Authors: Alexander Campion
Crime Fraiche (21 page)
CHAPTER 38
“W
here the hell are you?” the harsh voice asked threateningly. Capucine smiled serenely and admired Gauvin’s latest improvement to her cloakroom refuge, a chipped onyx pen stand—the old kind that threatened to poke you in the eye if you bent over too quickly—which he must have found in the attic and garnished with two cheap Bic ballpoint pens, one red and the other black.
here the hell are you?” the harsh voice asked threateningly. Capucine smiled serenely and admired Gauvin’s latest improvement to her cloakroom refuge, a chipped onyx pen stand—the old kind that threatened to poke you in the eye if you bent over too quickly—which he must have found in the attic and garnished with two cheap Bic ballpoint pens, one red and the other black.
Contrôleur Général
Guy Saccard had been Capucine’s mentor ever since they had met when he was a guest lecturer at the commissaire’s course at the police training school. Despite his august rank—he was head of half of the Paris Police Judiciaire and her boss’s boss—he enjoyed teasing her with his bluster. Capucine assumed he was just checking up on her well-being, something he did frequently.
Guy Saccard had been Capucine’s mentor ever since they had met when he was a guest lecturer at the commissaire’s course at the police training school. Despite his august rank—he was head of half of the Paris Police Judiciaire and her boss’s boss—he enjoyed teasing her with his bluster. Capucine assumed he was just checking up on her well-being, something he did frequently.
“A place called Saint-Nicolas, sir. It’s in Normandy.”
“Château de Maulévrier in Saint-Nicolas-de-Bliquetuit? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” She could hear papers being rustled angrily.
There was something unusual in his tone. Capucine sensed it would be unwise to let herself be tempted by the irony of his rhetorical question.
“What the hell are you doing down there?”
“I was on vacation when a case came up. The DCPJ ordered me to look into it part-time.”
“They ordered you, did they? You had nothing to do with it, of course.” He paused. Capucine could imagine him frowning and shaking his head. “And you really thought that just by pulling a few of your little strings, the DCPJ would assign you to a case and I’d never hear about it. You must have known that they’d need my approval. Why didn’t you just ask me in the first place?”
“Because I thought you’d turn me down, sir,” Capucine said meekly.
“And you thank me for my approval by hiding in a closet and ignoring your commissariat while all hell breaks loose? Is that how you show your appreciation?”
Capucine searched frantically for hidden cameras. How could he possibly know? She tried hard to collect herself. “What sort of hell is breaking loose, sir?”
“Have you read the papers this morning, or doesn’t the press make it all the way down to Saint-Nicolas-de”—he paused for effect—“Bliquetuit?” He pronounced the word slowly and sarcastically. “Blee . . . kay . . . twee.” This was more than bluster; he really did sound furious.
“Sir, they come in the afternoon, around three or four.”
“Ah, yes, just in time for the
apéro
. A little white Lillet, nicely chilled? Is that what you drink down there? How nice. You must invite me sometime. I’m sure I’d find château life very relaxing after dealing with all the crap that oozes out of your sector.”
apéro
. A little white Lillet, nicely chilled? Is that what you drink down there? How nice. You must invite me sometime. I’m sure I’d find château life very relaxing after dealing with all the crap that oozes out of your sector.”
“Sir, what are you trying to tell me?”
“Ah ha, I thought that would spark your interest. What’s going to spoil the taste of your Lillet today is that
Le Figaro
is running a profile piece on your Belle au Marché. There’s a map of where all the victims were located, with little pictures of them. A detailed description of her MO. Also a detailed list of what she’s taken. And a physical description of her—entirely fantasized by some reporter, by the way. Like it so far?”
Le Figaro
is running a profile piece on your Belle au Marché. There’s a map of where all the victims were located, with little pictures of them. A detailed description of her MO. Also a detailed list of what she’s taken. And a physical description of her—entirely fantasized by some reporter, by the way. Like it so far?”
Capucine was stunned. “A couple of reporters did come by the commissariat a few weeks ago, but I thought they’d forgotten all about the case.”
“And no doubt they would have if your Belle had stuck to run-of-the-mill bourgeois fat cats. She could even have thrown in the composer—who the hell knows who Hubert Lafontaine is? But when you start dicking around with movie stars, then you’re going to get the press in big-time. Still with me, Commissaire?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, here’s the fun part. In this piece, your Belle is portrayed as a modern Arsène Lupin, gentleman burglar. But in this version, Lupin just happens to be a female wearing a thirty-nine D bra and black stockings with a garter belt.”
“Oh, God.”
“And, of course, there has to be a dumb cop you play for laughs. Just like Inspecteur Ganimard in Leblanc’s novels, but this time around the dumb cop is called Commissaire Le Tellier.”
Capucine knew the world of journalism well enough to be sure this was exactly the way the story would have been written.
“Now, Capucine,” he said, alarming her with the use of her first name. “Here’s the punch line. This pisses me off for two reasons. The first is that it just so happens I believe in your career, but if the press succeeds in making you look like a fool, your credibility on the street—and on the force—is going to go right down the crapper. And that’s going to make it a whole lot harder for you to get your job done. And the other is that it’s not just your cred. The whole of the PJ is going to look like assholes, and that makes the force a little bit less effective.”
“So what can we do, sir?”
“Take charge of the situation. I want a press conference. With maps, evidence, psychological profiles, everything we can throw at it. I want to give the very firm impression that we have our hands around this one. I’ll kick it off, but I want your team up on the stage looking like they know what the hell they’re doing, and I want you out in front so they can take your picture. Boobs sell newspapers.”
Capucine gritted her teeth.
“I’m e-mailing you a list of journalists the PR department tells me are well disposed to us. Call them yourself. It sounds more sincere when the PR department doesn’t do it. Golly, do you think you could come all the way back to Paris to deal with this? Not right now, of course. I mean, after your Lillet?”
Capucine was astonished how close she actually came to hanging up on an officer as senior as a
contrôleur général.
contrôleur général.
Capucine spared no efforts in prepping Isabelle for the press conference. After five sessions in her office she was convinced that Isabelle was going to make an excellent showing, and that her last debacle with the press was effectively shrouded by the mists of time. Thirty minutes into the conference Capucine thought it was going exceptionally well. Saccard’s gravitas had conveyed the commitment of the Police Judiciaire. The PR department had done a beautiful job preparing a PowerPoint presentation with far more maps, photos, and information tidbits than the press had ever dreamed of. Capucine had made the first part of the talk while David tapped the key on the laptop to advance the pages on the screen. Sensitive to Saccard’s comment, she had worn a slightly tight white silk blouse, of which she was able to strain the top button at will by breathing deeply. Her Sig was very much in evidence in the small of her back, a feature Alexandre continually assured her called attention to her
fesses
in a highly fetching way.
fesses
in a highly fetching way.
But all this was window dressing. It was the second part of the presentation that had been intended to carry the day with the press, underscoring the skill of the team and giving the impression that the case was firmly in hand and an arrest imminent.
Her section over, Capucine smiled at Isabelle, inviting her to come up to the front of the room. Isabelle rose smartly and walked toward the screen, exuding muscular vitality and animal magnetism. Capucine breathed an inward sigh. But the minute Isabelle stepped in front of the audience, she came undone, held fast in the grips of stage fright. Isabelle stood woodenly, wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, tight-throated. The fruits of her sessions with Capucine withered and fell off the tree. She mumbled, raced through her text, and skipped vital points. When she was done, one of the journalists asked her, “So, Brigadier, you really have no clues and are just hoping the case will solve itself? Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”
Fuming, Isabelle took a few steps toward the reporter, who fortunately was sitting in the third row. “Listen, asshole, we have this fucking case completely under control. Trust me on that, you—”
Before she could release the final expletive, David was on his feet, holding a sheaf of papers.
“Before I wrap up,” he said, as engagingly as if he was selling a miraculous sponge on a late-night TV infomercial, “I’d like to distribute a printout of our presentation, a press release, and glossies of the photos you saw in case you want to use them. I also have bios of the team and glossies of them, too.” David’s winning smile warmed the room. In their desire not to miss out on the press kit, the reporters pressed around David, who raised his voice and said, “Thank you all for coming. Remember, I’m your liaison officer and I’ve put my card with all my numbers in the folder. Feel free to call me day or night.”
Saccard was visibly impressed. David really did have an enchanting smile, Capucine thought. He was bound to wind up in politics one day.
When Saccard and the press had finally gone their ways, Capucine and her brigadiers trooped into her office. Isabelle slammed the door and turned on David. “Thanks for nothing, you motherfucker. You made me look like a world-class fool.”
David acted as if he hadn’t heard, stretched as if he was waking up from a nap, and said pleasantly to Capucine, “That went pretty well, didn’t you think, Commissaire?”
“I did, actually. Now all we have to do is find her.”
“That’s going to be a little more tricky,” David said. “We don’t have anything that remotely looks like a clue.”
“Then you’re just going to have to make your own. I want you to do two things. First, go back and interview each victim a second time in the light of the other five occurrences. See if any threads begin to emerge. Things she likes to eat, regional expressions, stories of her past reoccurring from one victim to another, even if disguised, anything that will give us a clue as to who she is and what she does when she’s not fleecing people. And don’t leave out the composer, Lafontaine. Stick with his story, but get him to tell you what his niece talked about in the few days before she left. At one level he’ll know exactly what you’re talking about. When you see the two magazine illustrators, ask them if they’ll do a sketch. We should have thought of it at the time. Those police Identi-Kit drawings are useless. They all wind up making the perps look like they’re mentally retarded. Get the illustrators to do something artistic, something where the Belle is really recognizable.”
“Right, we’re on it,” Isabelle said authoritatively. “What’s the other thing?”
“When you get back, I want you to turn one of the interview rooms into a command center, close the door, spread out your notes, and start going over all the points of commonality of these crimes—location, victim typology, items stolen, that sort of stuff—and try to see what patterns emerge. It’ll be subtle, so you’re going to have to be creative. Let me know what you come up with.”
“You’re going back to the country?” David asked.
“Yes, but it’ll be over soon. I miss you guys too much,” she said.
As David left Capucine’s office, Isabelle stayed behind.
“Got a minute?”
“Of course, Isabelle.” Capucine tightened her stomach muscles. “What is it?”
“It’s like I told you the last time. You’re pushing the wrong guy for promotion. Look what happened out there. You spend hours teaching me and I still fucked up.”
“Right. And it’s like I told you the last time. I’m not pushing you for promotion because you have a gift for gab. I’m doing it because you’re a damn good cop. You know what you’re doing and you instill loyalty. I just saw even more proof of that. Now, please get out of here and get on with your goddamn case. The real message of the day was that we need an arrest and fast.”
CHAPTER 39
C
apucine’s second meeting with Momo was in gray, gray Le Havre. The entire city had the bleak quality of a fifties black-and-white film noir. Completing the scene, the weather was particularly oppressive, Baudelaire’s low cast-iron sky bearing heavily down like the weighty lid of a farmhouse casserole.
apucine’s second meeting with Momo was in gray, gray Le Havre. The entire city had the bleak quality of a fifties black-and-white film noir. Completing the scene, the weather was particularly oppressive, Baudelaire’s low cast-iron sky bearing heavily down like the weighty lid of a farmhouse casserole.
Capucine had told Momo to walk out of the bus station and follow the direction of traffic down the street. He came through the door five minutes ahead of schedule and shuffled down the sidewalk incuriously, for all the world yet another rootless immigrant laborer. Capucine envied him. She had a long way to go before she acquired his ability to melt into the background.
She inched the Clio along at Momo’s pace, oblivious to the cars that came up behind her, flashing their lights in irritation, then roaring by in low gear. After two blocks, when she had fully satisfied herself that none of his fellow workers were following, she pulled up next to Momo and opened her door.
Capucine smiled. “Lunch right away, or a drink first?”
“You know, Commissaire, I think I’m beyond all that shit now. Let’s just do whatever you want.”
Dismayed by Momo’s dejection, Capucine battered the Clio into a too-tight parking space in front of a tired, nondescript café, the sort of place that was vanishing from the French scene as rapidly as the grimy, crepe-thin snow melted from the streets in Paris.
When the waiter came up, Capucine was further dismayed that Momo didn’t show his usual interest in downing several whiskeys before tucking into lunch. “Just order, Commissaire. Whatever you want is fine with me.”
She ordered
steak-frites
for both of them and a liter carafe of the house red. When the waiter left, Capucine was suddenly aware of her gaffe. “Steak was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.
steak-frites
for both of them and a liter carafe of the house red. When the waiter left, Capucine was suddenly aware of her gaffe. “Steak was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” she asked softly.
“Commissaire, don’t worry about me. And steak is perfect. All I’ve had is fucking mutton tagine for the last two weeks. And you don’t get fries with that.” He smiled thinly.
Unconsciously seeking absolution for Momo’s hardship, Capucine chatted gaily about the current goings-on at the commissariat: new cases, progress on old ones, who had gone where on vacation, who was sleeping with whom. No matter how hard Capucine nudged the conversation, she was unable to spark Momo’s interest. It was as if he was showing only polite interest in people who were in his distant past because he had moved on to another job. It wasn’t all that far from the truth, she was forced to concede.
The
steak-frites
came: unhealthy-looking quarter-inch-thick entrecôtes opaque with congealing fat, topped with small disks of frozen
beurre composé
made from industrial dried tarragon flakes and artificially colored institutional butter. The disproportionately large plate of overcrisp French fries was intended to distract from the beef’s shortcomings. “If you want more fries,” the waiter said, “just let me know. We’ve got plenty ready to go back in the kitchen.”
steak-frites
came: unhealthy-looking quarter-inch-thick entrecôtes opaque with congealing fat, topped with small disks of frozen
beurre composé
made from industrial dried tarragon flakes and artificially colored institutional butter. The disproportionately large plate of overcrisp French fries was intended to distract from the beef’s shortcomings. “If you want more fries,” the waiter said, “just let me know. We’ve got plenty ready to go back in the kitchen.”
The butter began to melt, making the meat look even more greasy. Automatically, both Capucine and Momo lifted the nasty little disks with their forks and placed them on their piles of fries, hoping that the butter would melt, drip to the bottom, and just go away. Capucine wondered how many millions of French people would be making the same gestures of disdain over their food during the national lunch hour. The thought did not fill her with joy or confidence in France’s gastronomic future.
Capucine was at a loss to find a friendly and sympathetic way to ease Momo into his report. She gave up.
“So?” she asked.
“So, now I’m an expert on steers. I know more about them than I ever thought there was to know. I’ve worked on all the stations in that goddamn place. I fill in for everyone. In a way I kind of like it. It ain’t Paris, but it’s got its own rhythm. You just kind of ease into it.”
“You’re not in the abattoir anymore?”
“That’s my main job, but since I just fill in there, they figure I can fill in everywhere.” Momo chuckled cynically, finished off the carafe of wine, and signaled the waiter for more. “The funny part is that they love my ass. I’m the only guy down there who’ll jump in and do whatever crappy job needs doing without complaining.” Momo was amused by his success as a ranch hand. “But don’t worry, Commissaire. I’ll probably stick it out with the Police Judiciaire for a bit longer.” He gave his first real laugh of the day.
“Were you able to get into the accounting office?”
“Yeah, no sweat. A three-year-old could get through that lock. If the three-year-old had a credit card he could use to push the bolt back with. The filing cabinets were also locked, but those were even easier. All you had to do was lift up the cabinet and push the locking bar up from underneath.”
“Your basic three-year-old might have had a hard time with that. Your basic flic probably couldn’t have done it, either. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing worth calling in the RAID squad and getting them to rappel out of their helicopters and surround the élevage. But I did find some heavy expense account abuse. Can you do time for that?”
“Expense account abuse?”
“Yeah. I went through the travel agent’s files. There’s not a lot in there, but Philippe Gerlier, you know, the general manager who got knocked off, used to go to the U.S. every three months or so. A place called Rochester, Minnesota.”
“He must have been going to the Mayo Clinic. You said his mother had severe Alzheimer’s.”
“Why not? But the funny thing is that those trips were fully paid for by the élevage. Our boy also stayed in a suite in a fancy hotel, rented himself the biggest car Avis had, and put in for a lot of pricey dinners for two. And all of it paid for.”
“Maybe they just deducted it all from his salary.”
“Yeah, you never know. What do you want me to do now?”
“Stick with the accounting office for a little while. If there are any secrets at the élevage, there’ll probably be at least an echo of them in there.”
“And what am I looking for? Oh wait, I know that one. I’ll know it when I find it, right?”
Capucine laughed. “No one’s seen you snooping around?”
“No. A lot of the guys sneak out at night for a smoke. The faith is going down the tubes. I ran into the foreman the other day on my way back from the accounting office, but I saw him coming and so I lit up one of my Gauloises and then crushed it out real fast like I was hiding it. I think he bought the act.”
“Well, keep at it. I really need you to come up with something.”
The waiter came back, was utterly indifferent to their indifference to dessert, brought coffee and the check. Momo left first. Capucine was gratified to see him head for a convenience store across the street, no doubt to buy out their stock of pint bottles of Scotch.
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