Dance of the Angels (7 page)

“You don’t have anything on the stove?” he asked between kisses.

“I’ve planned a cold meal,” murmured Florence.

The cop and the glamorous journalist shared a long kiss. The young woman’s pelvis began to undulate beneath Le Goënec’s soft caresses, and soon she was vibrating like a cello. Le Goënec felt like he was turning into Rostropovich. They slipped out of their clothes while exchanging deep, wet kisses. Florence was wearing a transparent, mauve bra-and-panty ensemble. Mad with desire, Le Goënec buried his face between her superb breasts. Florence was burning hot, hornier than he could have hoped. She lost no time in relieving him of his tropical-flower Hawaiian Connection boxer shorts. Florence greedily closed her lips around his erection and licked all the way up and down his cock, exciting the nerve endings with incredible skill. Never had a woman gone down on him like this. The young woman’s mouth devoured his manhood with an almost torturous refinement.
I won’t be able to resist this little game for long,
thought Le Goënec.

Feeling his member swell dangerously against her tongue, Florence stopped, crawled up on Le Goënec, and slipped his cock deep inside her. Back and forth she rocked, prolonging the pleasure. But Le Goënec couldn’t hold off for long and was overcome by a colossal orgasm that shook his entire body. He closed his eyes. Destination: paradise. Wasn’t he on vacation, after all?

The trap had worked perfectly. To draw Robert Malet into his web, Tavernier had invented a story about some Ghanaian women soliciting illegally. The crooked cop rushed in headlong, no questions asked.

“Rendezvous at the Porte Saint-Denis exit of the ring road at midnight,” Tavernier had told him. “I’ll pick you up. Come alone. That way you won’t have to share the glory. We’ll settle the thing in two shakes of lamb’s tail.”

The commissioner drove his black Xantia toward Porte Saint-Denis. It stopped next to Malet, who opened the door, shivering a little.

“It’s not warm tonight,” muttered Malet, shaking hands with his old academy classmate.

The huge gold signet ring set with a diamond gleamed in the half-light of the Xantia’s interior. The little girl had been spot-on with her identification, no doubt about it. Malet engaged the cigarette lighter, out of habit.

Tavernier turned onto Rue Saint-Denis, the main artery of the red-light district.

“The Ghanaians must be working over on Rue Grenéta, a bit further down,” said Malet.

“I want to introduce you to my contact.”

“I’m sure I know him,” bragged Malet. “This is my hood.”

The car crawled along. The street was still busy at this time. Girls in fishnet stockings lined the sidewalk in front of the darkened shop windows, vaunting their naked thighs, breasts exposed despite the evening chill. The car slowed. Rue Grenéta.

The commissioner inspected the street carefully before saying, “I have the feeling he’s not here, my contact. I’ll give you the lowdown. It’s a large network that brings in the girls illegally. They’re immediately passed on to the pimps and shown the ropes. They know perfectly well why they’ve been brought to France.”

“What exactly do you want with me, Tavernier?” Malet said with a quizzical look. “You take me for an idiot or what?”

The commissioner said nothing as he pulled away and drove down to the quay of the Seine, which was quite deserted. The usual down-on-their-luck prowlers, voyeurs, and exhibitionists didn’t have the fortitude to face the increasingly biting cold.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” Malet said, growing concerned as he scrutinized the bleak riverbank.

Tavernier didn’t answer. The moustached vice cop now understood that he’d been set up and immediately thought of the villa. Impossible. What connection was there to Tavernier? The cop tried to leave the car, but Tavernier had already locked all the doors.

“OK, I get it,” Malet said. “What do you want to know?”

“There’s some funny stuff happening in Marne-la-Vallée these days, don’t you think?”

Malet felt like he’d just been given an electric shock. The fat madam must have squealed before giving up the ghost. He couldn’t see any other possible explanation. Tavernier’s right-hand man, the one they called the Celt, was bound to be involved. Perhaps he was the one responsible for the bloodbath. Malet went pale.

In silence, the commissioner stopped his vehicle in the darkest corner of the quay and said, “Don’t be stupid, Robert.”

The hand of the vice-squad man froze a couple inches from the ribbed grip of his .38 Special. The commissioner was quicker, and his own weapon was already in his hand: a superb long-barrel Mauser with a silencer.

“Give me your gun. Slowly.”

Malet handed it over.

“Get out,” ordered Tavernier, releasing the car’s central locking system. “No funny business.”

Malet did as he was told. The cold stung his face. Thinking fast, he decided to try to talk his way out of this.

“Tell me, Tavernier, how much do you earn a month?”

“Much less than you, but I sleep like a baby,” he said, sticking the muzzle of the Mauser into Malet’s belly.

“I’ll cut you in, and you’ll have a rich man’s pension. Your wife will be able to shop at Cartier.”

“Tell me everything, Malet! You’ve got no choice. I can off you right here, right now, no sweat. It’s a perfect spot—no witnesses.”

Malet knew the commissioner wasn’t one to make idle threats. He decided to spill the beans, hoping he’d have a chance to get out of there. “What do you want to know?”

“How does the racket work? Who supplies the kids?”

“I have my contacts, out in the boondock suburbs. Word gets around. But mainly it’s a handful of parents who regularly hire out their kids. I know it’s disgusting, but it’s the dough they’re after.”

“Where do you take them?”

“To a community center. We provide activities for them, dancing and so on, to keep them occupied. It’s a front in case there’s a snag.”

A wave of nausea washed over Tavernier.

“Where’s this center located?”

“In the suburbs—Le Vésinet. We even put on shows. The kids’ pictures are in the program, and the clients can choose the ones they want. That’s all I know, I promise.”

“You got a contact there?”

“Martin Boudon, he’s the director. He’s also the ballet teacher.”

Silence again. What was Tavernier going to do? He couldn’t let this scumbag cop get away.

“I’d think about this if I were you,” said Malet. “The department has never done you any favors. Face the facts, Bulldozer.”

“Come on,” said Tavernier, unlocking the doors and stepping out, his gun still pointing at Malet. “And keep your hands where I can see them.” The bent vice cop did as he was told, and a shiver ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the chill wind that swept the quayside. The commissioner joined Malet on the other side of the car, then glanced around to check they were truly alone. Fast as a viper, Malet whipped out a razor-sharp boot knife and lunged. His hand moved like lightning, slashing open the commissioner’s overcoat. Tavernier managed to leap back just in time, but his foot slipped on a wet cobble and the Mauser flew from his hand as he tried to regain his balance. Malet had now adopted a combat stance, the tip of the knife pointing forward. Suddenly, the knife whipped down. Tavernier dodged the thrust at his groin and, with all his force, dealt Malet a blow to the back of the neck with the edge of his hand. Malet collapsed, and as he fell, his head struck a mooring bollard with a thud, and his skull split open. The cop’s body jerked a few times before going limp forever.

Tavernier bent over the corpse, reached into the inside pocket of the raincoat, and pulled out a chic-looking wallet, from which he extracted Malet’s police ID card. He tore it up and placed the pieces inside one of the dead cop’s pockets. The commissioner dragged the body to the river’s edge, and Robert Malet disappeared into the dark waters of the Seine to join the rest of the garbage.

He was a good cop when he started out,
thought Tavernier as he returned to his car.

C
HAPTER
VI

Le Goënec climbed the stairs four at a time, his heart light. Ever since their first embrace, the desire to place his lips on Florence’s skin and make love to her hadn’t left him for a single instant.

Danger! Look out! I’m getting hooked on this woman. She is perfect from head to toe. Funny, intelligent, and what’s more, she uses Shalimar perfume,
Le Goënec said to himself.

He couldn’t wait to taste her raspberry lips again. Being with Flo had turned the anti-crime hero into an attentive lover. He was a changed man. Le Goënec never failed to bring a huge bouquet of flowers every time he came to see her. A girl like this deserved such lavish treatment. As he rang the bell, a delicious ripple of emotion ran through him.

This was the best moment: imagining her smile, guessing which underwear she’d slipped on. But when Florence opened the door now, it was like stepping into a cold shower.

The young woman was not smiling. In fact, she seemed incredibly on edge.

“What’s wrong?” Le Goënec asked immediately.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” she said, brandishing a page from
France-Soir
, on which a photograph of Le Goënec bent over Gérard’s lifeless body took pride of place.

“The Bloody Assault,” read the headline.

“What does the inspector think of the photograph?” asked Florence bitterly. “I came across it in the paper’s archives. It really knocked me on my ass!”

“I understand why you’re mad,” Le Goënec said, his stomach turning. “Let me explain.”

“I can put up with anything in a man except lies. You lied to me. I can never trust you again.”

“Listen, if I didn’t tell you I was a cop, it was for a good reason, OK? But since you take it like that, ciao,” Le Goënec said, making to leave.

“Good riddance!”

His hand on the doorknob, Le Goënec turned and gave her a hard look. This time, Flo felt she had to back down. She was impulsive, the type to blow a fuse and then immediately regret it.

“Forgive me, my love, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, but put yourself in my place. I was mad with rage,” she said, snuggling against her man without saying another word.

It was a close call. Le Goënec, not the resentful type, hugged her close. The scent of Shalimar made him forget all thought of leaving.

“Was it because you were fired that you switched to photography?”

“No. I’m on a major case, top secret. I needed a watertight cover.”

“Very well. Don’t tell me any more.”

“Now that you know, I don’t have much left to hide from you. I think it’s fortunate we met.”

Florence wriggled out of the embrace and scrutinized him. The lovely brunette had the feeling her hardheaded Breton was up to something.

“Darling, how would you like to collaborate with an ex-cop who’s sitting on a shit heap that could blow up in his face?”

“How much more can you tell me?”

“I’m dealing with a disgusting case, and I’m trying to bring down a very high-profile public figure. You could help tell my side of the story by writing a series of articles. But on one condition: don’t publish anything before I give the green light. I’ll let you have the scoop. Is it a deal?”

“What’s it all about? Drugs, corruption, arms dealing?”

“No, it’s much more serious, Flo.”

The image of the three terrorized kids in the depths of the cellar came to him. Three childhoods ruined to satisfy sadistic sickos. Le Goënec’s jaws stiffened with the raw emotion of it all. There was a sinister gleam in his eye. This was the first time that Florence had seen her man in this state.

“What’s it all about, Loïc?”

“It’s not an easy thing to hear,” he said, heading over to the sofa and sitting down. “I’ll tell you everything, from the very beginning.”

Le Goënec had been riding his Honda around and around the chic avenues of Le Vésinet before he found the Centre Saint-Exupéry, a complex of multi-use spaces where one could do all kinds of activities, from theater to weight training, not to mention acrobatic rock and roll. Florence was already there, sitting patiently inside her red Clio. She jumped when a large, gloved hand rapped on her window. No worries; it was only Le Goënec. Punctual as ever. Florence got out of her car, a little tense. The cop reassured her with a smile and a wink in place of a passionate kiss. Off they went.

“You know, my treasure, I’ve been wanting to sign up for a yoga class for years. How about you?” said Le Goënec with a grin.

The couple entered the center, which smelled of disinfectant and hashish, like a throwback to the 1960s. The two hippies at the front desk no doubt passed the time reminiscing about the good old days of free love and prog-rock extravaganzas.

There were posters everywhere advertising a multitude of activities, as well as some rather unexciting shows, such as a Marxist
Macbeth
performed by a support group for ex-druggies. Le Goënec cast his eye swiftly over the bulletin board and saw that ballet classes were on the second floor. Once upstairs, the two looked for the entrance to the ballet room.

A door opened at the other end of the corridor, and out stepped a young woman wearing too much makeup and tottering on impossibly high stilettos. She walked toward them, looking at them intently. Not very welcoming.

“Can I help you?”

“We would like to see the ballet teacher,” said Le Goënec. “Can we speak with him?”

She consulted her Swatch with a disdainful air and said, “Mr. Boudon has another half hour of class. Why do you need to see him?”

“I’m a producer, and I’m making a documentary about Le Vésinet,” said Le Goënec. “My name is François Herman, and this is my assistant.”

Florence, feeling rather uncomfortable, barely managed to crack a smile. Ever the professional, Le Goënec pulled out a business card bearing the name Mirage Productions, a little gift from his buddy Marc, production manager for a company that made institutional films.

Visibly reassured, the young woman handed back the card, saying, “Very well, you may go in. You’ll see the end of the class.”

Le Goënec held open the door for Florence. Inside, Martin Boudon conducted his class in a loud voice.

“And one, and two, and three . . . Knees turned out.”

Le Vésinet’s answer to Mikhail Baryshnikov appeared to be bored stiff. In the large room, a dozen boys and girls, aged around eleven or twelve, were at the barre, opposite a mirror. With the middle-aged paunch of one who likes a good nosh, there was nothing about Boudon that said
star dancer
. He looked more like a retired sumo wrestler. As for the music, there was no piano, just a plain old tape player blasting crackly music from
The Nutcracker
.

“Watch the turns,” he screamed, incensed. Forgetting his rolls of fat, the ex-dancer positioned himself in front of the pupils and gave a rapid demonstration. “Right foot forward . . .
dégagé 
. . .
fermé 
. . .
tour en dehors 
. . . Let’s go.”

The young dancers were possessed by a submissiveness quite unusual in kids of their age. Le Goënec noticed this strange dynamic right away. It made him uneasy.

After a final series of exercises, the teacher clapped his hands with authority. The class was over. Each pupil gave a little bow before disappearing into the changing rooms to shower. Florence, who had taken ballet classes when she was a little girl, found the whole circus grotesque and miserable.

“Can I help you?” asked Boudon with the icy air of a guru.

“I’m a producer of documentaries,” said Le Goënec. “This is my assistant. I’m looking for children for a shoot. Children who know how to dance and sing.”

“Who sent you?” asked the teacher, wearing the gaze of a dangerous reptile.

“A friend of mine, Robert Malet.”

Boudon nodded as if he understood. He immediately relaxed, and a thin smile played across his rotund face. “How many children, and for when?”

“Three. Two boys and a girl,” said Le Goënec, hiding his repulsion. “About twelve years old. Say, for Saturday.”

“Where will the shoot take place?”

“In a villa close to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. I’ll give you the exact address tomorrow, along with the money.”

Boudon nodded his assent.

“Can we see some pictures?” Le Goënec asked.

The ballet teacher led them to his office, a small, scrupulously tidy room. He rummaged through a drawer. He took out a pink folder containing a dozen color photographs and handed them to Le Goënec.

“Look, these are special animated photographs. Lenticular printing. They move. You view them like this,” he added, mischievously, taking one of them and wiggling it backward and forward.

The little girl in the tutu, smiling so innocently, appeared alternately dressed and undressed.

“Clever,” said Le Goënec, repressing a violent urge to floor Boudon with a punch straight to the face. “How can I get in touch with you if I require more precise information?”

“Right here. They’ll pass on any messages for me.”

“I’ll take these ones,” Le Goënec said, selecting three photos at random.

“You’ll have no difficulties with those ones. I’m often asked for them. They’ve already been on film shoots. You won’t be disappointed. True pros.”

Le Goënec and Florence were not sad to take their leave of Boudon. As they left, Le Goënec thought to himself that sometimes one had to pay a very heavy price to get to the truth.

“What a monster,” muttered Florence, once they were in the street. “He really makes me want to puke.”

Le Goënec placed a kiss on the end of her little turned-up nose before saying, “Now the process is under way. Act II: this son of a bitch brings the kids to a villa rented by us. We catch him red-handed, and I make him tell us everything. Then, all we have to do is follow the trail back to Hervet.”

“So what do we do now?”

You go home, write up your notes, and lock them away safely.”

“OK, chief,” she said, nibbling at his earlobe.

“I’m going off to do my dirty work.”

They reached the red Clio. The inspector gently took Florence’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulled her lips toward his.

“Hold up,” she said. “Never while on duty.”

“You’re dismissed for now.”

They shared a deep kiss that took Le Goënec’s breath away.

“Call me tonight, OK?”

“I promise,” Le Goënec replied.

He was already walking across the street. His day was only just beginning. As she got back in her car, Florence gave her sweetheart a final wave.

It was eleven a.m., according to the clock in the little car. Florence turned the key in the ignition. This case really excited her. If Le Goënec allowed her to accompany him all the time, she could write the best article of her career. No more dead dogs and traffic accidents. The time had come to strike a blow, to give her show-off colleagues a lesson in American-style investigative journalism.

She was just about to pull out when in her rearview mirror she noticed Martin Boudon leaving the center. She instinctively huddled down so as not to be seen. The teacher squeezed his girth into a Lancia Delta. The engine roared as he started it.

Without thinking, Florence decided to follow him. The Clio slipped in behind Boudon, who was driving very fast. Fortunately, the young woman loved speed; it didn’t scare her at all. She kept a sensible distance. The idea of being spotted tied her stomach in knots.

Where was this madman going? Given the direction, he seemed to be heading straight for the sticks. But there was no question of backing down now.

The two cars entered a residential area that was very quiet at this time of day. As they reached an intersection, the Lancia suddenly accelerated as the light changed to yellow, then turned right.

“Fucking asshole,” Florence said, coming to a stop under the watchful eye of a cop sitting on his moped.

When the light changed to green, she turned down the same street as Boudon. It was empty, with narrow side streets running off it. Florence drove around the neighborhood’s one-way streets for a good while, hoping to spot Boudon’s car. But she very soon had to face the fact: the Lancia and its driver had disappeared.

Somewhat miffed, the young woman headed back to Paris. If she’d been a little more observant, Florence would have realized she’d been served a taste of her own medicine. Having lain in wait, Martin Boudon was now tailing the Clio at a distance. Ever since he’d started working for Hervet, he had learned to keep a close eye on his rearview mirror.

He trailed her just long enough to write down the Clio’s license plate on an old parking ticket he would never pay. He had to learn this woman’s identity.