Dance of the Angels (6 page)

Le Goënec checked the dead guy. According to his ID, this was one Roger Canetti. Not a name Le Goënec was familiar with.

Le Goënec rushed down to the basement.

“It’s me, children. Everything’s OK,” he shouted, opening the door to the cellar.

The three little ones hadn’t moved. Cowering against each other, the kids looked up at their savior, their faces etched with a fear that looked permanent.

“Come on. It’s over.”

A final hesitation, then one of the boys took his hand. The three kids climbed back upstairs in single file. Le Goënec sat them down in the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the eldest. “They kept us from eating. First we had to do what they said. We had to go into the bedrooms with these fat guys.”

“Here, help yourselves,” said a disgusted Le Goënec as he opened the refrigerator and cupboards, which were stuffed with food. “Can you manage on your own?”

“Yes,” said the little girl.

“What’s your name?”

“Séverine.”

“I’m Franck.”

“And he’s Denis,” Séverine added, pointing at the smallest one, who said nothing.

“There aren’t any other children in the house?”

“Not today. Some went back to their families, and the rest sleep at the center.”

“What center?”

“Where we do ballet,” said Séverine.

This whole business was cloaked in haziness, but Le Goënec had every intention of finding out the truth as quickly as possible.

“Carry on eating. I’m going to go finish my job.”

Le Goënec went back up to the madam’s bedroom and began a systematic search, going through the drawers of the writing desk, even pulling all the folded linen out of the armoire. Nothing. Not even a scrap of useful information! He grabbed the telephone. Tavernier would be pleased with him.

“Hi, boss? It’s Loïc.”

“It’s always the same. You call right in the middle of the film. Edwige is going to bawl me out again.”

“I’ve really gone and kicked the hornet’s nest, boss. There’s quite a cleanup job waiting for you. It’s not at all pretty.”

The Japanese tourists came aboard the sightseeing boat with a joyous cacophony. The few British tourists who had ventured to join the group took their places in the cabin. Tavernier and Le Goënec were the last to board.

“Up there,” said Tavernier, indicating the windswept terrace.

“It’s not yet summer,” remarked Le Goënec, shivering.

The boat slowly left the quay and turned in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. Inside, the loudspeaker crackled, and a voice began to boast of the charm and beauty of the capital’s monuments in several languages.

The commissioner handed Le Goënec the newspaper he’d been carrying under his arm.

“I’ve sent the three kids to a safe place. Nice work, by the way. ”

“Is that what they think in high places?”

“No comment, so far.”

Le Goënec examined the front page. “Bloodbath in Marne-la-Vallée” proclaimed the headline, followed by the sinister details, over which the journalist obligingly lingered in order to satisfy the readers’ lust for gore.

“Do you know this Robert Malet?” asked Le Goënec as he folded the newspaper.

“Yes, very well, actually. We graduated from the academy together. Back then, we nicknamed him Clark Gable. All the girls were at his feet,” said the commissioner with a touch of jealousy in his voice. “It’s all in the moustache. He spent most of his career in Marseille, where he’s from,” said Tavernier, sending his cigarette butt flying into the Seine with a deft flick of his fingers. “In ’72 or ’73, he was posted to Paris following some small scandal that was hushed up by his superiors. Taking kickbacks, that kind of thing. He’s been at the vice squad for three years now. His colleagues can’t stand him. Always very sure of himself. Arrogant as fuck. Get the picture?”

The boat slid past the Louvre, and the tourists’ cameras began clicking away like crazy.

“I’ll take care of the guy,” Tavernier went on. “As for you, don’t move a muscle until I say so.”

“I’m not used to taking a vacation right in the middle of a job.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t be a long one.”

The boat berthed just below the statue of Henri IV, on the Pont-Neuf. The two men parted without even looking at each other, like two strangers. Basic precautions. The tourists disembarked in turn, after having changed the film in their cameras.

The children’s home was a sinister gray stone building. Le Goënec and Tavernier walked through the cement courtyard toward the entrance, past the children playing soccer.

“Reminds me of my first year at boarding school. I felt cut off from everyone, worse than Oliver Twist.”

“I had a lucky escape,” said Tavernier. “When I was ten years old, my father wanted to send me to military school. Luckily, my mother kicked up such a fuss that my dad backed down. He knew better than to push it any further. The old lady was quite something when she got angry.”

The football rolled to Le Goënec’s feet, and he sent it flying into the back of the net with a superb right-foot kick.

Séverine, Franck, and Denis were sitting in a small room where a TV was on with the sound muted. There was color back in their faces, and they seemed relaxed. The Baron had thought it preferable to place them in this center for their own safety. Out of the question to send them back to their parents, who wouldn’t hesitate to rent them out again to top up their income.

“I have a few questions,” said Le Goënec softly. “I would like to know who came to get you.”

“A man. I think he was a friend of my parents,” said Séverine. “He wanted to look after me, take me everywhere. He was extremely nice in the beginning. I saw Franck and some other children with him, too. The man drove us to a ballet class. We did some exercises and then, two days later, we went to the big house, and they hit us.”

“I’ve read the medical report,” said Tavernier quietly to Le Goënec. “Bruises and other signs of abuse.”

“Look what they did to him,” exclaimed Franck, lifting up the T-shirt of his young companion.

It wasn’t pretty to look at. The little boy’s chest was completely covered with cigarette burns.

“What did this man look like?” asked Le Goënec.

“Very handsome, with a moustache. He wore a large ring with a diamond.”

“Did you talk to the other children?”

“A little,” said Séverine. “There were some who only came in the afternoon and others who stayed and slept the night in a bedroom with the men. They forced us to do dirty things. It was the fat woman who showed us. She said she would kill us if we didn’t do what the men wanted.”

“It’s over now,” said Le Goënec. “The police will arrest all these monsters and put them in jail.”

An overwhelming, murderous urge began to rise in Tavernier. He would have paid dearly to have Paul Hervet in front of him right then and to shoot him down in cold blood, like a dog.

Florence was already there when Le Goënec arrived, sipping a hot toddy. Whenever a new woman came into his life, he felt more awkward than a butcher at a vegan food convention. He inwardly cursed how his motorcycle helmet had flattened his untamed curls, but Florence’s charming smile soon made him forget such concerns. This beautiful woman, wearing a dress even shorter than the previous one, knew how to combine refinement with provocation.

“How are you, Mr. Le Goënec?” she asked, extending her hand. “Or may I call you Loïc? After all, if we’re going to be working together, we might as well be on a first-name basis. What will you have?” Le Goënec eyed the steaming toddy. “Shock treatment to ward off a nasty case of the flu. Kills the germs stone dead,” Florence said. “We’ve got an appointment with the editor in chief in a quarter of an hour. Did you bring your portfolio?”

Le Goënec had borrowed a portfolio from one of the best photographers in Paris, and he handed it to her with a confident air.

“Hmm,” she said, leafing through them with a practiced eye. “It’s absolutely perfect.”

At three p.m., the
France-Soir
newsroom was as busy as a beehive in spring. Florence was quite at ease in the environment. Accompanied by Le Goënec, she navigated confidently between the desks, greeting colleagues left and right.

“Hi, Jacques. This is the photographer I told you about. I want to work with him, starting today. Here, take a look.”

The young journalist’s firm approach left little room for refusal. The editor in chief absentmindedly leafed through the portfolio. Then he smiled at Florence and nodded his consent.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” she said once they were back outside. “You start Monday.”

The mysterious Phoenix organization wanted Le Goënec to have a cover, and now he did. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too stifling. Le Goënec had other fish to fry.

“Come on. Let’s drink to our collaboration at my place,” said Florence, full of confidence.

Le Goënec felt romantic stirrings within himself after a long, hard winter.

Florence shared a comfortable loft with a girlfriend on Rue Réaumur, the newspaper district. An iron spiral staircase in the middle of the vast—and virtually empty—living room led up to two rooms decorated in pastel tones. Next to the window was a table laid for two.

“You had it all planned,” remarked Le Goënec, picking up the bottle of ’82 Bordeaux. “And you know your wine!”

“It’s my father who advises me what to get.”

“What’s your dad do?”

“He’s director of a major ad agency. Whiskey?”

“Just a glass of Bordeaux as an aperitif.”

They sat, side by side, on the soft, black leather sofa. Florence’s short skirt rode up well above her knees. This radiant thirtysomething was most appetizing. With a shake of her head, the young woman flicked her long hair over one shoulder. She and Le Goënec recounted their lives a little and, as the conversation went on, their legs brushed before settling one against the other. Le Goënec’s heart pounded at the feel of her thigh against his jeans. Sure of her sensuality, the young woman had put on stockings and a garter belt.

“Cigarette?”

“No, thanks,” he said in a voice husky with the little self-assurance he had left.

An interminable silence followed. They looked at each other and broke into unguarded laughter. Le Goënec knew it was time to seize the moment. Florence came to his aid, sliding languorously against him, the hard nipples of her firm breasts pressing through her blouse. Le Goënec set down his glass and took the plunge. Switching from one extreme to the other, just like his star sign (Libra), Le Goënec pushed her back onto the sofa passionately and, hands still shaking a little, began to explore the beautiful journalist’s body.