Bred to Kill (15 page)

A
n erupting volcano.

Blue-and-red pennants whipped the air.

Sporting scarves in the same bright colors, fans were crowding toward Gerland Stadium for the midweek match, wearing the emblem of the Olympique Lyonnais soccer club. Loud voices, alcohol-laden breath, eyes red with excitement. The area was teeming with men, women, and children choking sidewalks and clogging the streets: amid honking horns and smoking exhaust pipes, the hapless drivers had no choice but to wait.

Fraying a passage through the crowd, Arnaud Fécamp walked quickly. Lucie followed as best she could, first in the same direction as the masses, then against the tide once they'd passed the stadium.

Suddenly, the scientist veered across Avenue Jean-Jaurès just as the traffic light turned green. In the blink of an eye, he vanished into the Stade de Gerland subway stop, which was spewing out further batches of stadium-goers. Lucie began slaloming among the shapes and dodged into the traffic, triggering insults from the aggravated drivers.

Difficult to get down the stairs. She elbowed her way through, mumbling excuses. People were shouting, singing, shoving, indifferent to her small presence. She rushed into the narrow corridor. No trace of the redhead. No chance of finding him in such a ruckus. Distraught, Lucie cast around for signs, burrowed through the tempest toward a subway map. Luckily, the station was at the end of the line. Which meant that Fécamp could only be waiting for one train, the one heading back toward Charpennes. With no time to waste, Lucie crushed in behind a woman entering the turnstile and managed to get through just as the Plexiglas barrier slammed shut behind her. She started running.

The redhead was there, at the edge of the platform. When the subway rolled forward and opened its doors, he rushed in and took a seat. Panting, Lucie stepped into the next car, keeping her eyes on him. Discreetly, through the windows, she watched his profile: he was looking undeniably anxious. He stared at the floor, eyes vacant, jaws clenched.

The man got off at Saxe-Gambetta and transferred to Line D, toward Vaise. The cars were packed, which for once worked in Lucie's favor. With a rumble, the train entered the tunnel, sinking into a furnace of burning steel. Odors of rancid sweat and burned rubber.

Six stops later, another end of the line. Gare de Vaise, one of six train stations in Lyon. Fécamp got off and resumed his hurried pace. Hidden by the barriers of arms and legs, Lucie again followed in pursuit. She let herself fall farther behind in quieter streets to make sure she wasn't spotted. The moment he turned a corner, she ran to the intersection, then again let him gain some distance. Despite the adrenaline, Lucie began to feel her exhaustion. Sweat poured down her back. The glacier, the highway, running through the streets of Lyon . . . too much for one day, and her muscles were rebelling. In just half a week, her life had made a complete turnaround.

Where was the researcher going? The neighborhood was nothing like the one Lucie had been in only half an hour before. Construction cranes bristled on the horizon. The buildings were crammed together; the rare balconies were littered with laundry and bicycles. Barely any pedestrians. Straight ahead rose a wall of high-rises, looking as if they had burst from the treetops. Lucie had a hard time imagining the scientist living in this squalid neighborhood.

Arnaud Fécamp turned onto Boulevard de la Duchère. Clumps of teenagers dragged their boots along the sidewalks: caps, hoods, the ample outfits of rappers . . . Quickly, without raising his eyes, the scientist clambered up a flight of steps and disappeared into the foyer of one of the dingy high-rises. Lucie quickened her pace and plunged in after him. The hallways stank of stale cigarette and pot smoke. Shadows sized her up with the usual whistles and crudities. Instinctively, she verified that her pistol was in her pocket and caught herself wondering whether she shouldn't turn back, go home, be with her daughter and mother. But her cop's impulses, which she'd tried so hard to suppress, wouldn't be denied.

In front of her was a decrepit elevator. Above the doors, half-broken diodes lit up sequentially to the fourth floor. Lucie took the stairs, running up two at a time. The burning sensation in her calves returned.

Male voices reached her as she was covering the last few yards. She tried to control her breathing, advanced with caution, and flattened against the wall, already out of breath.

She entered the hallway. A door slammed.

Number 413.

Lucie could hear a baby crying somewhere. Then children laughing, doors closing. She crept forward. Images from old memories came flooding back. Stakeouts, manhunts, pursuits. The misery and decay of the city's peripheries.

In apartment 413, she could hear two men arguing. Certain words set off shrill alarm bells:
murder . . . Louts . . . cop
 . . .

Suddenly her heart skipped a beat. A cry. Then shattering glass.

Immediately, Lucie yanked the gun from her pocket, turned the doorknob, and gave it a shove, aiming the gun ahead of her.

Arnaud Fécamp was lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway, his head crowned with shards of glass. In front of him, a man was gripping a broken bottleneck. Sweat pants, no shirt, tattoos. About twenty, and all nerves.

“Police! Don't move or I'll blow your head off. Drop that bottle!”

Lucie closed the door with her heel. The man stared at her with gaping eyes. Veins bulged on his thin neck. Caught short, he let go of his weapon and raised his hands to about the level of his pecs. His coke-white torso was completely hairless.

“So what the fuck is all this?”

In the narrow hallway, Lucie tried to control her stress level. She prayed her hands wouldn't shake. Too late to turn back now. She walked forward firmly, straddled the inanimate body, and pushed the young man against the wall.

“Sit down.”

The kid gave her a defiant look and didn't obey.

“What do
you
want, bitch?”

Without thinking, Lucie raised her gun and brought the butt down on his right temple. A dull thud. The kid let himself slide down the wall, hands on his face. Stoked by adrenaline, Lucie shot a look at the other rooms. Filthy, a shambles. At first glance, no one.

“Don't make me tell you twice. You see this weapon, shithead? It's a semiautomatic Mann pistol, 1919 model, 6.35-millimeter, in perfect working condition. It's so small and light it goes undetected, but it can make holes in you the size of grapes. I'm alone here. No backup, no nothing. No one to tell me what I can and can't do.”

The kid let out a sound between a grunt and a whine, then his voice became clearer.

“What do you want?”

“What's your name?”

He hesitated. Lucie pushed her foot closer to his crotch.

“I said what's your name?”

“David Chouart.”

She stepped back, knelt down by Fécamp, and felt his carotid artery. Crowned with a bottle of cheap whiskey. Chouart hadn't gone easy. The tattooed kid looked disheveled, bloodshot eyes, breath like a feral animal.

“You really walloped him. How come?”

The young man rubbed his head with a wince. A lump was already visible.

“I
warned
the little fuck there'd be trouble if he ever showed up here again.”

“There are nicer ways to show it. Eva Louts, you know her?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Really? Because I just heard her name from down the hall, while you two were shouting at each other.”

Chouart gave the unconscious man a hateful look.

“The guy's out of his mind. He comes here and accuses me of murder. I've got nothing to do with that shit.”

“Maybe he has good reason? Tell me what's the connection between you two. How did you meet?”

“Nothing to say.”

Lucie stood up and nodded toward the researcher's immobile body.

“
He'll
have plenty to say.”

She took out her phone.

“In less than five minutes, I'll have every cop in Lyon up your ass. You're better off keeping this between us.”

Chouart bared his teeth, like an animal trying to face down an enemy.

“I know that trick. You're going to call them no matter what.”

Lucie dug into her pocket, then tossed a plasticized medallion onto his chest.

“I'm here for personal reasons.”

Chouart looked at the plastic object, the photo inside, then tossed it at Lucie's feet, an unwholesome smile on his lips.

“Your daughters? What are you, some kind of vigilante mom? Why should I give a shit?”

In an instant, Lucie rushed up to him and jammed the gun against his forehead. She was panting heavily, her face twisted, her finger twitching. Suddenly, the kid's eyes took on a look of terror. He huddled into himself, clenching his teeth.

“All right, all right, stop! I'll talk!”

Lucie waited a few seconds before lessening the pressure, her face pale. Her head was spinning. She'd been on the verge of pulling the trigger. For real. She had never felt like that, not even in the middle of her darkest cases.

“Jeezus, you're fucking nuts!”

“What's your connection to the Cro-Magnon mummy?”

The young man looked broken down. He knew he wasn't dealing with some average cop, but with a walking time bomb.

“I took it.”

“A setup? Were you in league with Fécamp?”

“He was supposed to get us into the lab, and our job was to make it look like a robbery.”

“Who was the second attacker?”

“This guy I know, some kind of computer whiz. He just did what he was told, he doesn't know anything about it.”

Lucie stepped back, not taking her eyes off him. Chouart, docile now, didn't move a hair. She was sure he'd only tell the truth from now on.

“Was it Fécamp who got in touch with you?”

“No. Fécamp was just a middleman. The guy who hired us got in touch with him first, before contacting me. Then one night, the three of us met in a park in Villeurbanne to talk over the deal. The contract was simple. Fécamp got a bundle for bringing me to the mummy when the time came, and I got another bundle for stealing it. Ten thousand apiece. I was supposed to recruit somebody else to help me. It was kid's play. Fécamp had explained everything beforehand: the badge, where the lab was located, the computers containing the files and backups.”

He nodded toward the researcher.

“He hates his boss. He creams in his shorts every time he hears that cow complain about the mummy's disappearance. I think he would have done it for free.”

“Your employer's name.”

“I don't know it.”

Lucie took a quick step toward him, threateningly. The man protected his face with both arms. The eagles and snakes of his tattoos stood between him and Lucie.

“I swear! That's all I know! I didn't hear anything more about this business until tonight when this asswipe showed up here, asking if I'd had anything to do with the murder of some student, whatever her name is—fuck me if I've ever heard it before! You can ask him!”

Lucie was sweating heavily; she sponged her forehead with her sleeve. Her nerves were on edge. She needed a trail, a name, some clue to follow. No way was she going to leave here empty-handed. Without hesitating, she leaned over Fécamp and started slapping him, harder and harder.

“Hey, you, wake up!”

After a good minute, the scientist emitted a groan, then struggled to open his eyes. His hand went to his head, his fingers turning slightly red. Blood and alcohol. He stared at Lucie in disbelief, then sat up slightly. He dragged himself to the wall and leaned his back against it, legs stretched out. Lucie didn't leave him time to open his mouth.

“I'll give you ten seconds to tell me who paid you to steal the mummy.”

Fécamp squeezed his lips shut, as if to keep from saying a single word. Lucie kicked the bottleneck toward Chouart.

“If he doesn't start talking, cut him.”

With haggard eyes, Fécamp looked at the tattooed kid and his black-and-blue temple. The young man picked up the sharp piece of broken glass, without real conviction.

The researcher's eyes swerved back to Lucie.

“You're crazy.”

“Three seconds.”

Silence. The seconds ticked by. Then the barriers gave way.

“He . . . he contacted me again about two weeks after the theft . . . to make sure the police investigation wouldn't go anywhere. I told him the case was cold, that there were no clues . . . His name is Stéphane Terney.”

Lucie felt a huge surge of relief. This kind of revelation was beyond all hopes.

“Why did he want the mummy?”

The researcher shook his head like a guilty child.

“I don't know. I swear I don't know. We met only a couple of times. He was always the one who chose the spot.”

“So why would he give you his real name, in that case? Wasn't that pretty risky?”

“He also gave me his phone number. He wanted me to keep an eye out. I was supposed to call him if anybody came around asking about the aurochs fresco, the Cro-Magnon, or left-handers. And tell him exactly what the visitors were after.”

“And that's what you did when Eva Louts came to see you. You called him and told him all about her. Her name, and I suppose even where she lived.”

“Yes, yes . . . I . . . I can't believe that he . . . was involved in a murder.”

“Why not?”

“Because he's a doctor and a respected scientist. Terney's big specialty is problems relating to pregnancy. He wrote a book that made a huge splash in the scientific community three or four years ago.”

“What book is that?”

“It's called
The Key and the Lock
. About hidden codes in DNA.”

This Terney, from the redhead's description, didn't really seem the delinquent sort. So why the theft? And why recruit a lookout?