by Michel Quint
She finally told them that the number they’d found in the cookbook belonged to a telephone booth in Aix. Then the ghost broke into fresh tears.
Mercurey unfolded a map. The phone booth was located just two hundred yards from where Mélissa lived.
“Bull’s-eye,” he cried.
Imbert and Mercurey had no trouble finding Sycamore Place, much less apartment C4. Getting inside was a little trickier. They had to go through a neighboring apartment, and from there they climbed onto Mélissa’s rickety balcony. Imbert grumbled; the day was almost over and they weren’t making much progress. He felt as though he were in a labyrinth, holding a string that threatened to break at every turn.
His grousing was interrupted by the sight of gray corpses.
The girl had been pretty, he knew, and the guy loaded. Imbert was moved by the scene.
For Mercurey, their presence was a reproach for searching their apartment.
The task wasn’t easy. In addition to all the drawers that had to be emptied, they had to sift through the rubble. On top of that, the light was quickly fading.
“Junk, junk, junk! How are we supposed to find clues in this mess? Plaster and dope look awfully similar. There’s no way I’m going to taste chunks of debris to find out. You look through the papers,” Imbert commanded.
Mercurey was uncomfortable and sweating profusely under his leather jacket. For once, Imbert wasn’t the only one dripping with sweat that smelled of Dortmunder Union beer. Sweating like this, he would soon drop down to two hundred pounds. A young man’s weight. He laughed to himself.
They searched for just under an hour but didn’t find anything, aside from some mysterious keys, money, and a mess of sexy underwear. They found a flashlight, which was useful, but no books, no papers, just a few adult magazines. Imbert flipped through them carefully, slipping a few choice pages into his pocket.
“For my archives,” he said.
Mercurey couldn’t stop looking at the mutilated, bloody bodies.
“What are we doing, boss?”
“Thinking. Muginello wasn’t at home. The young lady is dead. You figured it out yourself: the girls are acting as drug dealers. Muginello does the negotiation, the girls distribute the product, and Mélissa no doubt manages the girls.”
“Should we try to find one of the girls that’s still alive?”
“There’s no point. Mélissa’s name is the only one that’s mentioned in the cookbook. We have to find the man orchestrating this operation, the man in charge. The others don’t know anything. Ettore probably keeps his organization very compartmentalized. It all makes sense. It’s a stroke of luck we have his name. If we want to get to the bottom of the drug trade, we have to find him. He’s the one who holds the reins. That being said, his place was clean, and we’re not finding anything here.”
“Still, the girl was here.”
“But not necessarily with a junkie. Did you search the customer’s suit pockets?”
“No, boss. I was afraid to—”
“Shit, get your hands dirty for once! You don’t work for the Red Cross!”
Mercurey obeyed. The crumpled suit was soaked in blood, its pockets containing brown-spotted money, a syringe, a small burner, and a little spoon—but no drugs. They did find a very useful wallet with an ID card, a driver’s license identifying the man as André Hubot—forty-five years old.
“I guess he’d just returned from running errands!” Imbert said, ironically.
“Boss, something strikes me as odd: sex and drugs—especially smack—don’t work well together. Guys aren’t interested in scoring twice! Not to mention the fact that this configuration excludes potential female customers, with the exception of lesbians.”
“What can you deduce from that, Mercurey?”
“The girls receive the dealers, who are either into drugs or sex, but only guys they know, customers sent to them by Ettore, via Mélissa. Then the girl collects money for the delivery.”
“Exactly!” Imbert cried, continuing Mercurey’s train of thought. “Muginello probably has wholesale deliveries made in neutral places and probably picks a new place every time. Since no one ever sees him, no one knows who he is. The chain follows this structure: the big boss, Mélissa and the prostitutes, then the dealers, and finally the junkies. That way he’ll never get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We’ll never find him with product in his car, and he’ll never go down for pimping. He keeps nothing on his person, and his girls don’t touch a single gram of powder. If we ever find any money on them, they can always say it comes from turning tricks. You can be sure that Ettore doesn’t do the deliveries himself. He has to keep his cover; he can’t risk getting his girls all worked up. He likely reaches an agreement with the wholesaler on the delivery location and the quantity, then the wholesaler probably drops it off; Muginello tells Mélissa or some other girl directly; they tell their customers. They give them the place and the time. The customers take the delivery and sell it. That’s how they must do it!”
“Good work,” said Mercurey, admiringly. “So in terms of the company’s structure, there’s Monsieur X at the top, then our man Ettore, the broads like this one here, men like André Hubot, and the junkies.”
Imbert put the dead man’s wallet in his pocket and lit a Gauloise.
“This limited liability company is about to be held liable. Ettore isn’t a big deal. The earthquake must be a major blow to his business. I want the big man. I want his name. That’s it. The others will fall all by themselves.”
Mercurey mechanically searched through the rubble. The apartment was plunged in darkness and the flashlight was dimming.
“Maybe we can get another one of the girls to talk,” he suggested again.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. You didn’t read the file very well, did you? Do you know why they’ll never talk?”
“No.”
“You should have looked at their bank statements. The last time we checked, last month, the lowest earner had made a modest stack of 350,000 francs. They make a double commission: on the drugs and on the prostitution. They would have to be pretty stupid to give that up. Ettore and his girls have the perfect cover: illicit activity. You’d be suspicious of an honest guy, but a criminal—you’re not going to automatically assume he’s hiding another specialty. All right, let’s get back to the station and study this cookbook.”
From inside Mélissa’s apartment, they were able to unlock the front door. Mercurey stepped on Imbert’s cigarette butt as he exited the apartment. Better safe than sorry: there had been so many gas-related explosions lately!
CHAPTER XVIII
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 9:30 p.m.
“A redhead! If you see a redhead, let me know. That’s Mélissa.”
Rita didn’t say anything. Standing next to Ettore, on the outskirts of a makeshift camp, her thoughts were focused on the events of the day. It was already late, and almost completely dark out. Ettore had changed his mind during their walk. He had decided to visit two other girls before Mélissa, to make sure he was in control of his stable. He and Rita had turned around, redoubled their steps, passed the neighborhood around the courthouse, and were headed toward Route d’Avignon. It had been a long and tiring walk. Rita was in front of Ettore. He took liberties, grabbing her shoulders and smacking her backside, and she was surprised to discover that she didn’t really mind.
In fact, she relished and anticipated each lecherous touch. Consequently, she was able to distract herself from the ambient horrors of the day, from the rescue teams and the hysterical families, from the strange pieces of human detritus. Rita took refuge in this sensuality, thanks to which she was able to cross through hell on earth, smiling like a fakir stepping over burning embers. Her life had been so dull up until now that she relished the day’s sacrilegious and novel perversions. The forbidden fruit.
Forget all her values, steal, and cheat. Ettore seemed like the ideal partner for her personal revolution, so she exaggerated the sway of her jean-clad hips.
They skirted past evening scenes of old men perched on makeshift canes watching over children falling asleep in the middle of the road. Elsewhere, a blank-eyed woman gave her breast to a deceased baby twitching in her arms. People were reciting rosaries. Faces were drawn and prayers spoken.
Rita and Ettore found Mélanie, her top rumpled, stirring a pot of soup on a portable stove. She was standing just paces from where her charming studio had once been. At the time of the earthquake, she’d been closing an urgent deal with a marketing representative in the backseat of a Peugeot 505.
She was a thirty-something brunette, pretty and voluptuous. She’d been one of Ettore’s first recruits. The more traditional customers loved her curvaceous Mediterranean look.
She relayed news she’d heard through the grapevine about some of Ettore’s employees. His staff seemed to be okay.
The building where an Italian woman named Ornella lived was a few minutes away by foot. Her ground-floor apartment was mostly intact. As they walked, Rita wondered why Ettore had suggested that Mélanie lie low for a few weeks, maybe a month.
Ornella, the sweet Bolognese with oblong eyes, was working when Rita and Ettore knocked on her door. They heard a customer’s thick moan emanating from within the apartment.
Ettore turned the handle and the door opened. They stepped into the foyer. The sound coming from the upturned living room beyond was almost comical, especially when Rita considered the fact that the ceiling of the apartment was threatening to collapse. The place smelled of urine and dust.
They pushed some cushions into a corner and sat down. Ettore poured glasses of scotch—neat. Rita gave in to the warmth of the alcohol and let her green eyes wander to the ceiling. Ettore took advantage of the moment, and she didn’t try to stop him. He reached one hand into her jeans and another under her T-shirt, discovering that she was ready. She remained silent, a cryptic smile on her lips as Ettore made love to her. They quickly emptied one last glass of scotch, before jumping out of the trenches and back into harm’s way.
The noise from the living room had ceased. The customer was readjusting himself. Ettore was doing the same, surprised at how good it had been with Rita.
“You surprise me,” he said. “You know what you want, and you’re not wrong to choose Ettore! Martine is past her prime. Would you be interested in taking her place?”
Rita didn’t know what to say. Ornella followed a long-haired, lanky man into the room. She was completely naked, save a thin gold chain clasped around her right ankle. She was fanning herself with some bills.
“How kind of you to care about my health,” she said, smiling.
Ettore let her kiss him on the mouth, like a punch clock accepting a time card at the end of a day’s work. He also grabbed the bills.
“A new girl?”
“This is Rita. She’s with me. It’s time for Martine to bring in a return on my investments. You okay with that?”
“Love makes the world go round!”
Ettore and Ornella broke into laughter, and Rita joined them.
“I came by to tell you that I’m going on vacation,” Ettore said, sobering. “Do your accounting with Mélissa. And watch out! Imbert and his coppers are going to be on the lookout. I don’t want to get caught with my dick out. Mélissa will tell you what to do for your expenses. Thanks to the disaster, The Gentleman isn’t going to be able to provide. Keep an eye on your regulars and beware of competitors. They might try to poach some of your customers.”
Ornella shot him a lascivious smile. “My services are incomparable, and I offer free deliveries.”
“And quality customer service,” Ettore guffawed.
Rita still hadn’t said anything. Hidden in her depths, she was discovering a calm version of herself, a Rita who took perverse pleasure in the passivity that these events afforded her. Her heart was pounding as though she had bet it all on an old horse. Everything that the ’68-ers, the baby-boomer revolutionaries, had fought and dreamed for, all that had been delayed and prevented by presidential and legislative powers alike, was finally coming true. But none of it mattered. Taking exams, joining the Internationalist Communist Organization, signing up for a terrorist faction—she was sick of it all! She was going to let herself go with the flow, let herself float. Then, she’d see what life had to offer.
Plus, she stood to make a lot of money in this new adventure. Maybe she could even buy a small island with Pierrot, once they had screwed over Ettore.
Ornella hadn’t even bothered to throw on a sweater. She let them leave without a second thought to her dress—or rather, undress.
“Got it. Mélissa’s in charge. Ciao, padrone!”
“Goodbye, my jewel,” Ettore said. “Don’t forget to sparkle.”
The walk back across the city was another journey through the garden of death. Ettore held Rita’s hand. Neither could tell who was leading whom.
When they arrived at Sycamore Place, Ettore couldn’t find the redheaded Mélissa amid the sad crowd of survivors outside and was forced to take a risk.
“We’re going to have to climb above the crowd. If I can’t find her, I’m going to have to call The Gentleman directly. Considering the circumstances, I don’t want to have to do that!”
Saying this, he entered Building C.
Simon felt trapped. His only source of reassurance: the jewels. They gave him the strength to keep moving.
The garage had sustained little damage. Some of the concrete parts had buckled, but overall the metallic structure was only slightly twisted, having swayed back and forth before settling on the enormous girders bolted to the ground; they had functioned as seismic shock absorbers. Nevertheless, the entryway was obstructed, the iron gate crushed into its frame. There was no way he’d be able to raise it. Stealing a car would be difficult, if not impossible.
Simon took a detailed inventory of the premises. Some new cars were parked against the back wall, ready to be delivered. On the right was an oil change and car wash station. As he walked, shards of glass from the secretarial offices to the left of the entryway crunched under the soles of his shoes. Still farther to the left, above the dealership and the exhibition space, Simon saw the salespeople’s offices. Behind the storage area for spare parts, he found a rally car workshop. Two Le Cars and one Alpine A310 were sitting on lifts. One of the Le Cars had slipped and was threatening to sway into an oil-changing pit. The day’s dying light infused the deserted locale and its battered vehicles with melancholy.
Two official yellow-and-black vans were parked nearby, emblazoned with an inscription: “Renault, original parts” read one van, and the other, “Racing Services: Rally Car Support.” The second of the two cars was sealed shut, its antennae pointing toward the dealership’s missing windows. The other was open, but the keys weren’t on the dashboard. It occurred to Simon that he could force open the iron gate with the help of a van, and drive out in the R30 TX.
“Are the people who work at this dealership OCD?” Simon grumbled to himself. “Where are the keys?”
In this sea of new and used cars, not one had keys in the ignition. Simon started searching feverishly for keys. Soon it would be very dark. He searched the workshops, swearing whenever he bumped into a car body hidden in the shadows. Some mean god had thrown handfuls of dust all throughout the garage, causing Simon to cough. He headed for the offices, figuring the keys were in there.
On the ground floor, in the employee boxes: nothing.
In the reception area: shit, still nothing, except a pair of holey tights and a tube of lipstick in one of the secretary’s drawers.
Simon took a set of internal stairs that spit him out into a hallway with eight doors. On the right: accountants’ offices. The five smaller but more comfortable off
ices on the left had windows overlooking the garage. The windows were all broken. He was starting to get annoyed. Curiously, nothing seemed to matter to him anymore—not Martine’s murder, not his friends, not Ettore—nothing. He was as furious as a child who discovers that the remote control is out of batteries. This inner part of the building had taken a beating from the partially collapsed roof, but in an act of protest, Simon knocked down anything that the disaster hadn’t already destroyed.
Simon rushed through the battered building like a cyclone. The most luxurious office, that of CEO Paul-Jacques Sinibaldi, caught his attention. After smashing into a minibar, he broke a picture frame in which a very pretty young woman, flanked by her son and daughter, was seated, smiling. In the glow of his lighter, the swimming pool in the background of the photo was a particular source of irritation.
“Rich assholes,” Simon cried, gnashing his teeth before taking a swig from a bottle of port.
Suddenly, he heard a noise in the garage.
It had gotten much darker, and he could only make out a shadow. It had its back to him and was walking straight for the R30 TX.
CHAPTER XIX
Aix-en-Provence
Saturday, August 16, 9:55 p.m.
P.J. immediately identified the sound of glass breaking. What’s more, he managed to place it. It had come from his office. The tinkle of shattering glass had followed a much louder noise: the crash of the minibar.
P.J. remained motionless for a moment in the dealership’s entrance, under the offices. He could go upstairs and deal with the intruder or he could try to get one of the new cars out of the dealership’s garage. The other guy wouldn’t do anything. He’d be too afraid.
Nothing really mattered to P.J. except surviving and reuniting with Valérie and the children. She was probably beside herself. She may have been able to manage everyday life by herself, but there was no way she was capable of dealing with this kind of disaster.
