Dance of the Angels (5 page)

“You know very well it was an accident,” said the police chief, fidgeting in his seat as if he’d just touched a high-voltage cable. “An overdose! They couldn’t take that final injection.”

“Bullshit,” said Scheller scornfully. “I want to produce a movie as soon as possible where everything will be shown right until the end! A real snuff film. I have some serious contacts in the United States and Japan. I’m sure I can sell it all over the world. If you’re not interested, I’ll have somebody else shoot it.”

This was not something Hervet had been expecting. Scheller had backed him into a corner this time. It would be disastrous to lose such a good client, despite the risks an operation like this entailed. After all, Scheller was at the center of an international sex empire. He handled millions of dollars in transactions and was not afraid of anything in his quest to satisfy a clientele of twisted perverts prepared to blow fortunes to gratify their basest instincts.

“We can do that,” Hervet assured Scheller. “Just give me enough time to make the necessary preparations.”

“I want a high-quality video; none of that amateur rubbish. Hire the best of the best. I promised the buyers they’d get their money’s worth.”

“No problem, Pierre. I’m in touch with a network perfectly capable of making the kind of video you require. You’ll be satisfied beyond your expectations.”

“I hope so, Hervet. My clients are very demanding.”

“What’s my commission?”

The businessman took out his notebook and scribbled a figure with enough zeros to sweep away any lingering reticence Hervet may have had.

“I’ve prepared a comfortable advance for you,” said Scheller, indicating his briefcase. “One more thing: be very careful. They found those children’s bodies. That should never have happened.”

Just then, the sommelier arrived with his most courteous smile.

“What might I suggest for you gentlemen?”

As he walked into the bookstore on Avenue du Maine to get his daily paper, Le Goënec thought about little Frédéric, and asked if they had the latest San-Antonio.

“I think I have one left. At the back, on the left.”

Le Goënec slipped between the display stands. He ran his eye over the titles and eventually found it. As he reached up to take the copy, his hand met another hand, slender, with nail polish and rings. He turned, and his gaze met that of a lovely woman. Her delicate curves, wrapped in a light, figure-hugging Kookaï dress, would have stirred an entire horde of impotents. They both laughed as they stared at each other.

“Apparently we share the same tastes,” said the young woman in a melodious voice.

She appraised Le Goënec’s honest, cheerful gaze and full lips with a connoisseur’s eye.
Here’s a guy who must know all about love.

“Apparently there’s only one copy left. I’ll let you have it,” said Le Goënec gallantly.

“No, no, not at all. I’ll find it elsewhere.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s arrange to meet and read it together.”

His own audacity astounded him. But sometimes shy people have sudden flashes of brazenness. That must certainly have been due to the shining eyes of the stranger staring at him so insistently. A look like that was capable of eradicating all his inhibitions.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said with a chuckle of amused surprise.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other behind the steamed-up windows of a café. Le Goënec and the stranger didn’t really know what to say to each other at first. The novel sat on the table. They both exchanged a smile and looked at the cover.

“It was a kid in my building who told me about it,” said Le Goënec, jump-starting the conversation.

“I buy every one! I’m mad about crime novels.”

Her name was Florence, and she worked as a journalist for the daily newspaper
France-Soir
.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a freelance photographer. Gun for hire, as they say.”

“I’ll take your contact info. I often need a photographer. I do a lot of human-interest stories.”

“What shall we decide about the book?” Le Goënec asked, smiling. “If you agree, I’ll read it first, and you can come round and pick it up from my place. Here’s my phone number.”

Florence didn’t object. She took the scrap of paper on which Le Goënec had written his number and looked at her watch. “Sorry, I must dash. I’ve got a meeting and I’m already late. Here,” she said, leaving her business card on the table and standing up with perfect elegance.

“I’ll call you—promise,” he said.

Le Goënec would have liked to find better words to make sure that the stranger wouldn’t just vanish like a ghost, but he didn’t know what else to say. Every time it was the same story. Try as he might to subdue his shyness, it always popped up again at the crucial moment. Although he had a golden rule never to get too involved with a woman, he still wanted to experience a real love affair. Le Goënec sipped his coffee as he dreamily watched Florence’s sculptural figure receding. When would he see her again? He could already imagine their next rendezvous. A girl like that, as fit as that, was impossible to pass by. Le Goënec stuck his nose into the first chapter of the book, the only souvenir of their encounter that allowed him to believe the beauty had really existed.

The book began with a rather steamy bedroom scene. Good omen.

In her little studio apartment on Rue Quincampoix, Nina was pulling on her nineteenth-century rags, starting with some tight, frilly panties that left little to the imagination. She bore a passing resemblance to the famous can-can dancer La Goulue, immortalized by Toulouse Lautrec. That was how Antonio liked her. He was a pervy pop singer who’d had some success back in the sixties and was trying to make a comeback.

Once Nina had fully satisfied him sexually, she performed Piaf’s “Hymne à l’amour,” to Antonio’s considerable pleasure. It was their ritual, one of her client’s very specific demands. A real glutton who never missed an opportunity to explore new pleasures, Antonio had a voracious sexual appetite.

Nina had set the bait. It was just a matter of time before she could land the big fish.

“So, it’s true?” she asked. “You’ve already done things with kids?”

“You seem like you’re interested, you little pervert.”

“You have to try everything at least once,” said the whore with a salacious chuckle.

“I know a place. I go regularly. A real little paradise: Thailand just a half hour from Paris. There are new arrivals every month. From time to time you can take part in evenings that are rather more hard-core.”

“I’d like to see that for myself, just once.”

The singer was surprised at her insistence. Nina had gotten excited as soon as they’d started talking about stuff with kids. Antonio, turned on by the conversation, hesitated for only a brief instant before giving in.

“If you really want to try it, I’ll take you.”

“Where does it happen?”

“It’s a super-secretive place. Only a few handpicked people get to enjoy it.”

“It’s making me so horny just thinking about it!”

“They know me there. I’ll have to recommend you, otherwise you won’t get in,” said Antonio, writing down an address on a piece of paper and slipping it into a wad of five-hundred franc notes. “Come next Wednesday at midnight. Be on time, or you’ll be left waiting at the door. Naturally this is all of the utmost secrecy. Don’t ever mention it to anyone. You could get in real trouble.”

“I know how to zip it when required.”

Antonio slipped his tongue into the transvestite’s mouth, and they shared a long kiss. Nina felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it, but one thing was for sure: she was going to get that bonus from Aristotle.

“You’ll see,” said the singer. “The kids are as beautiful as angels. I’m sure you’re going to enjoy it.”

C
HAPTER
V

Rain hammered at Le Goënec’s helmet as he drove at full speed. Weather like this sometimes made him long for a comfortable car. But, motorbike-mad as he was, nothing in the world would make him give up his Japanese rocket. In a few moments, he would be able to verify the accuracy of the information provided by Nina. Aristotle sure knew how to motivate his hookers. The previous evening, Aristotle had called to give him an address in Marne-la-Vallée. A rock-solid lead, he’d said. This kind of plan had led more than one man to his grave. Le Goënec had no idea where this lead would take him, though his little internal warning light was softly glowing red. It was like his sixth sense. Without knowing why, the veteran cop felt like he was throwing himself into the wolf’s maw.

Seven p.m. Traffic blocked the freeway going east. Thousands of suburbanites were heading back to their commuter towns, their cars’ headlights tracing a golden ribbon as far as the eye could see. The Honda whipped slickly through the traffic and soon reached the Champigny exit ramp.

The houses and projects spread out between sparse lawns and trees fed on chemical fertilizer. In just two or three decades, they would already look a hundred years old.

Le Goënec crossed the town center toward the Marne River. He cruised past a row of affluent villas, genuine little palaces way out of the price range of mere minimum-wagers. The bike slowed to a halt outside number 122. He cut the engine, rolled the Honda onto the sidewalk, locked his helmet to the wheel, and checked that his sidearm was within reach, sitting snugly in its leather holster.

Le Goënec walked calmly up the street, checking the numbers. As he passed in front of an ivy-covered house, his keen music-lover’s ear recognized the melody of Handel’s
Messiah
. The bougie residents of this nightmarish neighborhood clearly had good taste. A few more steps, and he stopped in front of the Elms apartment building.

Le Goënec’s throat tightened with an anxiety that was never far away during an operation. He crossed the dark street and approached the metal gate, the bottom half of which was covered with sheet metal, preventing him from seeing what was happening inside.

With a catlike spring, Le Goënec jumped and caught hold of the bars at the top of the gate. It was child’s play for him to pull himself up to where he could see over the top. A few seconds were all he needed to take in the villa’s façade.

The growling made him jump. A powerful mass threw itself against the gate. It was a pit bull, a savage beast with fearsome fangs, trained to kill. Nothing like Madam Marthe’s little Queenie. Le Goënec dropped back down off the gate, not wanting the guard dog’s ferocious barking to alert the owners. But he’d had enough time to glimpse a large house standing in the middle of an English-style lawn. Few trees or bushes to hide behind. There was a single window lit up, bottom left.

The mutt was still barking. Hiding behind a telephone pole, Le Goënec held his breath. A few yards away from him, a man’s calm voice called out to the excited dog.

“What’s up with you to bark like that? Did you see a cat?”

Silence gradually returned.

Now Le Goënec had to find a way to get inside. The anti-crime ace approached the neighboring house at the end of the cul-de-sac, where he had spied some thick foliage growing up the wall. Sturdy branches would allow him to climb ten feet, and he pulled himself up to the top of the wall. It was the perfect perch from which to take a good look around without being spotted.

The animal was just below him, muzzle in a plate of dog food. Engrossed with his meal, the beast didn’t smell the intruder. But a guard dressed in a dark uniform and a baseball cap was still there, patrolling the garden, submachine gun in hand. The owner must have had good reason to turn his villa into a bunker.

Aristotle’s lead was clearly valid. Now it was time to enter the shitstorm. Le Goënec could hesitate no longer. He had to act right away. Without taking his eyes off the guard, he calculated his trajectory and leapt a dozen feet, pinning the guard to a tree and snapping his neck with a close-combat hold. Out of breath, Le Goënec managed a masterful roll to avoid the pit bull, which had jumped for his throat with a vicious growl.

It all happened in a fraction of a second. Grabbing a rake that was lying on the lawn, Le Goënec dealt the frenzied beast a hefty blow, then jumped on top of the animal and applied a forceful chokehold with his right arm. His biceps swelled like they would burst, but soon the dog had insufficient air even to bark.

Sorry, buddy, but it was you or me,
thought Le Goënec as the dog twitched its last. He gently laid the lifeless body down on the damp grass. Pity. It was a lovely dog, with its thick fur and jaws of steel.

Le Goënec remained still for a few moments, listening carefully. Nobody had noticed a thing, apparently. A ray of light slipped through the ground-level window. He moved quickly toward the house, skirting the lit window. When he was a few feet away from the white wall, his eagle eyes, ever watchful for danger, noticed a basement window. One sharp blow from his elbow broke a hole in the glass big enough for him to insert his hand and release the security latch—the thick fabric of his motorcycle jacket serving both to muffle the noise and protect him from injury. It was no problem at all to slip down into the cellar.

Le Goënec stood poised for several seconds, nerves taut, revolver ready to fire. Everything seemed calm. But not entirely silent. There were faint rustling sounds. Le Goënec turned on his flashlight.

“Good God,” he muttered to himself.

Opposite him, three young, terrified, gaunt faces clustered together. The oldest of the children couldn’t have been more than twelve.

Le Goënec said nothing for a few moments before approaching the three children slowly so as not to scare them.

“Don’t be afraid, kids,” he whispered. “I mean you no harm.”

As soon as he knelt in front of them, the children huddled against the wall, arms across their faces as if to protect themselves from blows.

“Have you been here long?”

None of them answered. Le Goënec took out his badge, like a character in an American TV series.

“Inspector Le Goënec, Criminal Investigations Department.”

The children looked at each other, not knowing what to think.

“Are you really from the police?” ventured a little boy.

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Le Goënec, smiling. “How long have you been here?”

“I came two days ago,” answered a scared little girl, who seemed more mature than the others. She pointed at her two companions. “They were here before me. He’s already been here a week.”

“I am your friend,” said Le Goënec softly, seeking to calm their fears. “It’s all over. We’re going to get out of here.”

A damp staircase led up to a thick wooden door.

“Is there anyone up there?”

“I don’t know,” answered the little girl. “But be careful, the men here are crazy.”

Looks of terror plagued the two boys. They clearly were incapable of uttering a single word.

“Whatever you do, don’t move,” said Le Goënec. “I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished. OK?”

The little girl nodded. Le Goënec winked at her and cautiously proceeded up the stairs. The door at the top opened without difficulty. Clearly the children had been so traumatized their captors knew they would never even attempt to escape. He listened carefully before going any further. The house was as quiet as the grave. Le Goënec stepped lightly down the corridor, gun in hand, ready for any eventuality. Above him rose another staircase that no doubt led to the bedrooms. The house sat in half darkness, the only source of light coming from a door ajar at the end of the hall. With all the suppleness of a cat, he made his way down the hall, placed his ear to the door, and listened. No sound of conversation from inside the room. This silence didn’t seem right to him, so he gently pushed open the door, which made an inopportune creak.

“The hell you doing? It’ll get cold.”

The voice was young and coarse. Who was it? A henchman or a cook?

Le Goënec tiptoed through the doorway. A man was standing in front of the stove with his back to the door, a pan in his hand. The pleasant scent of cooked onions filled the room. With three rapid strides, Le Goënec closed the distance and jumped the guy, who fell across the stove top, spilling a saucepan full of boiling water. The man screamed as it scalded him. Even the best plastic surgeon would have difficulty fixing his overdone face. Le Goënec pistol-whipped him, and the man collapsed onto the floor, unconscious. Le Goënec turned off the gas and left the room. It was a waste to let this tasty food just sit there, but it wasn’t time for a dinner break.

Le Goënec swiftly inspected the other rooms off the hall. A dining room, two living rooms. He swept his flashlight over the high-end furnishings. It was swanky, but as traditional as one might wish. Nothing that resembled the Marquis de Sade’s anteroom. There were even some old family photos on a little side table. If you forgot about the abused children in the cellar, you might think you were visiting some rich, conservative friends. The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie and all that.

Just then, a piercing bell rang, making Le Goënec jump. He instinctively flattened himself against the wall, finger on the trigger. But nothing happened.

In the hall, the owner had installed a board of indicator lights, each corresponding to a particular bedroom. Number three was lit up.

The thick blue carpet on the wooden staircase deadened his steps, and Le Goënec reached the upper floor without a sound. He found a series of doors in a long corridor dimly lit by bronze sconces. Verdi’s
Requiem
was coming from one of the bedrooms. The Celt walked toward it. The bell downstairs rang once more. The occupant of room number three was clearly pressing the button impatiently.

No reason to make the person wait any longer.

Le Goënec kicked open the door in a shower of splinters and charged into the room, crouched, ready to fire, firmly gripping his Magnum with both hands.

“Shit,” he said.

In front of him, an obese woman, well over fifty, with greasy hair, started in her easy chair.

“Don’t move, bitch!”

The fat woman flashed him a dark look, small, cruel eyes stuck in a pink, puffy face.

Le Goënec quickly scanned the room. An unbelievable pigsty, objects of all kinds piled haphazardly, from a silver teapot to a double dildo. His attention was diverted by the plaintive meowing of a Siamese cat that crept out from beneath an armoire.

Obese or not, the woman still had her reflexes, and she quickly reached down to the coffee table to grab a knife. Not giving her time to use it, Le Goënec rushed forward and socked her in the mouth. There was nothing sensual about the ensuing struggle between him and the fat lady, who ended up lying on the floor, frantically waving her elephantine legs about to get herself free. Le Goënec pinned her arm and gave her several hearty clouts.

“Had enough, or shall I help you lose a little more excess weight?”

Le Goënec reached up, seized a curtain cord, and tied her wrists together, pulling the knots tight with all his strength. The frightened cat, which was hiding under the bed, gave an angry growl.

“Now, maybe we can have a little chat, the two of us.”

“If it’s cash you’re after, take some from the drawer and get out,” the woman screamed, seething with rage and humiliation.

“It’s you I’m interested in—you and your orgy buddies. How about you tell me how you spend your evenings?”

“What are you talking about, asshole?”

“This asshole thinks there are some tenants who aren’t too happy down there in your cellar. They would no doubt prefer to be at Disneyland Paris, if they had the choice.”

The madam cast a sidelong glance toward the door.

The image of those petrified kids cooped up in the cellar flitted through his mind, and Le Goënec lost all self-control. He exploded, grabbing the woman by the hair and roughly shoving the barrel of the Magnum into her mouth, breaking two of her teeth as he did so.

Eyes blinded with tears, she spluttered pitifully. A stream of red saliva dribbled from her mouth, now nothing but a bloody wound.

“Who brought you these kids? I’m warning you, I’ve got a very itchy trigger finger today.”

She said nothing. Le Goënec cocked the gun and pushed the muzzle further into her mouth. The woman’s face was turning blue. She gagged, puking a mess of blood-streaked vomit. Panic filled her eyes.

“Got something to tell me?”

She nodded her head, close to fainting. Her face was terrifying, like some creature from a horror film ready to disintegrate in an explosion of flesh. Le Goënec ripped the barrel of the Magnum from her mouth. The woman, white as a sheet, gasped for air. She coughed and choked as she came back to her senses.

“Robert Malet. Cop from vice squad,” she gasped, painfully.

“Go on, gorgeous, don’t stop now. You’re doing so well.”

She froze. A flash of something passed across her eyes. Le Goënec sensed danger. He executed a perfect dive to the side, just avoiding the bullet that was meant for him. At the same time, his .357 Magnum boomed twice. The guy pointing a Colt .45 at Le Goënec received the impact right in the chest and performed a grotesque dance, his swan song, before crumpling to the floor. The bullet meant for Le Goënec had found a target. The head of the obese woman had burst into countless fragments of bloody brains. Her face had been pulverized.