Dance of the Angels (3 page)

The Xantia headed off toward Montparnasse.

“Don’t get mad, son, but as soon as we get out of Paris, I’m blindfolding you. Be a good lad and don’t try to peek. We’re off to a top-secret meeting.”

“It’s like the beginning of a good ol’ James Bond film,” said Le Goënec, leaning back on the leather headrest.

The car came to a halt in the Bois de Boulogne, a few dozen yards from a group of skimpily dressed transvestites. Tavernier handed his passenger a large black handkerchief. Le Goënec noted that they were close to the restaurant La Cascade. He then conscientiously covered his eyes and firmly tied the knot. Before driving off again, Tavernier pulled out his gun and stuck it menacingly in the face of his most loyal lieutenant, who didn’t move a muscle. All good. The Xantia drove away, to the great regret of a transvestite answering to the pretty name of Giorgio, or Velvet Tongue to his regular clients.

Unable to see a thing, Le Goënec had to rely on his other senses. It wasn’t simple to mentally follow the route. Through the slightly open window, the supercop could smell the scents of autumn. They were still in the Bois de Boulogne, no doubt about it. But now Tavernier turned right.

“You’re in too low a gear; shift to the forty-six.”

The unknown voice came from right near him. A cyclist. They must be on the road circling Longchamp horse racing track, a popular spot for cyclists doing training rides. The car stopped at a traffic light before turning left, then left again, presumably traveling alongside the Seine. The car drove up onto the Saint-Cloud Bridge.

A few minutes more and the ghostly growling of vehicles informed Le Goënec they had entered the tunnel leading to the freeway heading west. Unfortunately, from here it would be impossible to tell which exit they took.

“Sounds like there’s a fair bit of traffic,” muttered Le Goënec, just to break the silence.

“It’s flowing quite well. Highway patrol will have a quiet night.”

After a period of time that was difficult to define, the noise of traffic faded away. They were heading down an exit ramp. About half an hour later, Tavernier turned onto a twisty road. Not hearing any other engines, Le Goënec figured they were on a small country lane. The odor of manure tickled unpleasantly at his nostrils. The Xantia ripped around a series of tight bends like a racecar. It seemed to last a small eternity. Tavernier’s driving style was so abrupt that his passenger thought he might throw up. Another twenty minutes, and the car began to slow.

“We’re here, son,” said the commissioner, “but don’t take off your blindfold yet.”

The inspector heard his boss open the car door and get out. Then a light click, followed by a creak. The sound of an electronically controlled gate. Tavernier got back behind the wheel and slowly followed a bend before coming to a halt. Gravel squeaked under the tires. Immediately, a German shepherd, hungry for human flesh, ran over and threw itself against the car, barking furiously.

“Sit, Saturn!” said a harsh voice.

The passenger-side door opened. Somebody took Le Goënec’s arm to guide him. One, two, three steps and they entered a house. The sound of his feet rang out across the floor. Must be a high ceiling. His silent guide pushed him toward a completely soundproofed room. All noises were muffled. The door shut softly behind him.

“You all right?” asked Tavernier, untying the blindfold. “I’m sorry about all this dramatic stuff, but I’m following instructions.”

Le Goënec rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch. They had driven for a good two hours.

“I’m not at all unhappy to see again,” said Le Goënec. “Classy place.”

The two cops settled themselves in a couple of comfy armchairs, the only furniture in the tiny room aside from a Chinese lacquer coffee table on which sat an empty ashtray. The low lighting left them sitting in semidarkness. It was a strange atmosphere. The chairs faced a large mirror.

A two-way mirror,
thought Le Goënec. They wanted to see him while remaining incognito. This situation was beginning to seriously intrigue him.

Tavernier took a candy from his pocket.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Le Goënec. Forgive me for not being able to do so in person.”

The voice came from a loudspeaker set into the ceiling and was so distorted it was barely comprehensible. Loïc couldn’t even tell whether it was a man’s or a woman’s.

It was like being on one of those stupid TV game shows where you have to guess the mystery celebrity. He was equally irritated and fascinated by all this song and dance.

“I like to meet those working for me. I trust Tavernier, but I lay great store by studying people’s faces and forming my own opinion. Do you have any objections?”

“Not for now.”

“Thank you for playing ball. I know you had something of an uncomfortable journey to reach me, but I adhere to specific security protocols. The members of my organization know me as the Baron. A few years ago, I started an underground action group. Its name is Phoenix, after that mythical bird that is consumed by fire when it dies and is then reborn from its ashes. The ancient Egyptians celebrated it as part of a sun-worship cult. I like the symbolism. But let us get down to brass tacks, Mr. Le Goënec. Our group serves to resolve matters of a delicate nature, particularly those concerning corruption and criminality.”

“There’s a legal justice system for that.”

“You are right, Mr. Le Goënec. But those we combat are unfortunately above the law. They act with total impunity unless we intervene.”

“What exactly do you expect from me?”

“Nobody is better suited for the first mission I am going to give you. You will be dealing with a well-placed personage whom you know very well. None other than Chief of Police Paul Hervet.”

Le Goënec looked at his boss, who gave him a reassuring nod.

“To be quite frank,” said the inspector, “I always thought there was something dodgy about him. I’ve got a sixth sense for things like that. But do go on. This is interesting me more and more.”

“I’m going to tell you a little story,” the voice continued. “A few weeks ago, a hunter and his dog were out walking in Fontainebleau Forest. The animal stopped by a thicket and began to bark. The hunter thought his dog had probably sniffed out a hare. Then the dog started digging very excitedly. The man came closer and was shocked to discover a small hand poking out of the soil. The dog dug away, even harder, unearthing three little bodies: children, barely ten years old, in a state of advanced decomposition.

“I know this hunter. He came to tell me about it, quite distressed. The autopsy revealed that these poor children had died following sexual abuse. But most important is what happened next: Paul Hervet, having been informed of these grisly details, immediately had the investigation halted.”

The voice remained silent for a few moments.

The two cops looked at each other in amazement. Their minds were on red alert.

“Are you insinuating that the chief would be involved in something like this?” said Le Goënec.

“There is some evidence that suggests so. I know that yesterday he got rid of a particularly bothersome witness who was also blackmailing him.”

“Yesterday?” asked Tavernier.

“Yes, and you were the unwitting instruments of a clever ploy. Hervet knew perfectly well what he was doing by refusing to order the assault. The manager of the bank was killed, wasn’t he?”

“Good Lord,” said Le Goënec, still able to hear the villain shouting,
We’ve got the manager. He’ll understand.

“You mean to say . . . ?” said Tavernier, nearly falling off his chair.

“Hervet ordered this holdup to get rid of the manager who knew a little too much about his nocturnal activities.”

“What kind of activities?” asked Tavernier.

“Orgies, sadism, rape. Take your pick. Of course, he’s only interested in minors.”

The two cops were speechless. The Baron’s revelations exceeded anything they could have imagined.

“But the banker was no angel, either,” continued the Baron. “In his file we found a case against him for indecent assault going back a few years.”

“Why a holdup?” asked Le Goënec. “If he wanted to get rid of the bank manager, it wouldn’t have been difficult to hire a hit man.”

“Hervet has killed two birds with one stone. First, he’s restored his image in the eyes of the government, following an unfortunate blunder that continued to sully his reputation. Second, he created an opportunity to get rid of an embarrassing obstacle who was also a threat to him.”

“Pretty much a failure, his stunt,” said Tavernier.

“Only the manager should have been killed, but it would appear that Hervet didn’t keep his promises to the robbers. Everything suggests they should have escaped with a tidy sum of money. That bastard wanted to trick them, and Gérard and a hostage paid the price.”

A short silence.

“What do you think, Mr. Le Goënec?”

“We’ll need to get enough evidence to nab him. But I’m prepared to volunteer to catch him.”

“You have a free hand to bring him down. Tavernier will help you as much as he can.”

“What status will I have, now that they’ve taken away my badge?”

“Do you have a hobby?”

“Yeah, photography.”

“Perfect. It would be a good idea for you to find a job of some sort in that field, as a cover. You will have to be able to account for the substantial income I will pay you through the commissioner.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Le Goënec, and I am truly happy to have you on board with my organization.”

An almost imperceptible click from the loudspeaker made them realize that the conversation was over.

“Will that work for you?” asked the anti-crime boss.

“It’s a mission that couldn’t have come at a better time.” The fleeting image of Gérard passed before Le Goënec’s eyes. “I’m going to enjoy giving Police Chief Hervet a lesson in justice.”

C
HAPTER
III

The silhouette, stiletto heels and all, undulated against the white glare of the neon light. The girl was quite superb in her black stockings and a leather miniskirt barely covering her panties—she would excite both regular clients and those after something a little special.

The man in the BMW drove past again slowly, excited at the prospect of having it off with Jenna Jameson’s double.

Having picked up the john’s scent, the whore strolled forward, her ass swaying. The car immediately drew to a halt in front of her, and the driver lowered the window. The girl leaned forward provocatively, displaying her inviting cleavage.

“Hi there. Have we come for a little screw?”

The rich timbre of her voice startled the man in the BMW. Despite the near darkness, he could see that the beauty’s features were just a touch too chiseled. “Shit! A tranny!” The john quickly shifted into gear and shamefully pulled away.

“Go fuck yourself,” shouted the hooker, giving the car and its driver the finger.

The Asphalt Angel, as her colleagues nicknamed her, furiously strutted back to the bus shelter and stood shivering in gusts of glacial wind, biting her lips. Long gone were the days when Aristotle, the black pimp who managed her interests, took his flock down to the Riviera for the winter. The recession had hit the street the same as any other trade. It was out of the question to incur additional costs at a time when business was at its worst. So Juan La Superba, as she was known to her clients, had to freeze her balls off for four months in this district of ill repute, and there’d be trouble if Aristotle were to surprise her at the bar on the other side of the boulevard, from which a square of yellow light spilled onto the sidewalk made damp by the fog that hung heavy over the neighborhood.

Le Goënec had been waiting for Aristotle in the cold shadows for half an hour now, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, chin buried inside the collar that reached up to his ears. The biting cold had already numbed his feet. The lack of punctuality displayed by the new generation of pimps always exasperated him.
The whole world’s going to shit, no doubt about it,
he thought.

He hadn’t been able to get Paul Hervet’s face out of his head ever since his interview with the Baron. This business of the murdered children had been the detonator that set off the whole powder keg. Le Goënec was prepared to launch a personal offensive against this scumbag of a police chief. This was going to be the most explosive case of his entire career, and he had Tavernier to thank. Without him, Le Goënec would have been sidelined once and for all.

The bar’s door finally opened. A stream of African music flowed out from the watering hole. A slim man appeared: Aristotle.

Le Goënec followed him, walking quickly to catch up. With judo swiftness he grabbed at the pimp’s shoulder. Aristotle swiftly spun around, a switchblade already in his hand.

“Cool it, Aristotle, it’s only me.”

With a flourish, Aristotle slipped the knife back into the pocket of his Saint-Laurent overcoat, laughing bitterly.

“What brings you here, Inspector?” he asked in a soft voice, his head tilted gracefully to one side.

“My, my, as elegant as ever, I see.”

“Gotta do what you gotta do. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“As it happens, that’s precisely why I came to see Aristotle-of-the-good-leads.”

The pimp wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t too keen on being so bluntly reminded of his role as an informant for the Criminal Investigations Department.

“Shall we take a little walk together?” suggested Le Goënec, without really leaving Aristotle any choice.

“Well, I was just going to—”

“Read the meters? I’ll come with you. I’m interested to see how your business is doing.”

“The girls won’t like seeing you with me.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll be discreet. Your young ladies won’t even see me.”

“Wait for me here.”

Juan saw her pimp cross the boulevard. A good hooker, she was. She chucked away her cigarette and switched straight back into hustling mode. As Aristotle came up to her, he gently cupped her ass with his hand.

“So, sweet cheeks, how’s trade this evening?”

“Not great. They’ve got their zippers frozen tight. It’s like Siberia!”

“Let’s see what you got, anyway.”

Juan opened her Hermès bag and withdrew a thin wad of notes.

“I’m keeping these,” she said, slipping two one-hundred-franc notes into her bra.

Aristotle took one back from her, stealing a glance over at Le Goënec waiting across the street in the darkness.

“Will I see you tonight?” asked Juan.

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back. I’ve got things to do.”

Under the loving gaze of his streetwalker, Aristotle walked back across to Le Goënec, who was starting to freeze to the spot. The two men walked up toward Pigalle. Parked around the square, empty buses awaited the return of tourists gone to sample the delights of Gay Paree. Sex-shop neon lined the boulevard.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” asked the pimp uneasily.

“Your hookers must have some freaks among their clientele?”

“Freaks?” Aristotle said, bursting out laughing. “They’re all freaks! You know that as well as I do. You have to be a little bit weird to fuck a tranny. You either like women, or you like men. But a tranny, that’s a funny old mix.”

They crossed the square and walked up Rue Germain Pilon.

“Listen, this is urgent and super-confidential,” continued Le Goënec. “I need to know about any of your clients with an interest in kids. Children—girls or boys.”

“You’re mixed up in some sordid shit, Inspector,” said the pimp, with a cheeky grimace.

The transvestites hustling in the street smelled the cop coming fifty yards off. As the two men walked toward them they disappeared into building lobbies or bars, dodging a possible roundup.

“How much time do I have to find out?”

“Call me on my cell as soon as you have any names. Forget about ringing police HQ. Not all of them are your buddies there,” Le Goënec said, scribbling two telephone numbers on a scrap of paper. “You can also reach me at my local, the Brasserie du Maine in the Fourteenth Arrondissement. If I’m not there, leave a message with Maurice Domergue or his wife, Josette. I advise you to move your ass—it’s urgent.”

Le Goënec didn’t have much time. As soon as Aristotle learned that calling him “Inspector” was no longer the order of the day, that would be the end of his cooperation.