She ejected the cassette and returned it to its plastic box. With the help of this one video, they could now be certain about several things. The commissaire listed them: Valincourt, like Marie Sauzelle, was part of the Association, which meant they had both traveled on the Key Line Express, the boat on which Yann Guénan had been a crew member. All three of them had definitely crossed paths. Most important, Sauzelle had met the divisionnaire just before her death.
“I think we can drop Buron,” Rosière said. “We’ve got ourselves another crooked officer . . .”
Capestan nodded vigorously, not afraid to show her relief. With a newfound optimism, she darted toward the stack of folders on her desk. She came back to the sofa and spread copies of the Guénan file across the coffee table. The three of them almost bumped heads as they scoured the list of signatures. No mention of Valincourt.
“But he was there for Marie Sauzelle, and as for Maëlle Guénan, there’s no doubt whatsoever—we saw him at the scene,” Capestan said.
“We’ve found our culprit!” Rosière crowed.
“No, no, hold on,” Lebreton said, trying to calm everyone down. “He was carrying out an investigation and he happened to know at least one of the victims. To go from there to concluding he committed the murders . . .”
“Wait, Louis-Baptiste,” Capestan said. “He knew the victim but, more important, he never mentioned that fact. Not in the case notes at the time, nor when I visited him. He explicitly said that the first time he’d met her was when she was dead. There’s forgetful, and then there’s . . .”
Lebreton leaned back heavily in his armchair and crossed his legs. The commandant was never one to rush to hasty conclusions.
“Perhaps. We need to establish the reason for his silence. On top of—”
“Oh, all your official IGS nonsense is getting on my nerves!” Rosière shouted. “Come on, the guy’s guilty as sin!”
“All right, all right, don’t lose your temper, Eva. What do we do now?” Lebreton asked, smiling in spite of himself.
“We shift our tail to Valincourt. Same profile, same approach,” Capestan said.
“We’ve got enough on him to pay a courtesy call, surely?” Rosière said greedily.
“No, it’s too early,” the commissaire said, applying the brakes. “We don’t have enough incriminating evidence to bring him in.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. We’ve got no formal evidence, no DNA, no fingerprints . . . Just a few coincidences.”
“That hasn’t stopped us in the past . . .”
“Yes, but this is Valincourt we’re talking about. The man’s got more stripes than a zebra. If we go for him head-on, we’ll only get a bloody nose, like with Riverni. We need a motive and we need to be prepared. We need to know everything about the divisionnaire before we attack.”
Finding the murderer was one thing; catching him would be another.
41
There was a palpable enthusiasm in the Commissariat des Innocents. The investigation was gathering momentum.
Merlot, feet up on his desk, had wedged his considerable girth between the arms of a swivel chair, which was putting up a noble but short-term resistance. With the receiver in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other, he was doing his best gentrified-Marlowe impression as he wrangled with every HR manager the police judiciaire could throw at him.
“Indeed, mon ami, the very same Valincourt as he who commands the brigades centrales! I would not be chivying you if this were a matter of meager importance. Ah, the usual little snapshot if you will: parents, marriage, children, qualifications, previous postings, what he has for breakfast, and his favorite brand of underwear. Mum’s the word, eh?” he guffawed, like a Freemason bumping into an old pal at the lodge. “How does a bottle of Napoléon cognac sound for a little ‘incentive’?”
Lebreton pinned a sheet to the wall with details of the surveillance rotation schedule. Évrard was still keeping an eye on the Squirrel while Orsini was in charge of Divisionnaire Valincourt. The commandant then untangled the headphones of his hands-free kit so he could call up everyone from the inquiry to ask the all-important question: “Did you know this man outside his role as a detective?” Midconversation he made his way calmly to the terrace, where he stood gazing across the rooftops of Paris in the direction of the voice in the distance.
Lewitz had gone down to the parking garage along with Rosière, who had made arrangements for a vehicle that was more suitable for stakeouts than the brigadier’s bright-yellow Laguna. The capitaine had then returned to the apartment without Lewitz, giving him a bit of time to break in his new toy. Dax, fresh from his shower, was back at his computer screen, fingers on keyboard, gaping at her like a schoolboy waiting to take dictation. The commissaire knew it was in her interest to choose her words wisely.
“Merlot’s in charge of Valincourt’s civil status and general bio. So I’d like you to dig up his telephone records: landline and cell phone. We’re looking for a call to one of these,” she said, handing him a Post-it with Maëlle Guénan’s numbers. “I’d also like details of credit card transactions, in particular for the purchase of a set of knives.”
“More likely to buy a murder weapon with cash,” Rosière pointed out, walking toward the commissaire with the journal in her hand.
“True, but you never know.”
“Shall I check out his online identity, too?” Dax said.
“Do you really think old Geronimo’s on Facebook? Maybe he’s got a Twitter account to share his latest gags, too?”
Capestan ignored Rosière and her typical sarcasm.
“Yes, I’d be interested in his digital footprint, too. Do whatever you think is necessary, Dax, but remember we don’t have much time.”
The lieutenant gave Capestan a salute and revved up his computer with a toothy grin.
Two hours later, dripping with sweat, he summoned the troops.
“I’ve got everything!”
Capestan, Lebreton, and Rosière flocked to his station. A carefully stacked pile of printed sheets was looming in front of the hacker. He grabbed the top one and handed it to Capestan, then doled out the rest:
“Statements
