snubbed by her guests. She had busted a gut to memorize forty CVs, only to be left with three people, with no guarantee that they would show up the following day. She was not planning on forcing them, anyway. For each of them, landing in this squad was a punishment: the end of the road.
As if echoing the commissaire’s silent sense of defeat, Torrez crossed the room without so much as a glance at his colleagues. Rosière and Lebreton shuddered with a mixture of surprise and superstition as he went by. Capestan paused, then decided on a no-nonsense approach to gauge the other officers’ commitment levels.
“Well, I’m planning on being here tomorrow,” she said to the lieutenant. “But don’t feel under any obligation yourselves.”
With such a depleted team, the “yourselves” hardly meant a great deal anyway.
“I get paid to do 8:00 a.m. to midday, then 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.,” Torrez said, unfazed and nodding his mule-like head. He tapped his watch, then added: “See you tomorrow.”
Then he left, closing the door behind him. Capestan turned toward Rosière and Lebreton, waiting to see their reaction.
“We’ll only be stuck here for a couple of months,” Rosière said. “I’m not going to be stupid enough to let them fire me for abandoning my post.”
She tugged at her charm necklace, fiddling with the various pendants dangling from it, mainly patron saint medallions.
“About Torrez . . . he’s got his own office, right?”
Capestan nodded her confirmation and looked over at Lebreton.
“There has to be one case worth investigating,” he said, allowing the briefest glimpse at his intentions before diving back into the cardboard box. “I’m looking for it.”
And so there would be four of them. Not quite the twenty she had had in mind, but it was a start. All things considered, Capestan was pretty pleased.
4
The following day, they spent hours digging. Randomly picking at the wall of boxes lining the corridor, they skimmed through files in the hope of unearthing something worthy of further investigation. Rosière was the first to vent her frustration.
“Are we seriously going to riffle through all these cell phone thefts until we’re blue in the face, commissaire?”
“There’s every chance, capitaine. We haven’t been sent here to hunt down a serial killer. Let’s press on for the moment—you never know what might come up.”
Positioned against the wall, Rosière looked unconvinced.
“Fine, let’s keep playing grab bag,” she said. “In fact, fuck it, I’m going shopping.”
Capestan watched as she seized her coat with an expansive, theatrical gesture. Generally speaking, Rosière was not an inconspicuous woman: she had fiery red hair, red lipstick, and a shimmering blue coat. Capestan doubted there was a single shade of beige or gray in this eye-catching capitaine’s wardrobe.
“Hold on,” Lebreton muttered.
He had just opened a file on his desk. Capestan and Rosière went over to join him.
“A murder. It was at the top of this one,” he said, indicating a box stamped ORFÈVRES. “The case dates back to 1993 and concerns one Yann Guénan. Shot dead. He was fished out of the Seine by the river police. His body got caught
