“They really are good. Notre-Dame-de-Gravenchon—there’s nothing there. Not even a military training camp. We should make sure, but I’m convinced the Legion has never set foot there. Maybe if we’d found the bodies around Aubagne, but there… they completely covered themselves.”
“So what are you saying, that we have no way of getting at the Legion?”
“Accusations are serious business, and you know how it works. Even if our reasoning holds water, we need actual proof. Witnesses, paperwork, traces of some kind. But all we’ve got is our conviction. Neither my department nor Criminal will launch an investigation based on simple deductions. Stolen ID or no, Mohamed Abane’s past works against us. The Legion will deny categorically that they’d ever recruit someone like that. No violent crimes with them—that’s a golden rule.”
A silence. Lucie wiped her hands on a napkin.
“And if someone decided to bring charges against the Legion even so, what would that be like?”
Sharko let his arm fall in front of him, in a sign of despair.
“We’d have to present our findings to the minister of defense. On the off chance it worked, we’d need a court order and a mountain of paperwork just to be allowed to question a few handpicked individuals. The whole thing would eat up a lot of time and come to the attention of the Legion top brass, who could easily spin it however they wished. Assuming it still went forward, we’d still run up against the Military Secrets Act. We’d certainly have to deal with some bigwig, a colonel or general, probably with top secret clearance or higher. I’ve run up against that kind of joker before, a few years back. You might as well be talking to an anchor at the bottom of the sea. The Legion is body, the Legion is mind. Even if some of them saw things, and even assuming they’re still on French soil, they won’t say a word.”
Lucie slowly slid her finger around her coffee cup.
“And what if we got around procedure?”
Sharko looked at her coolly.
“Out of the question.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”
Sharko shrugged.
“You’re too young to go off the rails. You want some friendly advice? Stop inviting trouble. Your kids will never forgive you.”
“Can it with the sermons. We go in aboveboard. We show up and ask to talk to the commanding officer about a suspect we’re looking for, for instance. If he agrees to see us, we guide him toward our case nice and easy. If he’s really involved, he’s almost sure to react.”
“React how? You think he’s going to shout the truth from the rooftops?”
“No, but maybe he’ll get nervous, or make some phone calls. We can trace his line… or stake out his place. I don’t know… long-range mics, maybe?”
Sharko let out an unpleasant snicker.
“You’ve been watching too much Mission: Impossible. His house must be stuffed to the gills with high-frequency detectors. Little army toys, capable of picking up any wave emission for dozens of yards around. And you can bet his phone is on a dedicated encrypted line. Most of those guys are total paranoiacs—that’s why they get chosen for the job. What say we get real?”
“So just like that, we let them get away with it and keep our traps shut?”
Sharko didn’t answer; he stared at his open hands on the table. Lucie squeezed her napkin between her fingers.
“Well, I’m not going to keep my mouth shut. If you don’t feel like coming, I’ll go alone. When you step in it, you have to see it through to the bitter end.”
She disappeared quickly into the bathroom. Sharko sighed. She was capable of doing it—a real hothead. After thinking it over a while, he got up, walked down the hall, and stopped in front of the locked bathroom door.
“Do you need a visa or something like that to go to Canada?” he called in a loud voice.
Water from the shower splattered against the tiles.
“What?”
“Let’s explore the Canada lead first. The more I think about it, the more I believe we might pick up the trail of those little girls in the archives. And if nothing pans out, we’ll try going after the Legion. So—do you need a visa?”
“I have a passport. That’s usually enough, but sometimes not, from what I could make out online. But it would make things easier if we had an international letter rogatory.”
Sharko’s mouth was pressed against the locked door. From the other side, he could hear Lucie soaping herself up. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing her naked. It gave him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Fine… We have good relations with the Canadians; they train our behavioral analysts. We also have all the contacts we need over there. I’ll take care of that for you at Violent Crimes. Do you know if there are any direct flights from Lille to Montreal?”
“Yes, but— Ow! I got soap in my eye. Wait a minute!”
Sharko smiled. Rustle of the shower curtain. Then the woman’s voice once again:
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No. You get the next TGV. I’ll take care of sending the info to your boss—don’t worry about that. We’ll get you e-tickets for Quebec.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to see Leclerc about the list of humanitarian groups in Cairo at the time of the murders. It’s possible the killer is on that list of names.”
Suddenly the door opened. Lucie was wrapped in a large towel, her hair and ears covered in foam. She smelled of vanilla and coconut. Sharko jumped back a step; he felt strange.
“Why are you trying to keep me at a distance?” she asked in a hard voice.
Sharko clenched his jaws. He gently wiped away some foam from Lucie’s temples and abruptly turned around.
“Why, Inspector!”
He disappeared down the hall, without looking back.
40
Everything had sped up for Lucie since leaving L’Haÿ-les-Roses. She had only a few hours to do what would normally have taken someone two days. Her plane was scheduled to leave at 7:10 that evening from Lille-Lesquin airport. The administrative services where Sharko worked had taken care of her arrangements as if by magic: paperwork, travel authorization from the higher-ups, e-tickets sent to her in-box. The Boeing would land at 8:45 p.m. Quebec time. A room was reserved for her at the Delta Montreal, a three-star hotel located between Mount Royal and the Old Port, a short walk from the archives. She had just printed out the international letter rogatory, which had arrived only moments before via e-mail. Strictly within the confines of the investigation, they were allowing her four full days on site. Four days was a lot of time to look through old documents. They’d been liberal.
As Lucie was returning home, she thought of Sharko’s last words to her on the train platform at Bourg-la-Reine: “Take care of yourself, kid.” The words had echoed in the hollow of his throat like pebbles rattling against each other. They had shaken hands—thumb above for him, smiles exchanged, 2–0—then, like the first time, Sharko had walked away, shoulders hunched, without turning around. With a pinch in her heart, Lucie had stared for a long time after his broad silhouette as it disappeared anonymously into the stairway.
After a stop in the bathroom, she packed her bag with the bare minimum, stuffed it in the trunk of her car, took out the trash, and headed for the Oscar Lambret Medical Building. She was more excited than ever. Canada, an international case… for her, the “little lady cop” who just a few years before was filling out forms in police headquarters at Dunkirk. Somewhere in there, she felt proud of her rise in the world.
Lucie entered the hospital room with two black coffees bought from the vending machine. Her mother was still there, faithful at her post. She and Juliette were playing with the gaming console. Coloring books lay open on the bed. The little girl gave her a wry smile. She was beaming, and her skin had finally regained the honey color children of her age should have. The doctor had officially announced that she’d be discharged the next morning. Lucie hugged her child in her arms.