Sebag and Molina had been the first to return to headquarters. That might be a good sign, so far as the other teams were concerned. They’d find out soon. There was a meeting at the headquarters in the early afternoon.
Sebag had two hours free, and wanted to take advantage of them to surprise Claire. To stop and pick her up after her gym class and take her to a little restaurant that Jacques had recommended. It was twelve forty-five and Claire still hadn’t come out. Her step aerobics class had been over for a good quarter of an hour. Long enough to take a shower, do her makeup; she should have already come out.
In front of Sebag’s car, two enormous turbines were sweating dirty, stale water as they pumped out into the street the saturated air from the gym. Air conditioning is a soft drug that is spreading throughout the world, he said to himself.
In a gesture he considered heroic, he cut off the motor. The fan pumped out a little more cool air but it was a matter of seconds. It was time to leave his precarious oasis and confront the world.
A long counter of light-colored wood received members of the club. Behind it, a tall brunette smiled at him. She was Claire’s teacher. Last spring the three of them had had a drink together. She’d asked him to fix a ticket for her. He’d refused. She hadn’t liked that.
“Hello.”
She had short hair, and was muscular and high-waisted, but didn’t have much of a figure. Most of her charm consisted in her hoarse voice punctuated by a melodious intonation.
“Hello. I’m Claire Sebag’s husband.”
“Yes, I remember well . . . ”
She’d almost said “the cop,” but had managed to stop herself.
“I stopped by to pick up my wife. Has she already come out?”
She was surprised.
“I haven’t seen her this morning.”
“Ah.”
He smiled. Stupidly, it seemed to him. A husband always looks stupid when he doesn’t know where his wife is. He felt obliged to explain.
“Something must have come up. Anyway, I didn’t tell her that I’d come to pick her up.”
And he went out. In the street, he called to cancel the reservation and quickly headed for the nearest fast-food place, determined to stuff himself on fries and burgers.
The windows were still closed and the shades were down, but the sun nonetheless crept into the meeting room. People’s foreheads were damp with sweat, and so were their underarms. The air conditioner had died. It had to be replaced, but probably wouldn’t be before fall. Sebag sniffed. The odor of sweat would soon mask the aroma of fried food that he was carrying in the fibers of his clothing. Raynaud and Moreno were absent; it seemed they were on a case. As usual.
At the end of the table, the boss had taken off his jacket but hadn’t yet undone his tie. At his side, Lefèvre remained impeccable. Colgate smile and fresh breath. Slicked-back hair. He looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower.
“All right. Gentlemen, who wants to begin?”
Superintendent Castello was playing it “serious and solemn.” The inspectors got the message. As in school, Sebag thought, it was best to begin with the last. And he volunteered. He summed up their few discoveries. A computer hard disk that was being examined and the confirmation of the idea that part of Lopez’s life took place outside his family. The harvest was meager. Castello wasn’t upset.
“That was predictable, but we had to carry out that search. You didn’t find anything that could show that Lopez was involved in smuggling cigarettes?”
It took Sebag a moment to understand. He’d already forgotten what he’d invented four days earlier to awaken Castello’s interest.
“Uh . . . no . . . we didn’t find a stock of cigarettes at his place and, uh, his wife doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Too bad . . . ”
“What’s all this about cigarettes?” Lefèvre asked.
Castello gave him a brief account of the case. Lefèvre looked puzzled.
“And you think this might have something to do with Ingrid Raven?”
The question was addressed to Sebag. He met Molina’s amused eyes.
“Ultimately, no.”
To Sebag’s great relief, the superintendent turned to Llach, who immediately began describing his morning. With Lambert, he’d visited Fabrice Gasch, José Lopez’s other friend and the owner of Securita Catalana. Gasch had immediately recognized Ingrid Raven in the photos. It was in fact she who had been with Lopez on the evening of June 26, and she had called herself Vanessa. Gasch had rapidly admitted that he played billiards for money with Barrère and Lopez, and that the latter often lost. Sometimes a hundred to two hundred euros in an evening. He’d claimed he had no idea where this money came from. He’d just said that his friend—like all independent businessmen—must have put aside a little cash. He’d even added that that was understandable.
“What he needed was a good tax audit,” Castello grumbled.
Questioned about his friend’s disappearance, Fabric Gasch had expressed “sincere concern.” He had no idea where Lopez might be and rejected the idea that he’d run off on an amorous adventure. This wasn’t his first extra-marital affair, and never, absolutely never, had he shown any desire to leave his wife. In any case, still according to Gasch, if he were to leave Sylvie, he wouldn’t do it that way.
Then Castello called on Ménard, while Lambert seized the chance to slip discreetly away. Ménard had talked with Barrère. The owner of Perpign’And Co. had also recognized Ingrid in the photos. And this time he had admitted employing Lopez several times in the evenings, to drive certain persons around and give them a tour of the department.
“It seems that’s often done when there are big contracts to sign,” Ménard explained.
Molina laughed.
“Perpignan by night: night-spots, private clubs, and little old men. It’s true that people say that makes it easier to get signatures. There might be something there that we should look into. The other day Gilles and I already said that Vanessa was a pseudonym widely used by call-girls. In any case, there are more Vanessas than Martines or Brigittes.”
“And what conclusions should we draw from that, in your opinion? That through Perpign’And Co. Ingrid Raven found a new way of financing her studies?”
“Why not?” Molina replied.
“That might explain certain things, then,” the superintendent said enigmatically.
He stroked his beard. That morning it had still been long, but since then it had been carefully trimmed. He’d also had his hair cut.
Lefèvre was tapping on his electronic organizer.
“Personally, I had the impression that Barrère was still hiding things from us,” Ménard went on. “He didn’t seem really at ease during our interview. He was exasperated but also tense. I think he was just dribbling out information, and that he didn’t want us to dig around too much in his affairs.”
“However, that’s what we’re going to do, and soon,” Castello announced. “There are a number of corroborating facts that put this case in a new light.”
He took the time to observe his audience before adding:
“Because I, too, have something new! This morning I re-examined Lopez’s car. The routine inspection done this weekend hadn’t yielded anything but a lot of fingerprints, especially in the rear seat, of course.”
Lambert timidly came back in and took his seat, not without trailing behind him the aroma of cheap cologne. The young inspector, fearing that he was giving off too strong body odor, regularly sprinkled himself with perfume. And that was the chief reason his colleagues didn’t want to be near him.
“In view of the new importance this case has taken on,” the superintendent went on, “this morning I asked our technical team to completely dismantle the vehicle, as our colleagues in customs know so well how to do. And here’s what they found.”
From a briefcase he took two plastic bags, one containing a roll of bills and the other a foil-pack of blue pills.
“By taking apart the driver’s side door, we found almost two thousand euros in cash and twenty Viagra pills.”
The inspectors leaned over the table to see better. Only Lefèvre didn’t budge. He’d closed his electronic organizer. No need to take notes. He’d clearly been the first to get this information. Castello circulated the plastic bags.
“Thus it seems that José Lopez succeeded in making a little pocket money without his wife’s or the taxman’s knowledge. First, all the night-time drives he made for Barrère were certainly not declared. Second, he undoubtedly took advantage of these evenings to sell Viagra to Barrère’s clients. And finally, though this remains to be proven, he might have envisioned the possibility of being Ingrid Raven’s pimp in this milieu.”
“Cab driving, prostitution, drugs. Lopez is a real specialist in transports of all kinds,” Molina joked.
“In any case, he’s far from being an honest businessman and quiet family man, that’s for sure.”
Castello loosened his tie and then grabbed the telephone in front of him. He asked his secretary to bring them some water. Lambert, leaning back his chair, moved discreetly closer to the air conditioner. He pushed all the buttons but the machine for creating cold didn’t respond.
“We’ve made some real progress on this case today,” Castello continued, “but let’s not kid ourselves: nothing that we’ve found tells us what has happened to Ingrid since she disappeared.”
He cleared his throat before going on.
“This afternoon we’re supposed to receive the young woman’s fingerprints and DNA analysis from the Dutch police.”
Three timid knocks on the door. Jeanne, the superintendent‘s secretary, appeared with her arms full of bottles of mineral water. She was a petite brunette with an alluring figure. Tight khaki green pants showed off her ass perfectly and the cream-colored T-shirt claimed she had been a “White House Intern.” Sebag didn’t get it until he saw the wink Molina gave him. Then he remembered the Clinton–Monica Lewinsky affair and couldn’t repress a smile. He admired the boldness—or obliviousness—of this young woman who was moving from table to table with ease and confidence while flaunting that delightful joke under the noses of a good half-dozen males. She was playing with fire because, contrary to what she liked to suggest, she was not a loose woman. According to Molina, who had tried and failed.
“Still concerning young Ingrid,” the superintendent went on after the departure of his secretary had focused his team’s attention on him again, “we are also expecting that the gendarmes will succeed in identifying the artist couple in Collioure who are supposed to have put the young woman up. We are hoping that this, too, will provide us with new information this afternoon.”
He opened the bottle of water and filled a plastic glass. The signal was given, and everyone did the same. The water was cool. Pleasant.
Molina got up to open the window behind him. A breath of hot air blew into the room. The good feeling that followed was as ephemeral as it was relative, but Molina seemed satisfied. But then he was seated next to Lambert.
Castello put down his empty glass and cleared his throat again. The afternoon was already half over and it was time to distribute the work to be done next. As he had feared, Sebag was assigned to examine Lopez’s books, while Ménard was to examine Barrère’s. Lambert was given the mission of finding Ingrid Raven’s room in the student residence hall and Llach was to make the rounds of the museums that she might have visited.
Castello turned to Molina.
“Have you got something on for this evening?”
“Nothing much,” the inspector replied worriedly.
“You don’t mind doing a little overtime?”
“I don’t especially go looking for it . . . ”
“You don’t? Too bad . . . I was planning to ask you to pursue our investigation in the call-girl situation. You’d have to find and question the ones who participated in Barrère‘s evenings with Lopez. But I can give that job to someone else . . . ”
“Don’t bother,” Molina interrupted. “In this line of work you sometimes have to be able to go the extra mile.”
“My view entirely. And you also have to know how to make the best use of each individual’s skills, right?”
“Oooh . . . A cell phone, that’s so cool! You finally made up your mind . . . ”
Léo’s gratitude was very qualified, but it was a pleasure to see him so happy. He’d understood even before he opened the package. Sebag could see that in his eyes.
“And you can make an unlimited number of calls,” he added perfidiously.
“Unlimited? I can call as much as I want?”
“Yup.”
The kid couldn’t get over it. Sebag waited a few seconds, long enough to let him enjoy his illusions. Claire was staring at him.
“On the condition, however, that you call our home number or our cell phones, your mother’s and mine. For all other calls, of course, you’re the one who pays.”
“Oh, yeah, okay. I wondered . . . ”
He dialed a number and went off to be alone at the back of the yard while Séverine finished clearing the table. Claire and Gilles were the only ones who kept their seats. They’d dined on the terrace. A tomato salad, accompanied this time with pine nuts collected under the trees in the neighborhood and spiced with a few leaves of marjoram from the garden. It had been an outstanding evening. The last one they’d spend together for a long time. The next day, Léo was leaving for that summer camp in the Cévennes, the one whose theme was motorcycles and ATVs. His father would have preferred rock-climbing, hiking, or even kite- or wind-surfing, but Léo went in only for mechanical sports. Séverine, for her part, was leaving to spend the month of July with that girlfriend and her parents on the Costa Brava. Gilles hoped she would at least take advantage of the opportunity to review her Spanish.
During this time, Claire would work on her tan, between the pool and the sea. First in Roussillon, then on her cruise ship. In August, they’d see what they wanted to do. Depending on their desires, their means, and the children who agreed to join them. This was the first summer they were likely to spend entirely alone. That should have been an opportunity for them to get re-acquainted. To make a new start. To imagine and prepare for a future for two people and no longer for four.
“You’re very pensive,” Claire said, passing the back of her hand over his cheek.
It was getting late, but it was still warm. Léo and Séverine were playing noisily in the pool. The solar lamps that dotted the yard were coming on one after the other.
“Is it this missing person case that’s preoccupying you?”
He seized the pretext she offered him.
“I sense that it’s going to be a long and difficult investigation. I don’t know why, but that’s how I see it. You scratch a little saltpeter off a wall, and you think you’re making progress, but behind you’re going to find concrete. Too solid to demolish, too smooth to climb.”
His wife’s hand caressed his chin and his raspy whiskers, which by this hour were growing out again.
“You know I don’t always follow you when you speak too metaphorically.”
He picked up a piece of bread that had fallen on the tiles and put it on the table. He’d pored over Lopez’s books until 6:00 P.M., and had found nothing significant. Three cab trips for Perpign’And Co. were in fact listed as credits, which suggested, as Castello had indicated, that others had been paid for in cash. So far as he could tell, none of his colleagues had made any progress.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
On the dinner table, there remained only his half-full glass of wine. He took a swallow of it.
“Right now, we’re scratc
hing at the young Dutch woman’s activities and some money found in Lopez’s taxi. We’ll gradually move ahead and end up putting the puzzle together, but the picture we’ll form may well tell us nothing.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“The disappearances don’t necessarily have anything to do with Lopez’s illicit dealings. As for what Ingrid was up to, once we’ve filled in all the gaps, we’ll arrive at the point where she disappeared without having a single serious lead.”
A shrill cry exploded, followed by a resounding splash. Léo had just pushed Séverine into the water. Claire kindly told them to hold it down: it was late, and the neighbors had a right to expect a little peace and quiet. Hardly had she finished speaking when another splash was heard over the laurel hedge. Things were hot tonight for the neighbors as well. And too bad for those who didn’t have a pool.
“Aren’t police investigations always like that?” Claire asked, lifting her husband’s wineglass to her lips.
He shrugged.
“Yes, probably. But in this case, I’m not so sure. I can’t get a handle on this case.”
Claire grabbed his hair and shook his head:
“My poor Gilles . . . You really aren’t getting any better as you age. Hasn’t experience taught you anything? Ever since you’ve been in the police, you’ve always been like that at the beginning of an investigation. You worry and get discouraged by the size of the task. But you inspectors always end up finding the right thread to unwind the ball.”
She took the time to meet his eyes.
“And you know too, don’t you, that most of the time, you’re the one who finds that thread?”
In his heart of hearts, he knew she was right. But this time, it was worse than usual. He also sensed that not all his doubts had to do with the investigation. His attack of late-evening pessimism had other sources.
“That’s not true,” he insisted, “we don’t always find the thread.”
Especially not in missing person cases.
Summertime All the Cats Are Bored Page 9
