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.
Le Goënec checked the dead guy. According to his ID, this was one Roger Canetti. Not a name Le Goënec was familiar with.
Le Goënec rushed down to the basement.
“It’s me, children. Everything’s OK,” he shouted, opening the door to the cellar.
The three little ones hadn’t moved. Cowering against each other, the kids looked up at their savior, their faces etched with a fear that looked permanent.
“Come on. It’s over.”
A final hesitation, then one of the boys took his hand. The three kids climbed back upstairs in single file. Le Goënec sat them down in the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the eldest. “They kept us from eating. First we had to do what they said. We had to go into the bedrooms with these fat guys.”
“Here, help yourselves,” said a disgusted Le Goënec as he opened the refrigerator and cupboards, which were stuffed with food. “Can you manage on your own?”
“Yes,” said the little girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Séverine.”
“I’m Franck.”
“And he’s Denis,” Séverine added, pointing at the smallest one, who said nothing.
“There aren’t any other children in the house?”
“Not today. Some went back to their families, and the rest sleep at the center.”
“What center?”
“Where we do ballet,” said Séverine.
This whole business was cloaked in haziness, but Le Goënec had every intention of finding out the truth as quickly as possible.
“Carry on eating. I’m going to go finish my job.”
Le Goënec went back up to the madam’s bedroom and began a systematic search, going through the drawers of the writing desk, even pulling all the folded linen out of the armoire. Nothing. Not even a scrap of useful information! He grabbed the telephone. Tavernier would be pleased with him.
“Hi, boss? It’s Loïc.”
“It’s always the same. You call right in the middle of the film. Edwige is going to bawl me out again.”
“I’ve really gone and kicked the hornet’s nest, boss. There’s quite a cleanup job waiting for you. It’s not at all pretty.”
The Japanese tourists came aboard the sightseeing boat with a joyous cacophony. The few British tourists who had ventured to join the group took their places in the cabin. Tavernier and Le Goënec were the last to board.
“Up there,” said Tavernier, indicating the windswept terrace.
“It’s not yet summer,” remarked Le Goënec, shivering.
The boat slowly left the quay and turned in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. Inside, the loudspeaker crackled, and a voice began to boast of the charm and beauty of the capital’s monuments in several languages.
The commissioner handed Le Goënec the newspaper he’d been carrying under his arm.
“I’ve sent the three kids to a safe place. Nice work, by the way. ”
“Is that what they think in high places?”
“No comment, so far.”
Le Goënec examined the front page. “Bloodbath in Marne-la-Vallée” proclaimed the headline, followed by
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.
Le Goënec checked the dead guy. According to his ID, this was one Roger Canetti. Not a name Le Goënec was familiar with.
Le Goënec rushed down to the basement.
“It’s me, children. Everything’s OK,” he shouted, opening the door to the cellar.
The three little ones hadn’t moved. Cowering against each other, the kids looked up at their savior, their faces etched with a fear that looked permanent.
“Come on. It’s over.”
A final hesitation, then one of the boys took his hand. The three kids climbed back upstairs in single file. Le Goënec sat them down in the kitchen.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the eldest. “They kept us from eating. First we had to do what they said. We had to go into the bedrooms with these fat guys.”
“Here, help yourselves,” said a disgusted Le Goënec as he opened the refrigerator and cupboards, which were stuffed with food. “Can you manage on your own?”
“Yes,” said the little girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Séverine.”
“I’m Franck.”
“And he’s Denis,” Séverine added, pointing at the smallest one, who said nothing.
“There aren’t any other children in the house?”
“Not today. Some went back to their families, and the rest sleep at the center.”
“What center?”
“Where we do ballet,” said Séverine.
This whole business was cloaked in haziness, but Le Goënec had every intention of finding out the truth as quickly as possible.
“Carry on eating. I’m going to go finish my job.”
Le Goënec went back up to the madam’s bedroom and began a systematic search, going through the drawers of the writing desk, even pulling all the folded linen out of the armoire. Nothing. Not even a scrap of useful information! He grabbed the telephone. Tavernier would be pleased with him.
“Hi, boss? It’s Loïc.”
“It’s always the same. You call right in the middle of the film. Edwige is going to bawl me out again.”
“I’ve really gone and kicked the hornet’s nest, boss. There’s quite a cleanup job waiting for you. It’s not at all pretty.”
The Japanese tourists came aboard the sightseeing boat with a joyous cacophony. The few British tourists who had ventured to join the group took their places in the cabin. Tavernier and Le Goënec were the last to board.
“Up there,” said Tavernier, indicating the windswept terrace.
“It’s not yet summer,” remarked Le Goënec, shivering.
The boat slowly left the quay and turned in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. Inside, the loudspeaker crackled, and a voice began to boast of the charm and beauty of the capital’s monuments in several languages.
The commissioner handed Le Goënec the newspaper he’d been carrying under his arm.
“I’ve sent the three kids to a safe place. Nice work, by the way. ”
“Is that what they think in high places?”
“No comment, so far.”
Le Goënec examined the front page. “Bloodbath in Marne-la-Vallée” proclaimed the headline, followed by
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