Dance of the Angels (8 page)

C
HAPTER
VII

Laure took advantage of the sunshine to clean her windows. When the weather was fine like this, it was a sheer joy to be living on a houseboat moored at the Quai de l’Alma, right in the very center of Paris. She rubbed away with her rag, sparing no effort. With obsessive care, she leaned in close, inspecting the glass to make sure that not the slightest speck remained. That’s when she got the shock of her life. An unreal sight—it couldn’t be! Had she really seen a body float by? Laure quickly grabbed a stool and climbed onto it to get a better view. It hadn’t been a hallucination. The Seine really had carried a body right past her boat.

“Julien! Julien! Come quick,” she screamed to her husband, scurrying belowdecks. “There’s a stiff floating in the river!”

Tavernier’s cold gaze was riveted to the huge gold signet ring sitting tightly on the gray, swollen pinky. Malet was not a pretty sight to see after two days in the drink. Rats and fish had eaten his moustache and everything around it.

Standing there impassively, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Tavernier watched the frogman who had fished out the corpse taking off his scuba gear. The firemen had wrapped Malet’s body in a blanket and placed it on a stretcher. An inspector had pieced together the ripped up ID card found in Malet’s pocket.

“You seen this, boss? He’s one of ours.”

“Awful,” sighed Tavernier. “I saw him only a week ago. Must have been something to do with that business with the Ghanaian prostitutes. Shit, I can’t believe it. Jean-Paul, I want two of your guys on this.”

“What do you make of the ID ripped up like that? Odd, isn’t it?”

“His killer can’t have held him in very high esteem.”

Paul Hervet scrutinized himself harshly in the large bathroom mirror. Still two kilos too many. The chief was keen to maintain his string-bean figure. He had a supermodel’s obsession with his weight. He’d puke in the toilet after a thousand-franc meal. He promised himself he would hardly touch the buffet following the ceremony over which he was due to preside this morning. He left the room quickly, pulling on a pale pink shirt.

The dining room opened onto a conservatory that connected to the terrace. The tablecloth, which was hand-embroidered with large, bright yellow daisies, was laid with a porcelain Villeroy & Boch breakfast service.

Charlotte Hervet was a tall, blonde, sporty woman in her forties. Her slight androgyny somehow lent her a certain class. A trendy jet-setter type like her husband, she attended all the Paris society events. Thanks to her personal fortune and her status as the wife of the chief of police, she was surrounded by a gaggle of snobbish hangers-on who would take her along to the capital’s most exclusive nightclubs, often until dawn.

Wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and miniskirt, Charlotte Hervet spread orange marmalade on a fresh roll. After ten years of marriage, she had finally accepted her husband’s homosexuality. A scandal was out of the question for an aristocratic family. Their marriage had become one of polite indifference. If she wanted to get laid, the young party boys who haunted the high-class raves were perfectly suited to the job.

Paul Hervet finished knotting his tie as he entered. He kissed his wife on the forehead, as he did each morning, and took his usual seat.

“Tennis today?” he asked, just to fill the silence.

“Yes, I feel tip-top. I hope I’ll finally be able to beat that idiot Arnaud.”

“You’re lucky. I’d also like to have a bit more time for sport. I still can’t lose these two damn kilos.”

A creature of habit, Hervet opened the morning paper and skimmed the headlines, suddenly exclaiming, “Christ almighty!”

It was there in black and white: “Body of Vice Cop Fished from Seine.” It only took the first few lines to propel him into an all-out nightmare:

On Wednesday morning the body of Inspector Robert Malet was discovered in the Seine. It would appear that he had been dead for several days. According to the forensic pathologist who examined the body, a large contusion at the base of the skull indicated the probable cause of death. The autopsy report goes further, concluding that the inspector was killed before his body was thrown into the river. Robert Malet worked for the vice squad. The investigation is focusing on a revenge killing by a prostitution ring.

Hervet rushed into his office, copy of
Le Figaro
in hand, and feverishly dialed a phone number.

Robert Malet had bought a place in a new apartment building on Quai Kennedy, right next to the Radio France headquarters. The vice cop had picked a three-room apartment with a terrace, opposite the Seine. A lovely bachelor pad. Having a woman around the house wasn’t really his style. Girls had always just passed through his life. It made for a low-maintenance existence.

The twins, Nikita and Nicolas, parked their Toyota 4x4 close to the building and entered the lobby after pressing several buzzers to get in. The two blond musclemen always went everywhere together. A combination of martial arts and weight training had given both of them the physique of a young Sylvester Stallone. As for gray matter, the brothers could hold their own in a chess match against Garry Kasparov. The only distinguishing mark to tell them apart was the mole above Nicolas’s right eyebrow.

They wore identical sweatpants and spoke little. A glance and a gesture were enough for them to understand each other. In the elevator taking them up to the twelfth floor, the two heavies scrutinized themselves in the mirror, attentive to their appearance. It was their secret weapon.

The elevator opened onto a maze of corridors covered in thick carpet made to welcome expensive shoes. Luck smiled upon them: Nikita found the right door in the first corridor they’d taken. His double took a master key from his pocket. In no time at all, the lock was open. The twins split up to search the dark apartment, their usual method of operation. Drawers, shelves, boxes, cushions, mattress—nothing was overlooked.

Hervet had ordered the twins to give the place a serious cleanup. The police would search Malet’s apartment in just a few hours. All traces of Hervet’s complicity with the vice cop had to be destroyed. With the twins, he could be sure that the job would be done perfectly. Nicolas had gone over the bedroom and kitchen with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing. Same for Nikita: the human scanner minutely analyzed every square inch. As he searched, the beefcake liberated several bottles of men’s perfume. He appreciated this aspect of the job. Now the twins got to work on the living room. The whole apartment had clearly been decorated by an interior designer—not something a vice cop’s salary would typically cover. Each knickknack, each piece of furniture cost a small fortune. Malet’s lifestyle had clearly improved considerably since he began working for the chief of police.

As he inspected a stack of cardboard folders stuffed at the back of a Louis XV chest of drawers, Nicolas came upon some memos with names, addresses, and meeting places—enough to send the wealthy consumers of fresh meat to jail.

“We could create real havoc with these lists. Get us some extra dough without lifting a finger,” he said to his clone, making a neat pile of the multicolored folders on the corner of the table.

“No, forget it!” snapped the other, giving his brother a harsh look.

Something caught Nikita’s eye: an appointment book next to the telephone. The twins examined the page the book had been open to: December 3, ten p.m., Commissioner Tavernier.

December 3 had been two days ago. No doubt the day Malet took his last bath, in the waters of the Seine.

“Our work here is done,” said Nikita decisively.

C
HAPTER
VIII

Commissioner Tavernier was writing, page after page, coffee pot close at hand. He really wasn’t the literary type, yet his colleagues sometimes called him Balzac because, like the great writer, he had a severe coffee addiction. Edwige was out at the market this morning, which gave the boss some peace and quiet for a while, although that was all relative. Tavernier sometimes had the impression that his house was a branch of the Society for the Protection of Animals. The stray cats that prowled around the garden liked to mix it up with their large, castrated tomcat, Fonzie. Then there was Jack the hamster, not to mention the caged parakeets in the living room, who chirruped all day long.

Tavernier was writing up a detailed report on the operation while waiting for Le Goënec to arrive. In a case as complex as this, nothing could be left to chance. Having all the elements clear in one’s mind was a matter of survival.

At fifty years of age, Tavernier was in no rush to meet the Man Upstairs. It was only now that he realized how life shoots by. In his rare moments of reflection, the commissioner wondered what the point of it all was, the cops, the hassles, and the daily grind, putting his life on the line all these years like it was nothing more than a spin of the roulette wheel. Yet the idea of retiring and spending his remaining days with a fishing rod gave him chronic eczema. When it came down to it, nothing else interested him except for his shitty job.

Again, he went over each aspect of the case, although he’d been pondering it for ages. One: the bodies of three children are found. Two: strong presumptions that Chief of Police Hervet is mixed up in it. Three: the transvestites put them on the trail leading to the villa in Marne-la-Vallée. Four: before dying, the old madam gives up Robert Malet, who is not long in joining her. Five: the network uses a community center in Le Vésinet as cover. That’s as far as he and Le Goënec had gotten. That is to say, they were practically still at square one. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Tavernier went and let in Le Goënec, who was always astonished by this kitschy house, decorated like an old English manor and always spick-and-span. Le Goënec cast an amused eye over the brightly colored rug, the Philippe Starck–style dining room, and the almost fluorescent orange armchairs. Poor Tavernier; he had never been able to impose his own, more rustic tastes on Edwige.

“Coffee?”

“I won’t say no. I’m freezing.”

The commissioner returned from the kitchen carrying two cups giving off a strong smell of arabica. Tavernier sat in front of his right-hand man and drank a gulp of the unsweetened coffee.

“We need to move very fast now, Loïc. Bypass the chief. The bastard won’t stand idly by, what with that business at the villa and now Malet’s death.”

Just then, Le Goënec signaled to him to be quiet. His ears had picked up a strange noise in the garden.

“It’s an alley cat,” Tavernier said. “They’re in heat.”

Le Goënec cautiously got up and went over to the window that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the garden.

“Come see. There’s a guy climbing over the garden wall.”

Tavernier quietly joined him. He too saw the man at the end of the lawn, hiding in the laurel hedge. A single look between them was all they needed. The commissioner and his partner drew away from the window.

Flexible and agile, Nikita had no problem dropping onto the lawn. It was then child’s play to reach the house in a few strides and pull himself up to the balcony. Nicolas joined his brother by the same route. The window was no match for the glass cutter. Nicolas slipped his gloved hand through and reached for the door handle. It opened without a sound. The pair entered quickly. The plan was simple: ambush Tavernier and make him talk before liquidating him. Their orders had been strict about that.

Hiding behind the bookcase, Le Goënec and the commissioner held their breath. The intruders advanced without making the slightest noise.
They’re not amateurs,
Tavernier thought. Hit men who knew their job down to the smallest detail.

With a nod of his head, Nikita ordered his twin to make a rapid search of the study. It was at this moment that Tavernier decided a preemptive strike was called for. Leaping out from behind the bookcase, he aimed an uppercut at Nikita with all his strength, sending him reeling. The more agile Nicolas avoided Le Goënec’s kick and struck him terrifyingly hard in the solar plexus. So violent was the blow, Le Goënec lost his balance, and his forehead connected with the lampshade, like in some crazy waltz. Le Goënec crumpled onto the sofa, stunned. There was a taste of bile in his mouth. Nicolas immobilized his victim on the floor, straddling him with a knife pointed at his throat.

Tavernier screamed. His adversary had just jabbed him in the eyes with two fingers. The commissioner punched blindly, mad with pain, feeling tears stream down his cheeks. Amid the panic, he managed to seize Nikita by the collar and give him a cracking head butt. Specialty of the house. The attacker collapsed onto the carpet, his nose broken. A proper knockout.

Le Goënec fought like a madman to deflect the sharp point descending toward his face. Except for their breathing, neither man made any sound as they struggled. Each knew he was fighting to save his skin. With a final jerk, Le Goënec managed to roll on his side, bringing Nicolas with him. Now he had the upper hand. Taking advantage of the muscleman’s surprise, Le Goënec landed a forearm blow on his throat. The knife changed hands.
This guy is really strong,
thought Le Goënec, who couldn’t believe the pounding this beefcake was taking in his stride. With a thrust of his pelvis, Nicolas managed to sit up. His bloodshot eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets. A real war machine. The two adversaries struggled ferociously, animal instinct having taken over. Nicolas tried to rip open Le Goënec’s throat with his teeth. Suddenly, the mass of muscle sagged, a look of surprise in his eyes. His face was fixed in a sneer of pain, now as pale as a piece of chalk. In the tussle, the blade had been driven into his chest, puncturing his heart. An extreme death, clean and silent. Le Goënec’s opponent toppled like some obscene puppet, the knife stuck in his side like a final decoration.

“What a slog,” Le Goënec said, in lieu of a eulogy.

“You OK, kid?” asked Tavernier, rubbing his eyes.

“Look out, boss!”

Nikita had come to, groggy but still dangerous. A lounge chair shattered the window. The twin jumped out into the garden, followed closely by Le Goënec. The man ran quickly to the garden fence, leapt over, and sprinted down the street.

Nikita was athletic, but Le Goënec had the pedigree of a distance runner. Luckily, Nikita noticed a young man gunning the engine of his Yamaha 500 Ténéré. Without wasting a second, Nikita rushed the stranger as he was pulling on his helmet and sent him flying onto the sidewalk with a violent kick. Nikita mounted the bike and roared off so fast he popped a wheelie. Le Goënec was helpless to stop him. Aggrieved, he helped the motorcyclist up.

“Did you see that? You . . . you were a witness,” stammered the unfortunate victim. “He was crazy, that guy! I’ve just had it serviced!”

Le Goënec headed straight back to his boss’s place. The living room was an awful mess, but Tavernier was tidying up as fast as he could, his nerves completely frazzled.

“My carpet,” lamented the commissioner, his eyes still hurting. “And Edwige is due back from the market in half an hour. You can’t imagine the fuss she’ll kick up!”

“It was him or me,” sighed Le Goënec, pointing at the body sprawled out on the floor. “What are we going to do with it?”

“The forest. I can’t see any other solution for now.”

“We need to check his pockets. Sometimes it’s more enlightening than going through the trash cans.”