Dance of the Angels

by Robert Morcet

  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 recou
nted 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.

  “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 glan
ced 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.

  CHAPTER 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.