Dance of the Angels (19 page)

The children’s laughter echoed strangely in this house of vileness. Le Goënec turned to Florence, who had been playing with them for a little while. She spoke softly to them, and the language barrier wasn’t an obstacle. One of the youngest scampered into the living room, a book in his hand. He stared at Le Goënec with curiosity. This was no longer the bearded monster who had terrified them earlier. This man seemed kind, with a reassuring smile.

“Hey, little guy,” said Le Goënec, “you want to show me your book?”

The child came up to him with barely any hesitation. The book was an encyclopedia of the animal kingdom. Le Goënec began to imitate a few of the animals to amuse the kid. At first, the child simply looked at him incredulously, but then began to laugh heartily when his new playmate started scratching under his arms like a chimpanzee.

A sudden gunshot broke the calm that had returned to the villa.

“Jesus Christ,” said Tavernier.

“He told me he was feeling unwell,” said Vincent, rushing toward them. “The bastard threw himself at me to grab the gun I’d stuffed in my belt. I couldn’t do anything to prevent him putting the barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger.”

Hervet’s body was on the floor of the room next door. Blood and brains had sprayed across the silk fabric covering the wall. His face was frozen in an agonizing death mask.

C
HAPTER
XX

Charlotte put down her copy of
France-Soir
. The widow Hervet had just read the three pages devoted to her husband for the fiftieth time. What pained her most was the front page with a photo of Paul smiling and over it the massive headline: “Pedophile Police Chief Dead.” For the past forty-eight hours, Charlotte had been experiencing the ordeal suffered by all wives of high officials whose lives suddenly become a news item. The media vultures had been harassing her day and night for a statement. But Charlotte would rather die than grant them a single syllable.

She had been in a deep sleep when they informed her of the dramatic events. The word
suicide
had floored her. It seemed so astounding. Unthinkable!

Hervet had always despised those who lacked the strength to face their destiny right to the end. But this brutal death was nothing next to what they had told her of his activities. This suicide had almost come as a relief when she learned the truth. A confusion of images swirled through her head. Her husband’s behavior had been strange recently. He had been unbelievably edgy. But she never would have imagined orgies with children, videocassettes, rapes, murders. As she thought about the reality of these tragic events, Charlotte felt overwhelmed by a kind of madness, her memories ripped to shreds. Nothing made sense anymore. All that remained was a door wide open to emptiness. In a fit of blind rage, Charlotte Hervet ripped their wedding photograph out of its frame on the bedside table and set fire to it with her Cartier lighter.

The widow picked up the article and read it through from start to finish again. The byline at the foot of the page caught her eye.
By Florence Meyer.
Tomorrow, the paper would print half a page about this business, then the next day a column, and in a week, another scandal would take over. And so this damn world turns. At the end of her tether, Charlotte buried her head in a pillow yet again and stayed like that, listening to her own breathing.

The countryside was covered in a thin layer of snow. The roads all around the greater Paris area were icy.

On the radio, the weatherman cautioned drivers to take care. Black ice could be very unforgiving. Despite this good advice, the road safety statistics would include those reckless individuals who ended up celebrating Christmas with God the Father after having confused the highway with a bobsled track.

Le Goënec contemplated this winter landscape from the comfort of the Xantia’s leather seat. Skeletal trees were covered in a white shroud, while on the frozen ponds crows skated about in search of a meager pittance. The car’s heating was on full blast. The mercury had dropped another few degrees. The cold was certainly as biting as in Bucharest. The six children would not be feeling homesick.

This time, Tavernier had not blindfolded him. Le Goënec was delighted to watch the meandering road as he recalled his efforts to guess the route.

“I wasn’t that far off. I knew we were somewhere around here.”

“Happy to be back at the department?” said the commissioner, smiling as he sucked on a peppermint candy.

“Sometimes justice is done!”

“It’s not unpleasant, is it, to return through the main entrance with champagne and petits fours and all that jazz?”

Now it was Le Goënec’s turn to smile. Ever since the whole business had been wrapped up, the congratulatory telegrams and phone calls had come in at an alarming rate. Among them were messages from a few true friends and the usual ass-lickers who feared his return to work. With Le Goënec back at headquarters, vacation was over for them.

The only phone call that really warmed his heart had been from the Baron. The head of the Phoenix organization had insisted on congratulating him and had invited him for lunch, along with Tavernier. Le Goënec was impatient to finally meet the man the commissioner held in such high esteem. “An extraordinary guy—the honor of this country.” It was thanks to this mysterious character that Le Goënec had been able to put an end to the most horrific racket he had known in his entire police career.

The commissioner was already licking his lips at the thought of the feast that awaited them, and he didn’t forget the fine wines that regularly graced the Baron’s table, either.

“You’ll see, son. When the Baron invites you to lunch, you can expect the very best.”

“Watch your cholesterol. We’ve got Christmas dinner in two days.”

Tavernier gave a vague wave of his hand, as if to say
You only live once!

It was a pleasant surprise for Le Goënec to be welcomed by the Baron himself on the front steps of the country mansion. A meeting with a two-way, peep show–style mirror would never happen again. The Baron was distinguished, and his handshake was worth more than many government honors. The three men strolled into the richly furnished living room, where an iced bottle of champagne awaited them.

“Gentlemen,” the Baron said, “I really must congratulate you again for your bravery and excellent work. You have succeeded in bringing down one of the most dangerous networks we’ve seen these past few years. It was a difficult mission, and you both risked your necks on several occasions.”

“We count ourselves lucky to still be with you here today to taste this excellent champagne,” said Tavernier, casting his expert eye over the label. “1962—a very good year!”

The Baron turned to Le Goënec with a friendly smile and said, “I didn’t want to remain anonymous to you any longer, Loïc. I now consider you a proper member of the Phoenix organization. If it was not for your actions, Chief of Police Hervet would still be in office today.”

“You can always count on me to bring down a scumbag. Unfortunately, given the times we live in, we will probably see each other often.”

The Baron picked up a newspaper from an alabaster table and handed it to the two cops, saying, “I just came across this. I don’t know if you are aware of it.”

Tavernier looked at the stark headline—“Death of a Public Enemy”—and began to read the article out loud.

“Alain Malric, who escaped from Santé Prison on December fifth, has been found dead in the outer suburb of Aulnay-sous-Bois. He had been shot several times. According to police sources, this was probably a settling of scores.”

“That’s housekeeping the Manotti way,” said Tavernier, nodding approvingly.

“Quite a collection of folks in the afterlife,” was all Le Goënec had to say.

Le Goënec would have had no objection if this treatment lasted forever. Florence’s hands caressed his back with such softness it was almost unbearable, as if the journalist were a Thai masseuse in her spare time. After his hellish experience at the hands of the Belgian sadist, Le Goënec now felt he had truly reached nirvana.

“Don’t stop. I’m on a little cloud. I’ll soon be seeing the Good Lord and all his angels.”

“I think you’re going to fall asleep,” said Florence mockingly, straddling his back completely naked.

Le Goënec threw her off and dove on top of her. Florence pretended to fight back, laughing all the while, then gave herself up to his caresses. The young woman gave him a saucy look, beautiful and full of longing. Mad with desire, the cop kissed her breasts, tenderly sucking at her nipples. Her back arched, as if shot through with electricity. With all the self-assurance of a geisha, Florence took hold of Le Goënec’s stiffened member and slipped it deep inside her. The two bodies undulated slowly. Le Goënec was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He came like a bolt of lightning, with a pleasure so intense it transported him to a breathless instant of eternity.

“You really should take it easier, darling. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be convalescing.”

“You deserve the Nobel Prize for medicine at the very least,” said Le Goënec and kissed her passionately. “But I think I came a bit too quickly.”

“Don’t worry about that,” murmured Florence, happy that her darling cop didn’t think only of his own pleasure. “I came, too, but in a different way. It was something I’ve never felt before—a kind of contentment of my whole being at having given you pleasure.”

Le Goënec’s heart skipped a beat, and he held Florence tightly.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Photo © 2015 Morcet

Robert Morcet was born on September 27, 1949, in Saint-Ouen, near Paris. Sentenced to fifteen years in prison for bank robberies—and respected for ultimately being a good person by both convicted criminals and cops—he paid for his past mistakes.

His first book,
Tendre voyou
(
Gentle Thug
), published in 1987, was a very successful autobiography.

His Anti-Crime Brigade series (titled Le Celte in France) spans forty-seven titles and has been popular since 1998.