by John Brooke
‘True. Although I do like that piece you did for the foyer at the bank.’ Jerôme Duteil’s bank.
‘Everyone does,’ said Ray. ‘That old Nazi should’ve paid me twice what he did. What I mean is, you start with a piece of rock. OK? A real piece of rock — from the world, not from a fucking mix from a packet from the hardware store. I’m talking about elemental material, tu sais?’
Aliette tried to be encouraging. She knew Ray’s inhibitor drugs were a stop-gap. Recovery, if it happened at all, would come with maturity, and the real therapy occurred through talking. Dialectical behavior therapy aimed to get BPD patients to identify their upset emotions, then pause — that is, sit back and think about them, rather than acting on them, consumed by impulse. The inspector only wanted to aid this process. She asked, ‘Monsieur Duteil’s a Nazi?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why would Pearl love a man like him?’
‘She didn’t. She loves me.’
‘I understand.’ One of Aliette’s strengths was an ability to soothe. Raymond Tuche felt this and looked up — into her eyes. Don’t fall in love with me, thought the inspector, just talk to me. She knew people like Ray tended to be quickly and heavily attracted, then equally disappointed (read: devastated) when it (inevitably) all comes crashing down. Love.
‘And then you work on it,’ concluded Ray. His eyes narrowed. He breathed.
He meant the piece of rock, his basic start point, before Nazi bankers, before Pearl Serein…
Aliette asked, ‘And did you always love her?…before, back at the Lycée?’
‘No…’ Drawing this declaration out, as if it were a thing he’d never realized. ‘That was too long ago. That was before I had the power to create what I’ve created.’
‘But you knew her?’
Ray shrugged. ‘Never had a class with her. I remember walking past her every day in the halls. But I lived in the north end. She lived…I don’t know where she lived.’
‘Above her father’s bookshop,’ prompted the inspector.
‘Raymond Tuche looked out his window. Or at the miniatures along the sill? Ray’s focus was askew. ‘You could say Pearl did not exist and never would’ve if not for the power of my hands.’
‘No.’
‘And my heart.’
‘It must have been a shock to see her go off with J-G Gagnon.’
The flat eyes of Raymond Tuche showed no hint of registering this name. Nor any of the other names. As Aliette gently made her way through the list of rivals, Ray stayed silent (as was his right) and (more to the point) apparently unknowing. All the while his celebrated hands moved around an invisible shape…Well, Ray Tuche shaped his most important thoughts with his hands. She patted one of them. ‘I know it’s painful, Ray — but do you have an opinion on the fact that five of these others have died?’
Ray asked, ‘How could there be others? Don’t you understand? I created her!’
There was anger there. Claude had shared Pearl’s impressions regarding Raymond Tuche: her advice that on his bad days he was capable of anything. But being capable of anything is global, murder is specific; the ‘how’ of murder usually dovetails with the core of a man. And they still had no definitive idea as to how these supposed murders were happening.
She asked, ‘But what about Tommi Bonneau?’
‘Photography is so easy!’ Ray fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. ‘So fucking easy.’
Poor Pearl, thought Aliette. Then again, a girl is free to choose. No?
‘You’ve been very helpful, Ray…We appreciate it.’ Standing to go, she looked around. ‘Not a bad set-up here. You’ve been popping in and out a lot lately?’
‘Not so much. Been staying. Resting up. New project…’ Ray pointed to his head. ‘Have to be in shape to start, you know? No one knows what it’s like to be a sculptor.’
‘Not a tennis player, you?’
The club was another tweak. They knew he was a member. Or his mother was.
‘Me, no…I just use that place for haircuts.’ And Ray clearly hadn’t had one in a while.
Claude was back in his office when she returned to the commissariat.
She doubted Raymond Tuche was a killer, but noted a volatility likely impossible to predict.
‘And Belfort?’
‘Missed Didi Belfort again. Another tennis lesson.’
‘Damn. I stopped in there on my way back… We’ll catch up with him. Maybe we’ll see him on the dance floor.’ He passed her with a folded card. ‘Think I’ll go. I think you’d better come too.’
Spring Follies! Saturday, May 1
Champagne and dancing to celebrate the season
Members and friends
RSVP Gaston for group tables
‘It’s just work,’ said Claude, adding, ‘It could be fun.’
‘Dancing?… But why?’
‘I have a feeling.’ A feeling that something could happen. ‘I mean, so much of Pearl’s life revolves around that place… All their lives.’ Claude felt he should check it out.
‘Is she going to be there?’
‘She’s determined not to let these guys get in the way of her life. Even if she doesn’t show, I’m sure the members will have some things to tell us. We could have a drink with Didi Belfort.’
‘Yes. And Charlotte…lovely woman.’ The inspector mulled it. The card was expensive vanilla bond. On the face, an engraved logo: CRQ, the Q drawn with a finely inked web and abnormally long stem, a stylized racquet’s grip at its base. Not too original, but it didn’t have to be. The letterhead proclaimed Le club des raquetteurs du quartier. ‘Who is Gaston?’
‘He’s the manager. Nice guy… I mean, once you get past the silly snooty act.’
For the second time that day, Aliette Nouvelle said fine, no problem. It was just work. There were worse assignments. Yes, it could be fun.
But Saturday was tomorrow. She had nothing to wear!
She left in a rush, took the long way home, made a chaotic pass through the boutiques.
And the man Aliette Nouvelle might love laughed about it as they snuggled with their drinks. She happily drank the last of the wine and explored the possibilities.
Perhaps she should have stayed more low-key — there in his bed, he was growing dubious.
So she began to play it down. Saturday night? Work the club dance. Strictly procedural. Maybe nail a killer. ‘And for her protection — though we don’t even know if she’ll be there.’
‘Maybe I’m not totally comfortable with this after all.’
‘It’s a good strategy. I can go where she goes. Certain areas of the club, I mean.’
‘Where your commissaire cannot?’ He smoothed her hair.
‘Or any other man. The powder room is often the key to the mystery. Surely you know this.’
‘Ah. But are you under cover?’
‘Not at all. We’ll talk tennis — me and Pearl, I mean.’
‘Maybe you should let your commissaire handle this one alone.’
She laughed and drew the remaining bit of blanket from his body, gently climbed on top.
Then she lay her head on his belly and reassured him. ‘It’s only work.’ Which was the truth.
But.
She’d spotted a dress that could be perfect, she had a hair appointment for ten next morning.
She was looking forward to it. Something different. Although they were making beautiful progress in this new relationship, he hadn’t yet taken her anywhere quite like a dance at the club.
13
Dancin’ the Night Away
Dressing was precise and procedural, decisions at every phase. Piaf watched knowingly as the inspector tried the raspberry soustien-gorge again, but finally discarded it in favor of the steel blue camisole made exclusively for her pleasure by a murdered seamstress named Ondine Duguay. Wonderful how that steely tint transformed into a silvery dream-like shade with the slightest shift of her body. The AN monogram embroidered in black in the region of
her right hip added subtle presence, something like a professional secret… Then her gown: a sleeveless wide-strapped sheath of brushed viscose, burgundy with a light-sensitive two-inch panel running down the right side from armpit to hem, six fingers above her knee. Depending on her movement and the ambient light, it flashed plum, mango, scarlet. Very nice… Hair. Eyes. Lips. Single gold bangle. Lapis studs. Moroccan pumps. Teal calfskin purse from a boutique in Basel. Perfection! The inspector was feeling quite complete when the commissaire arrived in a cab.
The evening was mild, aperitifs were served on the terrace. Aliette could not spot a familiar face as she and her date stood by the pool sipping pastis, self-consciously making sure their conversation was as animated as everyone else’s.
And Pearl Serein. Would she show?
Claude had lots to talk about. Surely it was clear by now that a certain judge would do well to heed a policeman’s proven instincts. ‘Richand’s got no respect for experience. No nose for the heart of the matter. It starts with us, not him.’
‘Shh! Claude…’ It was very likely someone near them would know Gérard Richand.
‘I don’t care. He’s a stuffed-up ass.’
Despite the Martel debacle, Claude was brash. After yesterday’s chat in Strasbourg he knew his rapport with Divisionnaire Norbert Fauré cut far deeper than mere rules.
Hardly. Fauré’s position was unknowable, purely political, depending on the moment. Claude was dreaming, caught up in the moment. But there was no point arguing, not tonight. She sipped her drink, surveying the garden, the pool. ‘It’s nice here.’ Her parents belonged to a place just like it — in Nantes. She’d spent a lot of adolescent hours at the club. She rarely mentioned it, and never at work. After eight years and counting, the life in Nantes seemed like another world.
‘Not bad,’ said Claude. A little too offhand. ‘Did I mention that I joined?’
‘You joined?’
‘Well, on probation — at least that’s what Gaston called it.’
‘On probation. Not a bad place for the likes of you.’
He smiled at her lame joke. She grinned at Claude’s new status. They sipped their drinks.
Her eyes moved past him. ‘There’s the guy who almost ran me over.’ And even more beautiful in a light gray suit than in his jogging outfit. He looked like that sloe-eyed singer from Quebec. What was his name?
Claude followed her eyes. ‘Who is he?’
‘No idea. I told Deubelbeiss to look for him.’
‘Bon. We’ll have a word.’
But it could wait. Because the man called Gaston came out the dining room door and rang a bell. Supper was served. The guests moved into the ballroom-dining area where linen-clad tables awaited, aglow with floral scented candlelight reflecting and refracting through bottles of the best of the rich ruby and amber-gold local vintages. Probationary member Claude Néon and his guest had been assigned a table with Mylène and Alain, a pair of accountants, and Annick and Nicolas (Nic et Nic), an older couple, he a retired investment banker. Aliette had seen madame somewhere before. ‘I know we’ve crossed paths…’ The lady agreed. But where?
Gaston was acting as maître d’. To start, he was pleased to offer consommé or tomato juice and a plate of foie gras slivers on rye crusts. Following on, guests had a choice of lamb medallion, poached lake trout, chevaline tournedos or shark filet, each served with small portions of green beans, baby carrots, beets and flageolets. Then salad, the cheese tray, lime sorbet and biscuits…slices of pear and a digestif to finish. Aliette went with the horsemeat, bloody and tender, verging on sweet. Claude would have the shark.
A festive luminescence bathed the diners’ faces and danced along the edges of crystal tureens overflowing with the loose softness of pansies and petunias, washed the smooth edges of heavy bone china ringed in gold leaf and embossed with the venerable club crest, rested delicately on the tines of similarly branded silver forks as the well-manicured hands holding them paused to make a point. Gaston moved from table to table, making sure everything was fine. The two cops began to enjoy themselves. Aliette did not mind that no one reacted when she replied ‘inspector’ and all attention flowed to the commissaire. Not that anyone made direct mention of Pearl Serein — these people knew what it is to be polite. To his credit, Claude stuck to the truth, admitting ‘it’s mostly administrative… No, not that much of cops and robbers at all.’
When Annick teased Claude about his controversial testimony at the Mari Morgan trial, Aliette blurted, ‘So that’s where! You follow these things?’
‘Follow them? Dear girl, I had a seat reserved in the third row. I never missed a day.’
Accountants Mylène and Alain had spent their Saturday afternoon at the cinema, being thrilled by the new American thriller that was causing such a furor. Another French film had been re-made by Hollywood. ‘The guy flies a miniature jet through the New York metro,’ explained Alain, ‘from Harlem to Wall Street… Superb!’
‘I wept,’ confessed Mylène. ‘All that adrenaline! Too much for me.’
‘There was never any jet in the original,’ complained Annick. ‘It’s ridiculous how they steal from us and tart them up.’
‘It’s just a movie,’ chided Nicolas.
Annick shot back, ‘But it’s our story…it’s French!’ She was a patriot.
Neither Aliette or Claude had seen it yet. Claude said it was on his list.
‘It’s not the stories,’ mused Nicolas, ‘it’s the business.’
‘Made 100 million its first weekend,’ reported Alain.
‘U.S. dollars,’ added Mylène. A world record at the time.
‘While our own industry can barely survive,’ rejoined Nicolas. ‘When I was working I could fill a prospectus for a film in two months, some in two days. Like buying a diamond for a beautiful woman: a pleasure to take the risk. A duty! My old firm won’t even read them any more.’
‘I think those Americans must have deep problems with self-image,’ declared Annick. ‘Manhood, quoi?
Mylène agreed, ‘It’s true, none of them are very attractive. But perhaps that’s not the point.’
Annick smiled at the younger woman. ‘What else could it possibly be?’
Alain puffed his chest. He liked American movies and would spend his francs as he chose fit.
Claude nodded yes to that.
Nicolas refilled their glasses. It was not a night to argue.
They gabbed on, and as the wine flowed a cop could easily forget why she had come.
But not completely. Aliette’s gaze drifted around the room, picking out a judge from the assize court. Some lawyers she knew… No sign of Pearl Serein. No appearance by Didier Belfort and his horrid Charlotte… Ah. There was Rose Saxe of Society Notes, sporting gold buttons and epaulettes and too much lipstick again as she leaned dangerously close to the ear of the beautiful jogger.
The inspector asked Nicolas, ‘Who is that…with Rose Saxe?’
‘That’s Remy. Remy Lorentz. Our tennis pro.’
By the tone, the narrowing of Nic’s eyes, the inspector gathered he was not a fan. On the other side of Rose Saxe sat a man with silver hair in formal white evening dress. Monsieur Saxe? He concentrated on his red wine while Rose remained in deep strategy with Remy — he didn’t seem to see or care that Rose’s hand was very busy all up and down the younger man’s arm as she made her heated points. Or that Remy’s hand was enjoying Rose’s knee. Well, it was spring.
Around ten, as the bar staff circulated with cigars, and guests wandered away to the ladies’ and men’s, Gaston announced the entertainment. The evil-looking singer said bonsoir on behalf of The Lonely Blue & Sad Times Band, then counted them straight into a highly energized and absolutely danceable version of Berthe Sylva’s classic…
Frou frou, frou frou: par son jupon la femme…
Frou frou, frou frou: de l’homme trouble l’âme!…
Great song!…about underwear. By the time it took the guests to adjust their eyes to the ma
levolent faces, outfits and hair of the ones who’d come to sing for them, their feet were also moving. Before the second refrain, the entire club was up and dancing. Yes, it was only work, but the two cops were in the thick of it, Aliette Nouvelle moving her body against the luscious silk inside her dress, grinning at Claude Néon — who was proving himself pleasingly adept at moving in time. Responding to the quicksilver pops of a soloing guitar, he spun her around, brought her over and through, and people near them formed a clapping circle. They tried a slow dance. Claude led strongly through the deepest valleys of the saxophone’s swoon. Aliette was having fun, soon sweating under her silk. She smiled for a wandering busboy and he hurried to find them beers.
Then two more… Twirling and gliding, Inspector Nouvelle boogied on.
It was during the second set, around midnight, when her well-bounced bladder told her it was time for a break, that she left Claude Néon standing by the blaring speakers, mesmerized, happy like she’d never seen him before.
After freshening up, the inspector found a door and stepped out for some air.
Cooler now, a surface of dew on the chaises-longues by the pool, the garden soft in darkness, alyssum, begonias, impatiens, petunias impeccably arranged…a gardener’s trowel left lying on the step of a stairway leading down to a basement. From down those stairs the inspector’s trained ears caught the sound of a quick breath of laughter. Another cautious step, she looked — a natural response, anyone would. Remy the tennis pro…and someone…Rose Saxe peeked out from behind his shoulder! Spring Follies? These two were pushing the theme of the evening to its forbidden limit. Aliette blushed, continued strolling. Don’t worry, I won’t tell; I’m not even a member.
But Society Notes fell some in her esteem. Rose Saxe must be at least twice that Remy’s age.
