Acne-face leered. “Sounds like you feel threatened by us being here. Afraid your girlfriends will run off with us?”
Louis had to work hard to suppress a smile. From the looks on the rich boys’ faces, he’d guess they didn’t even have girlfriends right now, but realized it wouldn’t be a good idea to use that as a comeback.
“Excuse me,” he said as he approached the two groups blocking the path.
Rich boy number two was a rather unfortunate-looking boy with no chin to speak of. He whirled around, eyes ablaze. “What do you want?”
Louis attempted a diffident smile and indicated the path ahead of him. “I just want to be on my way, friend.”
“I’m not your friend, old man,” the rich boy replied.
“He certainly isn’t ours,” acne-face interjected.
They all turned to face Louis, who suddenly found himself alone against seven men. Perhaps he should have let Mouad walk him home after all.
Up on the top of the bank, Louis glimpsed a group of girls stopping to watch the commotion down by the canal. He was relieved there were witnesses; he didn’t like the openly aggressive stares everyone gave him. He was three sheets to the wind and coming up with sensible things to say was not an easy task. He also felt a pull toward the canal, as if gravity had shifted sideways a few degrees. He planted his feet farther apart—he was not going to fall into the canal all on his own.
Rich boy number two eyed the space between himself and the canal. “How much room do you need?”
“Right.” Louis furiously tried to get his mind into gear, but kept slipping on the clutch. “I heard your argument—”
“Who says we’re arguing?” the black giant said. There was more of an edge to his voice now.
“There shouldn’t be any need to,” Louis said, striving for the voice of reason. “The city is big enough for all of us.” Now he sounded like he’d walked straight out of a cheesy Western.
The third student spoke up for the first time. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
With both groups turned against him, Louis pointed a finger at both groups. “Now you listen here,” he said, then had to smother a burp, which brought the taste of pastis and childhood memories into his mouth. His head spun and gravity again shifted in the direction of the canal. All of Louis’s strength went into staying on his feet and in control of his stomach.
Acne-face spoke up with a sneer. “The guy’s so drunk he can’t even finish a sentence.” He glanced at his friends. “We should pitch him into the canal.”
Both groups snickered. Well, Louis thought, at least they’re not arguing with each other anymore. He had control over his stomach now, but still had to fight to keep his feet under him. And in any case, he’d forgotten what he was about to say to the idiots.
A movement on the road above them drew Louis’s gaze. A police car stopped next to the group of girls. One of the girls talked to the officer driving the car, pointing down at the argument in progress.
“I think I’ll go,” he said, and took a step forward to get away.
“Not so fast,” the closest rich boy said, and put a hand on Louis’s shoulder. He applied a light pressure in a clear threat to push him into the canal, like the other boy had suggested. “We’d like to hear what you have to say.”
A short blast of a police siren sounded. Louis breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, too soon. The young man boy next to him had the opposite reaction. His hand tightened on Louis’s shoulder and then gave a great push.
Louis toppled into the canal. He bumped his shoulder in the grassy bank once before plunging into the water. Too drunk and surprised to think, he went in eyes and mouth open. He saw nothing except a murky line of lights—the streetlights on the other side of the canal. He tasted earthy water and even got a clump of something touching his tongue before he spit everything out and closed his mouth. He kicked around in the water until he had the right side up and finally found footing. As he straightened up, his feet sank into the muddy bed of the canal and his head cleared the water. He drew in a deep breath, then started spitting. The water was exactly as disgusting as it looked. It was so murky he could barely see his own chest in the water. His feet slipped in the mud, but he ended up finding footing on something solid, but round. A bottle? The taste of dirt and decay wouldn’t go away, and he had something lodged behind a tooth. He picked it out with his little finger and held it up to the light. A piece of plastic. Louis shuddered and threw it away before he could identify exactly what it was. Ignorance was bliss.
On the path, three police officers had joined the young men. Two checked the identities of everyone—Louis couldn’t help but notice they started with the black guys—and the third shimmied down the bank to hold a hand out to Louis. Gratefully, Louis took it and together they hauled him out of the water.
Louis peeled off his scarf. The white had turned brown and the whole thing looked like it had been through a complete soccer match on a muddy field during a storm. He sighed. He’d have to try to clean it, but had a feeling it was a lost cause. The rest of his clothing was soaked through, of course. He felt chilly, but luckily the September nights were still warm. He’d be all right until he got home.
“Do you have an ID, please?” the police officer asked him.
“Sure,” Louis replied. He had to squirm and wiggle for a moment, but ended up extracting his wallet from his back pocket. With a wince, he pulled out his dripping ID and showed it to the officer.
The man glanced at it, then at Louis, and nodded. “Thank you, Monsieur Saint-Blancat. Might I suggest you go more easy on the alcohol in the future? It’s not very deep, but people do drown in there from time to time.” He nodded in the direction of the canal.
Louis bristled. “I didn’t fall in because I’m drunk. I was pushed.” He pointed at the culprit. “By that guy.”
“Of course you were,” the officer said smoothly. “Would you mind coming with us to the police station? We’d like to make sure you don’t fall—or get pushed—in again.”
“I can walk home just fine,” Louis replied. He noticed the girls from earlier were still up by the road, watching the scene. At least four of them had their phones out. Perhaps he could get something good out of this debacle if news of his little swim got back to Audrey.
“I’m sure you can,” the officer said. He took Louis by the arm. “But I’d still like for you to come with us. You’re obviously drunk and I think it would do you good to sleep it off before you go home and bother your mother.”
Of course he knew who his mother was. Everybody knew the Saint-Blancat family.
The man set his jaw and firmed his grip on Louis’s arm. The young men were also led up the steep bank toward the police car. There was no point in fighting it. He might as well sleep at the police station and get home sober in the morning. He hoped they’d give him some dry clothes or he was in for an uncomfortable night.
Eight
Louis stepped through the revolving doors of the Hôtel de Police and into the burning September sun. His hangover and headache doubled in force causing him to put a hand up in an attempt to shield his eyes. The police had been kind enough to lend him a dry pair of old jeans and a t-shirt during the night—probably more to make sure he didn’t die of hypothermia than out of concern for his comfort—but now he was back in his clothes from the night before. His jeans were still soaked, though no longer dripping, and his t-shirt was almost dry. It was just moist enough to give him chills. The worst, though, was the smell. He stank of dirt, garbage, and canal water.
He was desperate for a shower, so as he walked, he calculated if it would be quicker to take the metro or get one of the city bikes. Though the metro station was just ten meters in front of him and would be the quickest solution, it also was the choice where he would bother the most people with his smell. He turned toward the bike station across the side street from the police station and saw a large group of people. They were mostly journalists�
�two of their vans blocked the pedestrians on the cycling path by the canal across the street—gathered around a police officer and a woman. Louis squinted to make sure his tired eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Nope, that was his sister.
This was where she was holding her press conference? If he’d known, he would have put up more of a fight at being brought in the night before. She hadn’t spotted him yet. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he carefully turned on his heel again to head for the escalator going down to the metro. Too bad for his fellow travelers. They would have to hold their breath.
“Monsieur Saint-Blancat,” someone called from behind him. Louis didn’t recognize the voice and figured it was probably one of the journalists. He sped up.
At least three different voices called out this time. Ten meters to the escalator and Audrey’s voice carried above the journalists. “Louis, how nice of you to join us.” Louis slowed down, battling with his frustration and need for a shower.
“Good job standing up for yourself,” a male voice yelled.
Louis’s brows drew together. Standing up for himself? What were they talking about? He turned around. The whole group of journalists, at least twenty of them, were turned toward him. They were all shouting out comments and questions at the same time, so Louis had trouble making much sense of it. They were apparently all applauding him for standing up for himself, or the city of Toulouse.
Audrey stared at him from atop a small pedestal behind the crowd of journalists. She didn’t look happy. In fact, there was a calculating gleam in her eye that Louis knew only too well. After a glance at the journalists—making sure they all had their backs to her—she crooked a finger at Louis, then pointed to the spot next to her.
Sighing at the injustice of it all, Louis shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled over to join his sister.
As he stopped in front of her, she hissed at him through a fake smile. “Where—? You stink! Did you go for a swim in the canal or something?”
Louis gave her a mirthless smile. “Yes. And I’d really like to go home to take a shower right now. You hijacked a police press conference?”
Audrey whispered at top speed before the journalists caught up. “It’s about the identification of the remains of the second body. You interrupted before he finished his statement.”
“I didn’t interrupt,” Louis mumbled. “They did.”
OPJ Petit, whom Louis was none too happy to see again, cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “If you don’t mind, I’ll finish reading my statement, then Monsieur Saint-Blancat and Madame Sentenac are all yours.” He waited for the journalists to accept this and ignore Louis for the moment, then read from a paper. “The skeleton of one Géraldine Hérault was found together with the body of Pierre Saint-Blancat. Madame Hérault was the owner of a small hardware store in the Saint Michel neighborhood. She was reported missing twenty-nine years ago.”
And after all that time, she popped up on place du Capitole? Either the killer was a genius or the police were incompetent. Louis knew where he would place his money.
Audrey leaned close to Louis while the police officer finished his statement. “I talked to Officer Petit earlier. He showed me some old newspaper articles from when the woman went missing. She apparently wasn’t particularly appreciated by her employees. They said she was ‘cold.’ But nobody thinks that should be reasonable grounds for killing her.”
Once Petit finished answering the journalists’ questions, he let Audrey take over. She faced the assembled journalists who were once again turned in her direction. Actually, Louis noted with resignation, they were turned in his direction.
A tall man with long hair standing at the front of the group spoke above the din of the group. “Well done last night, Louis. The city of Toulouse is lucky to have you back.”
Louis shook his head at the man. All he’d done last night was get drunk and then get shoved into the canal.
The journalist must have realized Louis didn’t understand. He pulled an iPad out of his bag and found what he was looking for. He turned the screen toward Louis. The blaring sun made it difficult to make out much detail, but he recognized the Canal de Brienne seen from the road above and made out quite clearly one figure standing alone, facing off a group of seven men, a finger pointed out in accusation. His drunken stand-down with the arguing idiots from last night. Those girls had taken photos.
“We’re happy to see the Saint-Blancat family still standing strong,” the long-haired man said. “What was the argument about?” He turned his microphone in Louis’s direction and all the other journalists followed suit.
Louis turned to his sister, who was clearly still scheming. She eyed the picture the journalist was holding up, then Louis. Louis didn’t want to answer the question; repeating what was said last night wouldn’t do anyone any good, least of all Toulouse. In any case, he was too hung over to produce any viable sentences. When Audrey got the message, she smiled and put a hand on his shoulder.
“What the argument was about is not important,” she said, drawing all the microphones and cameras in her direction again. “The important thing is that, as you observed, Marc”—she nodded to the guy with the iPad—“the Saint-Blancat family is still here to serve Toulouse. I am still a very active member at the Republican Party and my brother is one hundred percent behind me.”
That should teach me to let my sister talk for me. Louis closed his eyes and prayed the torment would be over soon.
Nine
Catherine ambled past Arnaud’s desk, trying to make out the details of the article he was working on. The police held a press conference the day before and Audrey Saint-Blancat had attached herself to it, promoting her own work within the Republican Party. Apparently, even her brother Louis made an appearance, though a rather dirty and rugged one.
She saw nothing on Arnaud’s screen; only his mail was open. Catherine shook her head. One stupid joke and she was off the hottest subject in months. Trying to find a way to persuade her boss she could be trusted, she had tossed around all night. All she had to show for it were dark circles under her eyes and a perpetual yawn. At the mere thought, her jaw strained and she covered her mouth.
As she sat down at her desk, her gaze fixed on a large brown envelope sitting alone on her clean desk. It was addressed to her personally. She flipped it over, finding no return address. Catherine pushed her handbag under her desk and used a ballpoint pen to rip the thing open in her usual messy fashion.
The envelope contained two letter-sized pictures. She pulled the first one out and stared. It showed a naked woman reclined in a position Catherine associated with rich and lazy Romans from Caesar’s time. Her body looked perfectly relaxed, but her expression was one of profound horror. Her mouth was wide open and neck extended, as if she was reaching for air.
Catherine noticed the background of the photo. She recognized the ice-cream stand from the Galerue in front of the Capitole. No, it couldn’t be… She tore out the second photograph. And there he was. The deceased mayor, Pierre Saint-Blancat, also naked and prostrate in front of the reclined woman, a hand extended toward her. Like a Muslim during prayer, Catherine remembered the prostitute said, except he’s facing the wrong direction.
Catherine’s heart rate doubled. She looked around the open-space office, but nobody paid her any attention. She picked up the ruined envelope with shaking hands to double-check the lack of return address and search for a note accompanying the photos. Nothing. She put the envelope back down on her desk and shoved her hands between her thighs to make them stop shaking. A few deep breaths and Catherine set into action. She picked up her phone and pressed speed-dial to ring her boss.
“What?” Mathieu replied on the second ring.
“I have something big,” Catherine said. Her voice shook. She cleared her throat. “Can you come to my desk, please?”
A storm sounded in Catherine’s ear as her boss blew into his phone. “I’m really busy, Catherine. You come in here.”<
br />
Heart still going at top speed, Catherine forced her voice to stay calm. “I don’t want to touch this any more than I already have, Mathieu. I’m going to call the police when I’m done talking to you, but I thought perhaps you’d want a look before they get here.”
Two seconds of silence. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up.
Mathieu loomed in front of Catherine’s desk. “This better not be a prank,” he warned. One ill-considered joke and she was apparently also labeled a prankster now.
Catherine pointed at the photos on her desk. “I just received this.” When her boss reached out to pick up the one closest to him, she stopped him. “Please don’t touch. The police are going to want to run fingerprints.”
Her boss frowned, but complied. He walked around the desk to stand behind her, then leaned over to study the photographs. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” Catherine whispered. “The dead mayor.”
He eyed the remains of the envelope and the rest of her desk. “You haven’t told anyone?”
“No, I called you at once.” Narrowing her eyes at her boss in suspicion, she added, “And I’m calling the police right now so they can check this for fingerprints.”
“Of course you are,” Mathieu replied, but he tapped two fingers on his chin, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I’ll get Clément over here to secure a copy of the pictures before the police take them away.” He nodded to himself, the impressive muscles of his neck flexing. “And Arnaud will need to see it for—”
“Oh no,” Catherine interrupted. “Not happening. This was addressed to me. I’ll be the one to do the article.” She got out of her chair to make her boss’s height a little less imposing, making sure to stay between him and the pictures.
Mathieu stared at her, his jaw-muscles clenched. His arms were hanging down to his sides in that way rugby players had; hands not touching anything since the muscles of their arms forced everything away from the torso.
The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery Page 6
