Crime Fraiche

by Alexander Campion

  “So what can we do, sir?”

  “Take charge of the situation. I want a press conference. With maps, evidence, psychological profiles, everything we can throw at it. I want to give the very firm impression that we have our hands around this one. I’ll kick it off, but I want your team up on the stage looking like they know what the hell they’re doing, and I want you out in front so they can take your picture. Boobs sell newspapers.”

  Capucine gritted her teeth.

  “I’m e-mailing you a list of journalists the PR department tells me are well disposed to us. Call them yourself. It sounds more sincere when the PR department doesn’t do it. Golly, do you think you could come all the way back to Paris to deal with this? Not right now, of course. I mean, after your Lillet?”

  Capucine was astonished how close she actually came to hanging up on an officer as senior as a contrôleur général.

  Capucine spared no efforts in prepping Isabelle for the press conference. After five sessions in her office she was convinced that Isabelle was going to make an excellent showing, and that her last debacle with the press was effectively shrouded by the mists of time. Thirty minutes into the conference Capucine thought it was going exceptionally well. Saccard’s gravitas had conveyed the commitment of the Police Judiciaire. The PR department had done a beautiful job preparing a PowerPoint presentation with far more maps, photos, and information tidbits than the press had ever dreamed of. Capucine had made the first part of the talk while David tapped the key on the laptop to advance the pages on the screen. Sensitive to Saccard’s comment, she had worn a slightly tight white silk blouse, of which she was able to strain the top button at will by breathing deeply. Her Sig was very much in evidence in the small of her back, a feature Alexandre continually assured her called attention to her fesses in a highly fetching way.

  But all this was window dressing. It was the second part of the presentation that had been intended to carry the day with the press, underscoring the skill of the team and giving the impression that the case was firmly in hand and an arrest imminent.

  Her section over, Capucine smiled at Isabelle, inviting her to come up to the front of the room. Isabelle rose smartly and walked toward the screen, exuding muscular vitality and animal magnetism. Capucine breathed an inward sigh. But the minute Isabelle stepped in front of the audience, she came undone, held fast in the grips of stage fright. Isabelle stood woodenly, wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, tight-throated. The fruits of her sessions with Capucine withered and fell off the tree. She mumbled, raced through her text, and skipped vital points. When she was done, one of the journalists asked her, “So, Brigadier, you really have no clues and are just hoping the case will solve itself? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”

  Fuming, Isabelle took a few steps toward the reporter, who fortunately was sitting in the third row. “Listen, asshole, we have this fucking case completely under control. Trust me on that, you—”

  Before she could release the final expletive, David was on his feet, holding a sheaf of papers.

  “Before I wrap up,” he said, as engagingly as if he was selling a miraculous sponge on a late-night TV infomercial, “I’d like to distribute a printout of our presentation, a press release, and glossies of the photos you saw in case you want to use them. I also have bios of the team and glossies of them, too.” David’s winning smile warmed the room. In their desire not to miss out on the press kit, the reporters pressed around David, who raised his voice and said, “Thank you all for coming. Remember, I’m your liaison officer and I’ve put my card with all my numbers in the folder. Feel free to call me day or night.”

  Saccard was visibly impressed. David really did have an enchanting smile, Capucine thought. He was bound to wind up in politics one day.

  When Saccard and the press had finally gone their ways, Capucine and her brigadiers trooped into her office. Isabelle slammed the door and turned on David. “Thanks for nothing, you motherfucker. You made me look like a world-class fool.”

  David acted as if he hadn’t heard, stretched as if he was waking up from a nap, and said pleasantly to Capucine, “That went pretty well, didn’t you think, Commissaire?”

  “I did, actually. Now all we have to do is find her.”

  “That’s going to be a little more tricky,” David said. “We don’t have anything that remotely looks like a clue.”

  “Then you’re just going to have to make your own. I want you to do two things. First, go back and interview each victim a second time in the light of the other five occurrences. See if any threads begin to emerge. Things she likes to eat, regional expressions, stories of her past reoccurring from one victim to another, even if disguised, anything that will give us a clue as to who she is and what she does when she’s not fleecing people. And don’t leave out the composer, Lafontaine. Stick with his story, but get him to tell you what his niece talked about in the few days before she left. At one level he’ll know exactly what you’re talking about. When you see the two magazine illustrators, ask them if they’ll do a sketch. We should have thought of it at the time. Those police Identi-Kit drawings are useless. They all wind up making the perps look like they’re mentally retarded. Get the illustrators to do something artistic, something where the Belle is really recognizable.”

  “Right, we’re on it,” Isabelle said authoritatively. “What’s the other thing?”

  “When you get back, I want you to turn one of the interview rooms into a command center, close the door, spread out your notes, and start going over all the points of commonality of these crimes—location, victim typology, items stolen, that sort of stuff—and try to see what patterns emerge. It’ll be subtle, so you’re going to have to be creative. Let me know what you come up with.”

  “You’re going back to the country?” David asked.

  “Yes, but it’ll be over soon. I miss you guys too much,” she said.

  As David left Capucine’s office, Isabelle stayed behind.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Of course, Isabelle.” Capucine tightened her stomach muscles. “What is it?”

  “It’s like I told you the last time. You’re pushing the wrong guy for promotion. Look what happened out there. You spend hours teaching me and I still fucked up.”

  “Right. And it’s like I told you the last time. I’m not pushing you for promotion because you have a gift for gab. I’m doing it because you’re a damn good cop. You know what you’re doing and you instill loyalty. I just saw even more proof of that. Now, please get out of here and get on with your goddamn case. The real message of the day was that we need an arrest and fast.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Capucine’s second meeting with Momo was in gray, gray Le Havre. The entire city had the bleak quality of a fifties black-and-white film noir. Completing the scene, the weather was particularly oppressive, Baudelaire’s low cast-iron sky bearing heavily down like the weighty lid of a farmhouse casserole.

  Capucine had told Momo to walk out of the bus station and follow the direction of traffic down the street. He came through the door five minutes ahead of schedule and shuffled down the sidewalk incuriously, for all the world yet another rootless immigrant laborer. Capucine envied him. She had a long way to go before she acquired his ability to melt into the background.

  She inched the Clio along at Momo’s pace, oblivious to the cars that came up behind her, flashing their lights in irritation, then roaring by in low gear. After two blocks, when she had fully satisfied herself that none of his fellow workers were following, she pulled up next to Momo and opened her door.

  Capucine smiled. “Lunch right away, or a drink first?”

  “You know, Commissaire, I think I’m beyond all that shit now. Let’s just do whatever you want.”

  Dismayed by Momo’s dejection, Capucine battered the Clio into a too-tight parking space in front of a tired, nondescript café, the sort of place that was vanishing from the French scene as rapidly as the grimy, crepe-thin snow melted from the streets in Pa
ris.

  When the waiter came up, Capucine was further dismayed that Momo didn’t show his usual interest in downing several whiskeys before tucking into lunch. “Just order, Commissaire. Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  She ordered steak-frites for both of them and a liter carafe of the house red. When the waiter left, Capucine was suddenly aware of her gaffe. “Steak was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.

  “Commissaire, don’t worry about me. And steak is perfect. All I’ve had is fucking mutton tagine for the last two weeks. And you don’t get fries with that.” He smiled thinly.

  Unconsciously seeking absolution for Momo’s hardship, Capucine chatted gaily about the current goings-on at the commissariat: new cases, progress on old ones, who had gone where on vacation, who was sleeping with whom. No matter how hard Capucine nudged the conversation, she was unable to spark Momo’s interest. It was as if he was showing only polite interest in people who were in his distant past because he had moved on to another job. It wasn’t all that far from the truth, she was forced to concede.

  The steak-frites came: unhealthy-looking quarter-inch-thick entrecôtes opaque with congealing fat, topped with small disks of frozen beurre composé made from industrial dried tarragon flakes and artificially colored institutional butter. The disproportionately large plate of overcrisp French fries was intended to distract from the beef’s shortcomings. “If you want more fries,” the waiter said, “just let me know. We’ve got plenty ready to go back in the kitchen.”

  The butter began to melt, making the meat look even more greasy. Automatically, both Capucine and Momo lifted the nasty little disks with their forks and placed them on their piles of fries, hoping that the butter would melt, drip to the bottom, and just go away. Capucine wondered how many millions of French people would be making the same gestures of disdain over their food during the national lunch hour. The thought did not fill her with joy or confidence in France’s gastronomic future.

  Capucine was at a loss to find a friendly and sympathetic way to ease Momo into his report. She gave up.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So, now I’m an expert on steers. I know more about them than I ever thought there was to know. I’ve worked on all the stations in that goddamn place. I fill in for everyone. In a way I kind of like it. It ain’t Paris, but it’s got its own rhythm. You just kind of ease into it.”

  “You’re not in the abattoir anymore?”

  “That’s my main job, but since I just fill in there, they figure I can fill in everywhere.” Momo chuckled cynically, finished off the carafe of wine, and signaled the waiter for more. “The funny part is that they love my ass. I’m the only guy down there who’ll jump in and do whatever crappy job needs doing without complaining.” Momo was amused by his success as a ranch hand. “But don’t worry, Commissaire. I’ll probably stick it out with the Police Judiciaire for a bit longer.” He gave his first real laugh of the day.

  “Were you able to get into the accounting office?”

  “Yeah, no sweat. A three-year-old could get through that lock. If the three-year-old had a credit card he could use to push the bolt back with. The filing cabinets were also locked, but those were even easier. All you had to do was lift up the cabinet and push the locking bar up from underneath.”

  “Your basic three-year-old might have had a hard time with that. Your basic flic probably couldn’t have done it, either. Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing worth calling in the RAID squad and getting them to rappel out of their helicopters and surround the élevage. But I did find some heavy expense account abuse. Can you do time for that?”

  “Expense account abuse?”

  “Yeah. I went through the travel agent’s files. There’s not a lot in there, but Philippe Gerlier, you know, the general manager who got knocked off, used to go to the U.S. every three months or so. A place called Rochester, Minnesota.”

  “He must have been going to the Mayo Clinic. You said his mother had severe Alzheimer’s.”

  “Why not? But the funny thing is that those trips were fully paid for by the élevage. Our boy also stayed in a suite in a fancy hotel, rented himself the biggest car Avis had, and put in for a lot of pricey dinners for two. And all of it paid for.”

  “Maybe they just deducted it all from his salary.”

  “Yeah, you never know. What do you want me to do now?”

  “Stick with the accounting office for a little while. If there are any secrets at the élevage, there’ll probably be at least an echo of them in there.”

  “And what am I looking for? Oh wait, I know that one. I’ll know it when I find it, right?”

  Capucine laughed. “No one’s seen you snooping around?”

  “No. A lot of the guys sneak out at night for a smoke. The faith is going down the tubes. I ran into the foreman the other day on my way back from the accounting office, but I saw him coming and so I lit up one of my Gauloises and then crushed it out real fast like I was hiding it. I think he bought the act.”

  “Well, keep at it. I really need you to come up with something.”

  The waiter came back, was utterly indifferent to their indifference to dessert, brought coffee and the check. Momo left first. Capucine was gratified to see him head for a convenience store across the street, no doubt to buy out their stock of pint bottles of Scotch.

  CHAPTER 40

  In the end it was Isabelle who came up with the successful tactic. It had been her show right from the beginning. She had liberated the cork bulletin board from the squad room���“who looks at all those stupid notices, anyway!”—and nailed it on the wall of the interrogation room metamorphosed into a crisis center. The board, divided into four quadrants, one for each of the Belle thefts, became the focal point of the case. Each section contained photos of the items stolen, neatly tacked next to printouts of anything relevant that could be dredged from the Internet and the key points from the victims’ interviews.

  The commissariat wags found the board hilarious. Isabelle was the butt of endless jokes. “If this keeps up, there won’t be any point in going home to watch American TV cop shows. We’ll just spend our evenings here.” “Does this mean we’re all going to be issued Ferraris, designer suits, and walkie-talkie watches?”

  Naturally, David, since he would have been delighted with the gibes, was spared. And, just as naturally, Isabelle overreacted. Still, when the thunderclouds had cleared, both brigadiers had to admit they were pleased with their results.

  For the exhibit of the American professors’ stolen manuscript, they hadn’t been able to find a picture of the actual page that had been stolen and chose instead a langue d’oïl illumination of the period showing an aristocratic couple inexplicably but serenely admiring a hanged man.

  They were also unable to find a photo of the specific Daumier that had been taken from the retired civil servant and, as a substitute, put up a selection of Daumier cartoons they found amusing. Capucine had particularly enjoyed one of two effete bourgeois hunters who propose that, to make up for the complete absence of game, each shoot the other’s dog.

  In addition to the photo of the stolen Marie Laurencin portrait, Isabelle had also insisted on including several pictures of Natalie Clifford Barney. David had argued these were totally extraneous to the case. Isabelle remained adamant and further demanded they put up her favorite quote from Barney—“why grab possessions like thieves, or divide them like socialists, when you can ignore them like wise men? ”—which she argued was unquestionably relevant to the case. When David suggested that it might have more to do with Barney’s views on polyamorous relationships than physical property, a particularly fiery altercation resulted.

  The dancer’s stag had been the easiest, and an entire zoo of Mene creatures was on the board, accompanied by several articles on the nineteenth-century vogue for animalier bronzes.

  Berlioz’s letters posed the most difficulty as there didn’t seem to be any photographic record of any of th
e originals of the composer’s letters. David suggested they use the portraits of Harriet Smithson, particularly the ones that put her curly coifs into relief. Isabelle countered that she wasn’t going to allow Smithson if he was going to make comments about Barney, and the noise level escalated until they realized that the squad room was all ears, enjoying the dispute to the utmost.

  Jean-Marie Lavallé’s Boulle chest gave rise to a dozen photos of Boulle pieces ranging in size from armoires to small boxes and in color from a brown so pale it was almost a pinkish crimson to one as dark as pitch. David’s proposal that the exhibit be rounded off with fifty grams of cocaine in a plastic Ziploc bag was instantly shot down simultaneously by both Capucine and Isabelle.

  But even among the embarrassment of riches, the unquestioned pièce de résistance was the portrait of the Belle drawn jointly by the two magazine illustrators. Isabelle had made a point of excluding David from the session and had spent a long dreamy afternoon steering the illustrators through the crafting of an image that reflected their depth of feeling for the Belle while remaining faithful enough to the original to be usable as an ID sketch. The pencil drawing showed a young woman in her late twenties with a thick head of light brown or dark blond hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and a slightly troubled expression as she gazed into the middle distance, as if attempting to fathom the meaning of some problem. When it was finally finished, Isabelle’s eyes had filled with tears. The women insisted the portrait was hers to keep and had even drafted a note giving her clear title.

  But attractive as the board was, it was slow to bear fruit. It took a good bit of nudging from Capucine for Isabelle to realize that, with the possible exception of Berlioz’s letters, all the other thefts were related to the plastic arts.