The commissaire became increasingly disconcerted as she took delivery of these documents and scanned their contents, each one more breathtakingly useless than the last. Rosière, too miffed this time to tease him, turned to the lieutenant:
“Dax, do you honestly see the divisionnaire going around with a Sephora card? They sell cosmetics!”
“Yeah, why not—I’ve got a Sephora card.”
“Capestan asked for credit cards, not loyalty cards.”
“Ah. Must have missed the ‘credit’ part. Still, I’ve got plenty of info on Valincourt,” Dax protested.
“Although apparently not the right Valincourt, unless the divisionnaire goes by the name ‘Charlotte’?”
Dax sulkily carried on handing the sheets to Capestan, who carried on glancing down at them. Suddenly she put her hand out and touched Rosière’s arm.
“Wait, wait,” she said. “There on the telephone record—that’s Maëlle’s number . . . Valincourt, first name ‘Gabriel.’ Same as on that Decathlon card . . . It’s the son, not the father! Dax, did you look for a Facebook account in the name Valincourt?”
The lieutenant jogged his mouse and clicked to maximize the page.
“Bingo!” Capestan said, pumping her fist. “Look at the profile pic.”
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” Dax said. “I didn’t recognize him without the helmet—it’s the kid from number 36!”
Finally they had an ID on him. The Squirrel was named Gabriel Valincourt, son of Divisionnaire Alexandre Valincourt, head of the brigades centrales de la police judiciaire, and a triple-murder suspect. The son had called Maëlle Guénan the day before her death.
“Super work, Dax,” Capestan congratulated him, beaming ear to ear.
For a few minutes they stayed like that next to the computer, in stunned, contented silence as Pilou wagged his tale earnestly. However eccentric his methods, Dax had just made a major breakthrough.
The day was drawing to a close. Orsini was tailing the divisionnaire and Lewitz had gone home, but the rest of the team was still hanging around the commissariat, enjoying a well-earned rest. Before taking over surveillance duty on the son, Merlot had heard back from HR: Valincourt, widower and father to an only child, had spent two years training in Miami at the start of his career, and later on had taken leave in Florida with his family. The ferry must have sunk on his return journey to France.
As for Torrez, he had called to let them know that he was out of the hospital. Capestan had not managed to talk him out of joining the surveillance operation. He was technically on sick leave, but enforcing that rule in this squad was verging on the ridiculous, as was any talk of insurance with Torrez. As such, he would be teaming up with the commissaire for the following day’s stakeout on boulevard Beaumarchais, just up from the divisionnaire’s apartment building. Torrez promised to bring some Spanish tortilla for sustenance.
Leaning against one of the new kitchen cabinets, Anne Capestan observed her officers, who had been drawn to the terrace by the last glimmer of sunlight. Évrard and Dax were propping up the wall, having a peaceful chat over a package of Haribo. Rosière, sitting at the round wrought-iron table, was scribbling page after page, then stacking them carelessly on top of her handbag. By her feet, Pilou checked each dispatch with a discreet sniff. Over in his deck chair, Lebreton seemed to be at odds with a midge that had landed on his jacket lapel. Just as he was about to shoo it away with a flick, he decided against it. Capestan’s initial thought was that he didn’t want to stain his clothing, but Lebreton chose not to blow it off either—he didn’t want to harm the insect. Capestan saw the commandant slide a cautious hand under his jacket and tap the material from inside to encourage a reaction. The midge took off and Lebreton, with an air of satisfaction, sat back in the deck chair and stretched his legs far out in front of him. His preference for peaceful solutions was without compromise, and even extended to insects. With every passing day, Capestan was appreciating her team more and more. The ones who had turned up, that is: her budget still way exceeded the ten or so officers who had reported for duty.
Lebreton glanced at his watch. It was 8:00 p.m. He straightened his limbs and somehow managed to extract himself from the deck chair with elegance before suggesting they order pizza. They all agreed, opting for two Napoletanas, one La Reine, one Quattro Stagioni, and three containers of vanilla and macadamia ice cream.
Once they had finished their feast, empty pizza boxes lay strewn across the coffee table. A roll of paper towels, which they had been using as plates, had escaped across the floor. Dax scooped it up before going to fetch the ice cream from the freezer. Capestan suddenly remembered that it was Thursday. Not only that, but they had a TV.
“Laura Flames, season 3!” the commissaire exclaimed joyfully, grabbing the remote control.
Rosière gave her a sideways glance from her armchair, where she was gracefully administering her pizza crusts to the dog. She was not sure whether Capestan was teasing or not. But the commissaire was already sitting cross-legged on the sofa, giving the screen her full attention. She turned momentarily toward Rosière:
“I’m not just saying it, but I love your series. I can’t have missed more than two or three episodes ever.”
For once, Rosière was speechless. For as long as she could recall, her series had only sparked a handful of scathing reviews; never a word of appreciation, just plenty of fault finding. This was the first time any colleague had acknowledged, in such an unaffected way, that they watched Laura Flames. Bit by bit, the others pulled up their seats, armchairs, or footstools and gathered around the screen. Rosière, still dumbstruck, held her dog a little more tightly on her lap.
As the theme song started up, Pilou yelped with joy like the well-trained fan he was. The moment Eva Rosière’s name appeared in the opening credits, Dax turned to her with a
