The Awkward Squad Read online

  Capestan looked out the window to see a breathless Torrez arriving with a paper bag under his arm. He waved at her and she went to join him out on the street.

  “We’ll be able to listen in on what they’re saying,” he said.

  “Listen? Lieutenant, please tell me you’re not suggesting we go and plant microphones in a crime scene.”

  Capestan quickly filed this notion away in the folder marked PRISON. She was desperate to solve this case before the brigade criminelle did, but she was less than willing to sacrifice her freedom in the process.

  “Hidden mics are illegal. But these should do the job!” Torrez said excitedly.

  He pulled a box out of the bag and waved it in Capestan’s face:

  “Baby monitors! Look at these beauties: three-hundred-yard range plus a no-signal indicator, three different alarm settings, night-light, low electromagnetic radiation . . . these are the ultimate in baby surveillance. They’ve worked for my two youngest,” he said with satisfaction.

  Capestan looked at the lieutenant: he really was resourceful. He was beaming with paternal pride. Baby monitors in an old woman’s apartment. The world’s least discreet spying tool, and yet no policeman would ever notice their presence.

  32

  Évrard stealthily worked her way up the tired wooden steps, involuntarily stroking the baby monitor in her pocket. It was as round and smooth as a lucky pebble.

  The key was putting it in a good spot. If Évrard nailed this task, they had a chance of solving both Guénan murders and being recognized as legitimate police officers rather than a bunch of has-beens. But if she failed, she would be done for attempting to engage in illegal tapping. Double or quits.

  Discretion, going unnoticed, passing like a shadow . . . Évrard knew how to do all this and more. Not quite a blonde or a redhead or a brunette, she had always slipped under the radar. Over time, this tactic proved to be her undoing. No one saw her anymore. Soon she grew tired of duping her dull, insipid opponents and went off to get her fix in increasingly seedy spots.

  At first she had taken to gambling for the thrill of victory, but then, like any addict, she had started playing to lose. For the thrill of standing at the roulette table with your whole life in your hands, gobbling up savings, sinking deeper into debt, breaking up families. The lure of the abyss. Not often you get to look chance in the face and see it waver.

  She had never had much to lose, but right now she was happy in her new squad. Évrard felt like she was closer to the surface. She was walking along the ridge of a mountain, slightly off-balance, but advancing nonetheless. And now she had to plant the baby monitor.

  The timer suddenly cut out and Évrard was plunged into darkness. She froze instinctively, then groped around for a light switch. She heard Merlot stumble and swear heartily as he clattered onto the landing. The light returned with a click and Évrard saw a young agent rushing downstairs, his hand sliding down the banister. She automatically dropped her eyes and pressed herself against the wall, and the man brushed past without noticing her. Merlot’s voice rang out a few yards below: “Whoa there! Easy does it!” The agent apologized and reduced his speed before disappearing from sight. The gift of Merlot’s gab was going to torpedo any attempt at subtlety. He caught up with her, desperately trying to regain his breath, and held his hand aloft:

  “Allow me to lead the way, dear girl.”

  Against her better judgment, Évrard nodded: he was going to ruin everything.

  Eventually they arrived at the fourth floor. Through the half-open door they could make out the sounds of various teams at work. A square-jawed detective from the police judiciaire in a hoodie left the Guénans’ apartment. Évrard saw an officer from the organized crime division she had come across back in her gambling task force days. She felt a sudden cold sweat: if he recognized her, they were screwed. Évrard’s hand trembled in her pocket and she renewed her grip on the device. The officer’s first glance passed over her, but something told her it would linger for longer the next time. Of all the times for someone to remember her, it had to be now.

  Just as the officer was about to click, Merlot bellowed at him like a bon vivant fresh from his country estate:

  “What a delight to see you again, mon vieux! It’s been an age since the Canal de l’Ourcq!”

  As square-jaw stopped to say hello to this jovial colleague, racking his brains for any canal-related memories, Évrard seized her chance to slip into the apartment.

  In the chaotic living room, the crime scene investigator was switching on his dictating machine to record the preliminary findings; around him, the forensics team was finishing collecting fingerprints. Évrard let out one of those greetings that sound more normal than silence, quiet enough not to draw anyone’s full attention. The officers returned the lieutenant’s hello, while barely registering her presence. Évrard was like an ultrasonic pulse: she was there, but nobody heard her. A phantom bird call.

  She tightened her grip on the baby monitor in her pocket and placed her thumb on the power button. She switched it on and a faint crackle snuck into the room. Heads shot up.

  Évrard stopped herself from swinging around suddenly. One of the technicians examining the carpet stood up and turned off his walkie-talkie, which was lying on a chair, before going back to work. Évrard walked over to a toy basket in a corner of the living room and set the monitor down in the middle of some rubber blocks. A bit of adhesive tape covered the “on” light.

  Now all she needed to do was grab the journal. “Slide it up your sleeve,” Rosière had teased her. That was exactly what Évrard was planning. She spotted the telephone, walked over and swiped the journal using her best sleight of hand.

  Mission accomplished.

  Before leaving, she glanced at the filing cabinet.

  There was no doubt about it. Someone had forced it.

  33

  The group had ordered coffee while they waited for the spies to return. Lunchtime was approaching and the brasserie was livening up with the background clink of cutlery. Capestan was watching Lebreton, who still had his back to the window. An anxious furrow had appeared above his right eyebrow that ran perpendicular to the line running down his cheek. He seemed to be mulling over the recent turn of events. For the first time in his career, he was directly engaging in illegal activity. It was for a just cause, but the methods employed were like a stain on his immaculate shirtfront. He must have had enough of skipping so many steps. Capestan was surprised to find herself sympathizing, despite her long history of not so much skipping steps as kicking down whole stairways. The commandant checked his pack of cigarettes—only four left—then went out to smoke one with Rosière.

  Capestan had followed Lebreton’s advice and called the vet. He had confirmed that Tunafix, a young cat in full health at the time of the crime, did indeed have a carrier, which he happened to remember was a gray and dark-red model with a plaid rug covered in cat hair. Earlier that morning, the commissaire had returned to check the house. The carrier was nowhere to be seen: the murderer had indeed taken the cat with him. So that it wouldn’t die? So that it wouldn’t alert the neighbors with its meowing?

  Capestan was still thinking this through as she removed the baby monitor from its box. A moment later, Lewitz arrived and parked his car—a yellow Chevrolet Laguna with spoilers and four rows of brake lights—on the pedestrian crossing. Lebreton waved his cigarette at the windshield, ordering the brigadier to move along: he was blocking the way for strollers and wheelchairs. Lewitz obliged. Maneuvering his Renault as if it were a Smart car, he boldly parked at right angles with the curb, swinging his two rear wheels onto the pavement and presenting his exhaust pipe to the unfortunate patrons of the terrace. Lebreton admitted defeat with a sigh.

  Torrez was sitting to one side, keeping an eye on things from a bench pushed up against a defunct old pinball machine. In addition to his childcare equipment, the lieutenant had shared some news from his research into Marie Sauzelle’s timetable. Through calli
ng various clubs to identify the infamous get-together she was supposed to be attending, he had hit on several dates: on the evening of May 30, she had attended—and even participated vigorously in, as far as the instructor recalled—an end-of-term tango show. On June 4, however, she had missed the summer raffle at her tarot club, despite having expressed an interest in one of the prizes (a leg of lamb, the chairman had specified). Marie must have died between the two. That tightened the net, but they still did not have the key date. Torrez had called Marie’s brother back about the dance show, but André was adamant that she had spoken at length about a “reunion.” So it couldn’t have been the tango.

  Capestan switched on the power button on the receiver. The squad huddled together on the window seat like a gaggle of teenagers around a single can of beer. On the table, the crackling baby monitor took center stage among the coffee cups, saucers, and crumpled sugar packets. Suddenly it emitted a clearer sound, followed by the tinny timbre of an amplified voice. Success! Évrard had managed to plant the other monitor in the living room. The officers all leaned closer to the speaker.

  “. . .—iminary forensics . . . occurred this morning between six and eight . . .”

  The whole team nodded: they had the time of death. The speaking was dotted with lots of pauses, no doubt for the purpose of note taking.

  “That’ll be the crime scene investigator,” Rosière said.

  “. . . no sexual assault . . . no sign of self-defense . . .”

  “The murderer was either quick or the victim knew her attacker,” Capestan said.

  “. . . knife wound . . . no money or jewels left . . . no computer . . .”

  Behind the distorted voice, they could make out the scraping of furniture, the rustling of plastic sheets, the sound of a zipper, and some more distant conversations that were barely audible.

  “. . . five knives identical to the murder weapon in the kitchen . . . burglary . . .”

  “Of course,” Lebreton said with a frustrated pout.

  The commandant was right: the burglary had only been intended as a decoy. That said, the computer had been stolen.

  “. . . one son, Cédric Guénan, twenty-four years old, resident of Malakoff . . .”

  Valincourt would already be over there telling him the sad news. Capestan felt a knot in her stomach.

  Other than these basic elements, the squad did not learn a great deal, apart from that Commandant Servier—a quai des Orfèvres thoroughbred—was heading up the inquiry. Capestan and Rosière knew him fleetingly, but he was hardly someone they could ask for inside information for old times’ sake.

  Merlot and Évrard marched in a few minutes later like triumphant heroes.

  “Leave it to the professionals!” Merlot shouted, holding up his arms with a self-satisfied gurgle.

  After warmly accepting his colleagues’ congratulations, Merlot cleaved through the crowd toward the bar, his belly jutting out like the prow of a ship, to claim his just reward. Évrard stayed by the table, a few strands of hair still clinging to her clammy forehead.

  “So?” she said. “Where are we? Are we ahead of the game?”

  Rosière answered as she untangled Pilou’s leash from around her chair:

  “We’ve got a small head start thanks to the husband’s case, but nothing substantial: there are more of them and they have more resources, plus every officer in the neighborhood is chomping at the bit to help out crim.”

  “It’s an inquiry, not a competition,” Lebreton said.

  “Tut-tut-tut!” Rosière shot back. “Of course it’s a competition, my chicken! How do you think we’ll earn our stripes? By wrapping up the case and handing it to them with a nice little ribbon on top? Why not throw in your bank card and PIN number while we’re at it?”

  “Let’s just say that it’s not a competition, but we’re eager to cross the finish line first,” Capestan intervened lightheartedly.

  “So what are we going to do, then?” Évrard said.

  “We stay here until they back away, just in case they find something new.”

  Capestan stood up and went to find Merlot before he made too big a dent in the bar stocks.

  “Capitaine . . .”

  “The governor!” he proclaimed, hoisting his glass of pastis. “How might I be of service?”

  “I asked you to check if there was any history between Buron and Riverni—did you find anything out in the end?”

  “Indeed you did! I had forgotten.”

  Merlot protectively returned his glass to the bar, patted his jacket to locate his glasses, and slid them on to read a tattered scrap of paper he had pulled from his trouser pocket.

  “2009. Buron was all set to take the helm at the police judiciaire, but Riverni was minister of the interior at the time, and he blocked it. Something about a friend of a friend and returning a favor. Anyhow, it would appear that Buron took it philosophically enough at the time. And that’s that,” Merlot said, folding up the piece of paper and removing his glasses. “Do my findings meet with your approval, commissaire?”

  “Absolutely, capitaine, thank you very much.”

  Capestan still wasn’t sure whether it was good news or bad, but it was definitely news. She decided to think over the various theories by herself before informing the troops. She had a trump card, she just wasn’t sure about the rest of her hand.

  Two hours later, the brigade criminelle still hadn’t moved and the squad was still lounging in the brasserie. Évrard, Dax, and Lewitz were standing at the bar arguing over a game of dice and studiously ignoring Merlot, who was narrating the more elaborate version of his recent exploits. Orsini was still sitting beside Capestan in the window, but without participating in the discussion, choosing instead to admire his slender hands. Rosière had commandeered the table behind theirs and was digging into a plate of confit de canard with pommes salardaises. Catching the rays coming through the glass, her red mane was shining like a halo. Capestan spoke to Lebreton, who was perched between the two tables on a chair he had tipped back against the window.

  “Any suspects for Maëlle Guénan?”

  The commandant nodded slowly as he gazed into the bottom of his cup.

  “I was just wondering that myself. Yesterday on the telephone, Maëlle hinted that some other people wanted to see her. She may have had a meeting this morning.”

  “Jallateau?”

  “No, I don’t think so. There was nothing hostile about her tone, but there was no sign of closeness either. My guess is that it was someone she vaguely knew,” Lebreton said, shrugging uncertainly as he looked up at Capestan. “Or there could just as well be no link at all.”

  He wasn’t convinced either way.

  Capestan turned to Rosière:

  “What do you think?”

  Rosière finished her mouthful before answering with a wave of her knife:

  “Jallateau’s still my favorite. He has links with Yann Guénan and Sauzelle, and soon after our trip to Sables-d’Olonne, the widow gets bumped off. It’s too much of a coincidence for us to ignore. Maybe we said something that panicked him and made him want to clear the ground. He seemed to be the sort of guy who likes to be in control. In any case: the violent killing of a wife twenty years after her husband’s murder, right in the middle of our investigation . . . that’s no accident.”

  Rosière grinned between forkloads of duck, then said:

  “I say we head back to Sables and give him a good going-over.”

  Capestan was struggling to make up her mind on the shipbuilder from the Vendée. She had never seen him or heard his voice. She tapped her chin with her index finger and turned to look down the street. On the far pavement, a young man in Bermuda shorts was getting off his bike. Funny-looking kid, Capestan thought to herself before she had even noticed the green flash of his helmet.

  Suddenly it dawned on her: the helmet, the shorts, the sneakers . . . She couldn’t make out the mutilated ear, but the profile matched Naulin’s visitor perfectly. What was he do
ing there?

  The boy, drenched with sweat, unzipped his hoodie and laid it on the saddle while he chained his bike to the traffic light. He straightened up and poked at the bits of hair sticking through his helmet. That was when he saw the police cars. He stopped dead.

  Why that reaction? Capestan leapt up from her chair and called out to Torrez across the room:

  “Torrez! Outside, Naulin’s squirrel! I’m going.”

  34

  The young man cautiously approached the crowd that had gathered around the security perimeter. A couple of busybodies standing there talking must have said something that alarmed the Squirrel, because he made a half turn, the color drained from his face. Capestan waited for him to get back to the junction with the boulevard so that she could intercept him without attracting the attention of the officers on duty.

  He came up alongside her, tugging nervously at the strap of his green helmet still on his head. He was about to put his hoodie back on and set off when Capestan took a step toward him and showed him her police badge. The commissaire watched as his brown eyes bulged. The young man froze for a second before shooting down the boulevard like a dart, abandoning both hoodie and bike.

  Caught by surprise, Capestan shoved her ID back in her coat pocket and took off after him. As she passed the brasserie, she sensed Torrez fall in at her left flank.

  The boy was young, swift, and nimble. He ran down the slope of the boulevard and reached the crossroads with rue Saint-Denis in a matter of seconds. At the pedestrian crossing, the traffic lights changed from red to green. Just as the cars were about to move off, the Squirrel flung himself across the road, causing a screech of tires and a chorus of car horns. The drivers lurched forward, revving their engines angrily and preventing Capestan from crossing. She was blocked on the wrong side, hopping from foot to foot as she desperately scanned for a gap in the traffic, but there was no way through. Beyond the rush of cars, she saw the boy cutting across rue Saint-Denis. A group of four teenagers appeared at the same instant, obscuring her view for a second. By the time they were gone, the boy had disappeared.