Summertime, all the cats are bored. 01-11

Scribd Audio presents Summertime. All the cats are bored.

by Philippe Jorget.

Translated from the French by Stephen Rendell.

Read for you by Nicholas Stokoski.

Chapter 1

Robert got up at 4 o'clock AM, as he had every day for the past 40 years. For him, it was neither a choice nor an obligation. It was just the way it was. It didn't matter to him whether it was daylight saving time or not. At 4 o'clock AM, he woke up and immediately slipped out of bed. He poured himself a cup of cold coffee, added a drop of milk. Then he set the crossword puzzle aside so he could put his cup on the little table.

All his life, Robert had worked as a tool and dye maker for a firm that manufactured agricultural machinery near Géant. in the Loire region of France. He got to work at 4.30 on the dot, and he had never been even a minute late. well-regarded, valued by his superiors, not unionized, and polite. A model worker. Laid off as a result of downsizing as he approached the age of 55.

He sat down on the narrow bench and drank the bitter cold coffee, grimacing with distaste. He could have warmed it up, but he couldn't be bothered. In any case, he wasn't allowed to put sugar in it, so he might as well swallow it as fast as he could. At one point, he'd tried drinking tea, but found that too severe a punishment.

Although he'd stopped going to work, Robert had not been able to reset his internal clock. It drove his wife Solange crazy that he woke so early in the morning. So at the beginning of his involuntary retirement, he'd tried to stay in bed. To sleep in, at least until six o'clock. But he tossed and turned, wrapping himself in the sheets. So that his wife finally told him he could get up as soon as he woke. And then she had left him. A few months later. Bone cancer.

Robert poured the dregs of his coffee in the sink and rinsed his cup. The water pump was humming in its cabinet under the bench. He put the cup in the drain rack and walked out of the trailer. It was the middle of June, and the Oleander's campground in Argelace was still almost empty. A few retirees like Robert and a handful of foreign tourists. The Dutch always got there first, then the Germans.

Robert went directly to the toilets. The day before, he'd used the second stall from the left. Today it would be the third. It was Wednesday. He urinated slowly and voluptuously in a clean basin. A sweet odor of lavender filled the shack. That was what he'd liked right away about the oleanders. The toilets were immaculate. They were cleaned regularly, and especially one last time late in the evening. Robert appreciated not having his nostrils brutally attacked first thing in the morning by the odors of the other campers' piss and shit. He enjoyed it right down to the last drop that splashed against the smooth and still clean side of the urinal. When he'd finished, he looked at his watch. 419

He washed his hands, as he had the day before, at the 19th sink in an endless row. Then he wiped his hands on his pants. He was ready for his daily walk. He had a feeling it would be the most difficult of his life. The white gravel of the lane that ran down the middle of the campground crunched under the leather soles of his sandals. Usually he liked that delicate little sound, but this morning he paid no attention to it.

Robert and Solange had discovered the oleanders in 1976. Earlier they'd camped by the side of the road, or even simply slept in their old diane. But after their son Paul was born, they wanted more comfortable arrangements. Then Gerard and Florence had come along. The children had made friends in the campground. They were happy to see them again every summer. Robert and Solange had also formed habits. The parents of their children's playmates had become their friends and vacations passed pleasantly. with games of pétanque, barbecues, and marathon card-playing tournaments.

Robert stopped by his trailer to be sure he'd locked the door, a mania of his. While his wife was alive, he'd controlled himself. But Solange was no longer there. He turned the handle. The door resisted. It was locked. Of course.

Robert was proud of their campsite, the best set up in the whole campground. There were two awnings that connected the trailer with a wooden deck next to a stone barbecue that he'd built himself in 1995. the year he was fired. The whole thing was enclosed by a wooden fence on which a dozen flower pots hung. Before, it was Solange who took care of them. The first summer after she died, the pots had remained empty. Then, Robert had picked up where she left off. He liked putting flowers on the fence more than putting them on a grave. Exposed to the sun and salt air, the green paint on the wooden posts was beginning to peel off. He'd planned to repaint them. He doubted that he could do it this summer. The site was rented by the year. At the beginning of his retirement, they lived almost seven months a year at Archelet. Now, the summer season exhausted him. He was 65 years old, and he felt tired. He would have preferred to spend the summer along the Loire River, but it was the only time when his children and grandchildren could come to see him.

He crossed the campground, walking slowly and silently. A ray of light coming through the crack under the door of a neighboring trailer that was registered in Germany. It belonged to a couple in their 60s. The man was tall and fairly bald. The woman was petite, heavy, and had a permanent. They'd argued loudly as they maneuvered the trailer into its spot. At first, Robert had laughed at them. Then he'd felt very strange. He missed arguments since he'd been living alone. Just next door to the Germans, and the tent occupied by the young Dutchwoman, there was neither sound nor light.

Robert arrived at the little gate that opened onto the beach. It was closed, but he had the key. Charles and Entree, the managers of the campground, knew his early morning habits and had long ago given him a spare. Over time, they'd gotten used to each other. Robert sometimes gave them a hand doing maintenance work during the off season. A little job here and there. A sink to unstop. A part of the lawn that needed reseeding. a barbecue to be repaired. He liked doing that kind of thing, and in his trailer he didn't have much to do. Robert and Charles chatted as they worked, and that occupied their minds. And then, contrary to what is often said, Men are more likely to talk openly around a faucet they're changing than over a glass of anisette. Charles was the only one to whom Robert had been able to confide his distress when Solange died. One time, he'd even gone so far as to shed tears.

He started down the path that crossed the Maslar Yu Nature Preserve. The birds, indifferent to his torments, were chirping their eternal hymn to life. Behind their songs, the hoarse voice of the sea could already be heard. The sea breeze was slowly rising, bringing with it a wild aroma of iodine and faraway places. The path led prudently between two wooden posts that were supposed to hold back the sand and channel the tourists. On both sides, flourishing prickly pears were vigorously growing their Mickey Mouse ears. As he approached the beach, it became more difficult to walk, and Robert's feet sank into the sand. He kept as close as possible to the fence in order to put his feet on the meager tufts of grass. Near a thicket of reeds, he hesitated. Then he decided to walk down to the sea first. After a few dozen yards, he came out on the beach. The wind grew stronger, the aromas more intense. The surf was high this morning. On the horizon, the sky was already clearing. Life would go on, imperturbable.

Robert walked as far as the changing line of the waves. He contemplated the somber mass of the sea and the white line of its crests. No sea would ever again carry his body, he told himself sadly. An immense loneliness invaded him, a total despair. His knees bent under the burden and forced him to suddenly sit down on the damp sand. How he would have liked to turn the clock back a few hours. Yes, only a few hours. Thoughts struck his mind without ever sticking, a wild sea swell washing over the rocks. Solange, Florence, the only women in his life. Fragmentary memories of happy vacations surged up and were immediately wiped away by images of fury and blood. The storm was raging in his skull. He knew that it would stop only on the day of his death, as soon as possible.

He remained prostrated for endless minutes. When he raised his head, a red line was cutting across the horizon. The sun would soon be up. The first children were running onto the beach. Laughter, life. With difficulty, he decided to return to his trailer. He planned to go back to bed to pull the covers over his head like a kid. Childhood was so far away. and he felt so old. People say that someday we fall back into childhood. If only that were true. To rediscover joy and innocence just before dying. but the hour of freedom had not told for him.

Back in front of the thicket of reeds, he imagined he heard a slipping sound. a strange noise. He moved cautiously forward through the tall grass, following a trail of broken stems. And it was there, in a minuscule clearing made by the mortal struggle of two bodies, that he found the bloody corpse of the young Dutch woman.

Chapter 2

A gentle breeze cooled his chest, made sweaty by the heat. At a glance, he could take in the whole plain of Roussillon as far as the blue of the Mediterranean. To the north, the crest of the Corbiere slowly descended toward the Bay of Luquette. To the south, The albeo range hid Spain from his dazzled eyes. The sun blurred the different shades of green, but made the red roof tiles gleam. Every year, urban growth stole a couple of hundred acres of land from the vineyards and orchards. Subdivisions were slowly spreading over the plain. They surrounded the villages. Submerging them and leaving no trace of their past except the silhouette of their old serrated Romanesque church towers. The population had grown continually over the past 50 years, and the new arrivals eager for a pleasant way of life had to be housed.

Gilles was having a hard time catching his breath. He'd left the medieval town of Castelnau 45 minutes earlier. and slowly climbed the path that led to the San Marti della Rocca chapel. The hill was steeper toward the end, and it had forced him to stop and rest. Earlier, he hadn't had to do that. From the rocky outcropping where he was resting, he couldn't see the tent, but It could easily follow its course through the villages that bordered the river all the way to Perpignan. He could list the names of these villages one by one. He too had been a new arrival a few years earlier. one of those immigrants from the north that the Catalans received with a mixture of fellow feeling, pride and resignation. Fortunately, he had a job, a trade he was no longer crazy about, but which provided him with a sufficient salary at the end of each month.

He opened his canteen and drank two little gulps of the already lukewarm water. He sprinkled a little on his head. The water ran onto the nape of his neck and then slipped down his back. He shivered. The sounds of human activity reached him, deluded in a steady drone. Only the buzz of the fire department Cessna, which was keeping the mountain ranges under constant surveillance, could be distinguished against the background noise.

Sebag thought again about Leo, his son. That morning, the boy had cleverly avoided hugging him in front of the high school. The car had hardly stopped before he jumped out, mumbling something inaudible that probably meant, buy or see you tonight. He'd been doing that for more than a month. It was his age. He was in 10th grade. High school. He was an adult now. He had no desire to show the slightest affection for his father within sight of his buddies. That's life. Get used to it. Sebog tried to be philosophical about it. He'd always known that the time of hugs and kisses wouldn't last forever. with Leo as with Severine. And he'd enjoyed each second, hugging their bodies to his. closing his eyes the better to imbue himself with their smell. He remembered the time not so long ago. When Leo used to put his arm around his waist and leaned his head against his chest for a few moments before disappearing into the schoolyard, That time was over, forever. The kid had fuzz on his chin, and he was almost five feet eleven. In a few months, maybe a few weeks, he'd be taller than his father. Nonetheless, Gilles felt a void, a lack. Physical. Stopping smoking wouldn't have been any harder.

He got up, stretched the muscles in his arms, and shook out his legs. His back was stiff and sensitive, a little more than usual. He had to make up his mind to go down, to dive back into that turbulent world. And even if at the moment he didn't have much to do in the office, Sibag couldn't be away all day. He put on his T-shirt and went toward the Saint-Martin Chapel, a little break that he allowed himself. It was open. He went in. Silence reigned in the chapel. He took off his cap and held it over his belly in his crossed hands. he walked along the row of benches. Through a square opening in the west facade, he contemplated Lukanigu. The Catalan sacred mountain was trying to retain in its hollows the last marks of winter. Spring had come late, and now, at the end of June, there was still some snow. Clinging to the mountain's folds, it made its relief more noticeable. Lucanigo, veined in white under the sun, was more majestic than ever.

It was time to leave. Sebag didn't feel like going to work. He was finding it increasingly difficult to put up with the routine of his job. Outside, the blazing sun forced him to close his eyes. He took a last drink from the canteen and returned it to the pocket on his backpack. He set the chronometer on his watch. It would take him about half an hour to get back to the car. 20 minutes drive to reach Perpignan. 15 minutes more. Long enough to take a shower in the locker room at the university's stadium. He would be at police headquarters around 11.30.

Chapter 3

She was floating between consciousness and somnolence without being able to reach ashore. She couldn't move, paralyzed by an excessively deep sleep. Her numbed limbs permitted no movement. She was not in a hurry. The sun would come up soon enough. She felt her dream slowly slipping away from her. Already, she had only fleeting impressions. Warmth, a little tenderness, sweetness. Far, she supposed, from what awaited her upon awakening. No sound reached her. No image The void Night Silence She existed only through a transient thinking that refused to settle down.

As the cold spread through her body, she felt the pain growing. She hurt all over. Her legs, arms, head, her back too. Her limbs were, she was beginning to understand, firmly bound. Her feet and hands were tied and attached by a rope behind her back. She couldn't move. At most, she was able, for a moment, to raise her heavy, feverish head. Her face seemed to be half buried in a mattress that smelled of mildew. She must have gotten involved in a very strange game. She no longer remembered the rules. In addition to the contact with the damp mattress, she perceived another sensation on her face. A kind of cloth over her eyes to be precise. Her eyes had been masked. She now realized that the sun would not come up. That it would never come up again, perhaps. This wasn't night, but horror.

She tried to struggle against the immense terror that came over her It wasn't a game After finding it so difficult to emerge from the dense mist that had anesthetized her consciousness and her body, she would have liked to go back to sleep now. Maybe she would succeed in waking up somewhere far from here, in the snug comfort of a guest room, for instance. But her mind was becoming more and more lucid, stimulated by the throbbing pain that was rending her body. A word formed in her head. Impossible. Incredible. A word that she rejected. She tried to remember. Nothing precise came back to her, just the sensation of having gone to sleep with her head leaning against the window of a car. gently rocked by the curves of a country road. A recent memory or a distant reminiscence? As a child, she liked to let herself fall asleep like that on her way back from a delightful Sunday spent at her grandparents' home. Once again, she saw the light of the headlights piercing the pitch black of the Dutch countryside. She remembered the hum of the motor and her parents' quiet conversation. This time she hadn't fallen asleep on the back seat of the car, but on the passenger seat, to the right of the driver. That memory was at least precise. She hurt, but couldn't remember any violence. She plunged into listening to her body. The pain was coming chiefly from the bruises caused by her bonds. Then she focused on her limbs, stiffened by a position that was growing more and more uncomfortable. Still proceeding mentally, she examined her head. Her pain felt like a headache, not like something caused by a blow. She had not been struck. Her mind slipped down to her vagina. No pain in that damp place, not the slightest burning. She had not been raped. The word suddenly forced itself on her. There was no possible doubt. A kidnapping. It was a kidnapping. But why?

She moved her head, rubbing her face on the mattress to try to move the damned cloth that was hiding the light from her. Then she held still. Memories of cop shows came back to her. If the kidnappers had blindfolded her, it was so that she couldn't recognize them later on. After they had released her. So they were expecting to release her. When? For the moment, that didn't matter. She had glimpsed a hope, a light, so it was a kind of game. A cruel game. She wanted to see it that way. She was prepared to play earnestly. She'd learned the rules and respect them scrupulously. everything was going to be all right. In a few days at most, she would return home. She would go back to her little apartment in Amsterdam and give her parents a big hug. Just as she was formulating these reassuring thoughts in a low voice, she heard a key turn in a lock. Who could have kidnapped her? She had an idea, but rejected it with horror. The door creaked. Ingrid's tears soaked into the rough cloth that masked her eyes.

Chapter Four

"Could you please do me a favor, Gilles?" Perceiving his colleague's hesitation, Jacques Molina conspicuously looked at his watch. He was late for work.

"Provided you do me one in return, of course," Gilles replied.

Jacques Molina had been working with Gilles Sebag for four years. They shared the same office and often conducted investigations together. They got along well, but were not friends. Too many differences. They put up with each other. They respected each other. They both thought that was good enough.

"What can I do for you?"

"A young woman came in to report her husband missing. It's a case that seems interesting. But I absolutely have to leave. I'm in a hurry. I've got an important meeting at noon. If you could keep this warm for me, I'd be eternally grateful."

"What do you mean, keep it warm?"

Melina gave him a complicitous wink. "I just had time to take down the main points of her deposition. I'd like you to get the details and give me your impressions. I'll take over the case afterward."

Sibag heaved a long sigh. "No problem, I'll take care of it."

"I knew I could count on you. We'll both put our signatures on the report, as if we'd spent the whole morning working on it. As usual."

"As usual," Sibag replied wearily. He wasn't very proud of himself. Not very proud of them.

"Go ahead. Hurry up. You're going to be late."

"Thanks. See you later." Molina was already on his way. He was going out the door when Sibag shouted after him.

"Brunette or blonde?"

Molina waved his hand and answered without turning around. "The meeting is with the blonde. The deposition with the brunette."

"So, your name is Sylvie Lopez. Ne-Navarro. You're 24 and live on Villars Street in Perpignan. You work as a housekeeper for an industrial cleaning firm. You've been married for three years, and you have a little girl born last January." Sabag looked up from the notes his colleague had taken and looked at the young woman. She was, in fact, a brunette, with a Louise Brooks-style bob. She had a pretty sad face, lit by two large dark and glistening eyes, tired eyes. Sibag understood what Molina meant by an interesting case.

"Your husband is named Jose. He's a cab driver. And he hasn't come home for two days. Is that right?"

She nodded timidly.

"Tell me everything," Sabag went on. "The last time you saw him, what you said to each other, when you started to get worried, and so on."

The young woman smoothed out her skirt with her right hand and started in. "The last time I saw him was Tuesday noon. I was leaving for work and he had to leave too. We both work afternoons and evenings. Actually, I'm the one who works like that. He has adapted to my schedule. That's easier in his trade, you know, as an independent cab driver. He's freer." She pulled a thread on the hem of her skirt and continued. "I came home around- 10.30, after I went to my parents' place to pick up our little girl, I put her to bed and made dinner while I watched television. Normally, Jose gets home around 11.30. He waits for the last train at the Perpignan Rail Station." She looked up slightly and glanced at the inspector from below. Sibag said nothing, didn't move. You had to let him talk.

"At midnight, he still hadn't come home. I told myself that was good news. It meant that the last customer had asked for a long trip. At that hour, it's nighttime rates, and long trips bring in a lot of money, you see. Jose hasn't been driving a cab for very long, and it's a little difficult. He has to make payments on the car, pay for his license, gas. It's really hard. But then my parents help us." Sibag allowed himself to nod his head to encourage her. "The minimum." She had opened a parenthesis regarding their financial and familial situation. It was up to her to decide whether she should close it right away.

"Finally, at midnight, I decided to eat dinner. I mustn't go to bed too late. Our daughter wakes up every morning at six, and often she even cries several times during the night, so as far as sleep is concerned, you understand." He understood, yes, and he told her so with a flick of his eyelids. She didn't go on immediately. She returned to the hem of her skirt, seeming to check its condition. Pauses, like digressions, could be significant.

"Jenny, Jenny is our little girl. Her name is Jennifer, but we call her Jenny. She didn't cry at all that night, and she woke later than usual. Just before seven o'clock. That hasn't happened more than once or twice since she was born." She seemed proud of her daughter, so proud that she dared to stop examining her skirt and raise her eyes toward Sibag. He smiled at her. He too remembered the first week with Leo, how a child's sleep and meals could determine everything in a household.

"I took care of Jenny," the young woman went on. "I gave her a bottle. And since Jose still hadn't come home, I decided to call him on his cell phone. But I got his voicemail."

"What time was it when you called?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe eight or nine in the morning."

Sibag sat up and put his elbows on his desk, his hands folded in front of his mouth. He asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "Did you leave a message?"

"Yes. No," she finally stammered. "That is, not right away. I had housework to do. Ironing. I was busy. I played with Jenny."

"You weren't concerned?"

"Not very, not yet, really." Sabag tried to imagine what would happen at his house if he hadn't come home one evening. Claire wouldn't have waited until the next morning to call him. She would have called before going to bed, and she would have left messages on his cell phone. she would have quickly gotten worried, and she would probably have slept badly. Being a policeman was a dangerous occupation, but not as dangerous as being a cab driver. The road kills more people than hoodlums do. The situation in his marriage wasn't comparable. Sibag would never have stayed out all night without letting his wife know.

"When exactly did you start to get worried?"

The question seemed to destroy the trust that had been established between them. Sylvie Lopez looked down again at her hem.

"Well, in the morning. I'd called his cell phone, I'd left a message, and since he still hadn't called back, then I got worried."

"And what did you think then?" Sivak didn't want to rush the young woman. He was an advocate of painless births.

"I don't recall precisely." Sylvie Lopez went on after a few hesitations. "I was annoyed. It was getting late and I had to leave for work."

"You weren't worried all that much, in fact." She suddenly stopped fussing with her hem and started smoothing her skirt again.

"Not all that much, no." Sivag looked at her. He waited a few seconds until she decided to raise her eyes to him. He spoke in his warmest voice, in his most understanding tone, even during a painless birth. "There comes a time when the baby has to be pushed out. This wasn't the first time he'd stayed out all night that way."

The young woman's chin began to tremble. She looked at him with her dark eyes shining with shame.

"It wasn't the first time, was it?" he repeated.

"No," she admitted in a whisper. Tears welled up and rolled slowly down her hollow cheeks. She sniffled. Sibag opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a package of Kleenex, the last one. He'd have to buy some more, he said to himself. The administration provided free cartridges for revolvers, but hadn't thought of Kleenex. They were, however, more useful on an everyday basis. Sylvie Lopez blew her nose for a long time. Sebag waited until she had finished.

"Does your husband have a mistress?"

She jumped. The word offended her. as if he'd shown a spotlight on a situation she had pretended she didn't know about. So long as we don't name things or people, we don't bring them to life, and we prevent them from taking too much power over us.

"No, I don't think you could say that." She looked for words, and would have liked to clarify her thought. But first she needed to get things straight in her own head. She had to begin by looking the truth in the face. "I think he's had flings that didn't go anywhere. I don't think he has an ongoing relationship. I would have noticed." She dried her eyes with the Kleenex. Her mascara had run and left marks on her cheeks. She wasn't able to wipe it all away. Sibag would have liked to get up and help her.

"Have you spoken with your husband about his- Flings?" he asked.

She shook her head. Sabag didn't try to hide his astonishment.

"You seem to have accepted this situation pretty easily."

She shrugged. "What good would it have done to talk about it?" She blew her nose again and, confronted by Sebag's silence, felt obliged to explain. "I believe men sometimes have needs that women don't have. And then I think being a father scared him a little. Maybe he needed to reassure himself. I don't know. Do you have children?"

Zabag did not answer. "And then, so long as he came home and was nice to me, to us, I didn't have any reason to complain, did I?" Zabag found her touching and her old-fashioned naivete. She'd said that as if it were a commonplace. Her husband was really the worst of jerks. You don't leave a woman like her. He scribbled a few key words in his notebook, a little blue notebook with large squares. These notes would later be valuable for re-transcribing the interview as accurately as possible.

"What made you think your husband hadn't simply stayed out two nights in a row?"

"Since I hadn't heard from him, I called some of his colleagues. I know two or three who've come to the house. They said that our daughter was sick, and I had to get in touch with them right away. But he'd lost his cell phone, but nobody had seen him all day Wednesday."

Sabag weighed his words so as not to hurt her. He could also have stayed out all day, so to speak.

She shook her head vigorously, a lock of hair stuck to her wet mascara.

"This seems impossible to you," he asked. "He would have called, asked about Jenny. He might have been afraid."

Her big somber eyes grew round. They looked like two black marbles.

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of you. Why, since I don't ask anything of him?"

"You wouldn't have made a scene? And you would have let him leave again without saying anything?" Her two black marbles caught Sebag's eyes. She wanted to convince him.

"What good would he have done to make a scene? We would have risked losing him forever. And then if he wanted to leave us for good, he could have come back to tell us, couldn't he?"

"Even the best of men are cowardly sometimes," Sebag said ironically.

"Maybe he didn't dare tell you." She thought about the inspector's arguments for a moment, and then rejected them with a vigorous shake of her head. "No, I really don't think so. You have to believe me, Inspector. Something has happened to him. I know it. I can feel it. Something serious."

After lunch, Sabag reread the missing person report Sylvie Lopez had filed. They had filled it out together, sketching a quick description of Jose. In his 30s, 5'9, heavy set, dark eyes, thick brown hair and eyebrows, a mole on his neck. They had mentioned the clothes he was wearing on the day he disappeared, light brown slacks and a sky blue shirt. Then, Sabag had had her sign the report before he sent her home with a few reassuring words that hadn't reassured her at all. He remained perplexed. The young woman's concern had ended up contaminating him. He couldn't extinguish in his memory the wet and imploring flash of Jade and her soft eyes. He wondered what was leading him to pursue this case. Was it the intuition that his disappearance was in fact concealing something serious? Or was it the sympathy he felt for this young woman? He was dialing the number of the husband's cell phone when the landline on his desk rang. It was Superintendent Costello, his boss.

"Ah, Sabag, finally, could you come see me?" He added, but Sabag had already understood from his tone. Immediately, the superintendent's office was on the fourth floor, right over his. Sabag quickly climbed the stairs. The door was open, but he waited prudently on the threshold.

"Come in," Costello said, "and close the door behind you, please." Sibag obeyed, fearing addressing down for being absent that morning. He tried to forestall his boss.

"So, how's the training going? Are you in good shape?" The inspector and the superintendent had met several times at foot race competitions. At first, Sebag, who was younger and in better condition, ran far ahead. But Castello, despite being in his 50s, continued to make progress. He hoped to run a marathon someday, Paris or New York in a year or two. Sabag offered him advice and encouragement. He'd run three marathons.

Castello didn't allow his subordinate's question to distract him. "Listen, Gilles, I couldn't find you this morning. Did you need me?"

Sabag answered evasively. "Yes, I had a telephone conversation with Captain Marceau, the head of customs, about this matter of contraband cigarettes, you know."

"Are they getting anywhere?"

"Slowly. But Marceau is thinking all the same about raiding a warehouse near the St. Charles market. and also a few bars in Perpignan. They will probably need us." After a couple of fruitful confiscations the preceding spring, the customs men had noticed that a small gang of of local criminals was setting up a regular network for the clandestine sale of cigarettes, Taking advantage of the enormous disparities in price on the two sides of the Pyrenees,

"Isn't it a little early for a raid?" Sebag asked with concern.

"Probably, but the prefecture is putting pressure on us. The government wants quick results. The subject was politically sensitive. Since the increases in cigarette prices in France in the early years of the decade, Tobacconist shops were closing one after another in Roussillon, whereas cigarette sales had doubled in the border village of Le Portou. Those mainly to blame were not the smugglers, however, but rather private individuals who bought their cigarettes in Spain. They saved 20 euros per carton, and that quickly paid for the trip. Since they couldn't stop the smokers, the prefecture had decided to set an example by putting an end to the smuggling."

"If the customs acts too quickly, it may end up being a waste of time," Sebag observed.

"I know, and I said that to Marceau. Bad when politics get involved. We have to look active, right?"

"You might put it that way," Costello smiled. Zabag shook his head resentfully. "If the politicians really wanted to do something about the problem, all they would have to do is harmonize the two countries' fiscal policies. the smuggling would cease immediately. Then customs could concentrate on more dangerous schemes, and the police could concentrate on real crime. The kind that can't be dealt with by simple ministerial decree. The thefts, violence, and car burnings. the kind that really affect people's lives."

"Marceau told me that our minister was planning to take advantage of the opportunity to bring a public relations campaign here," Costello added.

"I can already see the spiel," Sebag grumbled. "They'll set up a great show, joint operation with police, customs, and maybe even the gendarmes. They'll talk a lot, arrest a handful of smugglers, and seize a few cartons of cigarettes. And what will matter is not the result of the operation, but its coverage in the media."

"Well, it's not by making remarks like those that you're going to advance your career." Sebag refrained from snickering. He'd given up hope for his career long ago. Or rather, he'd been forced to do so.

"Don't you regret now, the choices you've made?" The superintendent suddenly asked him. Sabag crossed his arms nervously. He didn't feel like talking about that. Castello caressed his graying beard. It was a little too long. His hair too, for that matter. It was beginning to go down his neck. The chief grabbed a pen on his desk and put it in a terracotta pot that Sibag knew well. He'd received one just like it for his participation in Nehron Seretem, a famous race in the region.

"I've never had the chance to tell you, but I think it was a very courageous choice." The remark surprised Sibak. It was the first time he'd been congratulated on this. Up to now, he'd had more the impression that he was considered a pariah. From one day to the next, he'd passed from the status of a promising young cop to that of an ugly duckling. And all this without anyone saying anything at all explicit about it.

The chief went on in a serious tone. "When I began to understand things, it was too late." Costello lived apart from his wife. She'd refused to follow him to Perpignan, preferring to remain in Paris. Sebag had sensed that divorce proceedings were underway. Castillo had two grown sons. One was studying medicine. The other was still in high school, a senior. Until now, Costello had never shown that loneliness and distance weighed on him. A boss, rather like a father, had to be strong and resolute. Sabag agreed, and did not seek to elicit more such confidences.

"Your children are grown up now," Costello went on. "I thought I might give you a little promotion."

"God forbid," Sibag said with alarm. The chief frowned. His eyebrows had remained oddly brown, while his beard and his hair had gone white.

"You know, I already consider you to be the de facto coordinator of the team of inspectors. Coordinator and supervisor are more or less the same thing in practice, but officially they are very different, and the salary isn't the same." Zabag avoided Costello's eyes. He didn't want this position and the responsibilities that went with it. But he had no argument to offer, at least none that was valid in his boss's view.

"The present situation suits me very well as it is." Costello furtively scratched the end of his nose. "Think about it. Your children will soon be going to university. And then you'll see that a simple inspector's salary is no longer enough. Leo is only in 10th grade. And then my wife works too. Time passes more quickly than we think, and by the time your son has finished high school, the position will have already been filled." Sibag shook his head in a manner he hoped looked grave.

"I promise you that I'll think about it," he said. The superintendent was satisfied with this answer, but Sabag knew that he was annoyed. The following question confirmed his impression.

"By the way, where were you this morning?"

"Working on an investigation with Molina. An interesting case. At least, I think it is. But still, Sibag was aware that he was traversing a slippery slope. A taxi driver who has mysteriously disappeared. Mysteriously? Come on, how long ago?" Zabag made a rapid calculation in his head. Sylvie Lopez had not seen her husband since Tuesday morning. Two days of absence were enough to cause a wife concern, but not enough to disturb a cop's routine.

"More than 72 hours," he exaggerated.

"Hmm, I suppose you've put out a missing person bulletin?" The law allowed the police several kinds of action in such cases. A missing person bulletin could only be put out for an administrative investigation carried out in the local jurisdiction alone. A kind of minimum. For adults, it was the most common procedure.

"I was about to do that when you called me. I was also wondering whether I shouldn't put him on the national database of missing persons."

"Already? Costello automatically put two fingers on his lips. It's true that 72 hours is beginning to seem long. he went on. A little too long for a simple matter of sex, isn't it?"

"That's what Molina and I thought. There might be something else behind it. What?"

"I'm not sure. There are some details, in fact, that don't fit with the idea that he just took off or simply had an adulterous affair." Sibag hesitated. "The bigger the lie, the more people believe it," Melina always said. "To judge by the first results of the investigation, the taxi driver was making lots of round trips to Spain. You think he's involved in smuggling cigarettes?"

"I'm not sure, in fact, but there's something funny about it. Your instinct?" Castello believed in instinct. Sibag preferred to speak of intuition. But the latter is associated with women, and it didn't seem to suit the superintendent.

"Yes, maybe. There's something wrong in this case." Sabag didn't like lying. Experience had made him skillful, but not comfortable in that domain.

"Do as you see fit," Costello said. He put his fingers to his lips again.

"Do you have a cigarette?" He abruptly asked Sebag.

"I thought you'd quit."

"Yes, as I do every week," the superintendent grumbled. "And as I do every week, I start it again the next day." Sabag tapped a cigarette out of his pack of Catan Blondes. handed it to him. Castello took the package and read the label out loud. "Tomorrow may matter. Do you buy your cigarettes in Le Pertout too?"

"Like everyone else. I go there from time to time. I don't smoke much." Costello laid the pack on his desk and put the cigarette to his lips. Sibag took out his lighter. and held the flame up to him.

"As the proverb says, you can't smoke without fire." The superintendent gave him a minimal smile. He closed his eyes and took a long, voluptuous drag on the cigarette. The smoke wrapped his face in a bluish halo.

"Man, it's good, this junk," he said, opening his eyes again. "And it's even better after a few days of abstinence. But one mustn't ever become a prisoner of his vices, nor his choices." He slowly took another drag. "I've already told you, and I'll say it again. I respect the choice you made a few years ago. You're a good cop, Sibag. But a good cop isn't anything without a minimum of work."

Sibag put the lighter on the desk next to the pack of cigarettes. "I'm leaving it all for you, boss. I've got dozens of lighters. They give them away free in Lupertu. When you get involved in a case, you're the best, Jill. But only on that condition. It's lucky that they give away lighters in Spain. Otherwise, we'd have to deal with lighter smuggling as well." Sebag interrupted himself. Castello was scratching his nose and biting his lips at the same time. It was a bad sign.

"I've always had confidence in your instinct, and I hope I can continue to do so. I want to see some tangible evidence in this case of the mysterious disappearance of a cab driver, and see it soon." Sebag acquiesced with a nod. He turned around and started toward the door. Costello stopped him.

"One more thing, Sebag."

"Yes, sir?"

"When I say soon, that means before tomorrow night. Understood?"

At his house, everything was oddly calm. He went into the living room. The French doors were open. Gilles Sebag lived in Saint-Esteve, on the outskirts of Perpignan. The house was constructed in a U-shape. and faced south toward the terrace and the swimming pool. On the east side, there was an office in the master bedroom with its own bathroom. On the west side, the children's bedrooms and a family bathroom. Between the two, there was the common space. A big living room, family room, with an open American-style kitchen. The house also had a garage, but Sibag had divided it into two parts to serve as both a laundry room and a gym area. He crossed the terrace. No one outside. The water in the pool was rippling in the light breeze. A few apricot leaves were floating on the surface. He went back inside. He opened the bar, took out the bottle of pastis, and poured himself a few drops in a large glass. He dropped in three ice cubes and then filled the glass at the faucet. He drank a mouthful. It was still too warm. He called out.

"Glare." No answer. He called again.

"Claire?" A high-pitched voice reached him from the back of the house. "She's not here, Papa. There's only me." He crossed the west wing. The term made the house sound big. He liked it. To Severin's room. He knocked but didn't wait for her to tell him to come in. His daughter was sitting at her desk, doing her homework. Sabag saw nothing but a brown curly mop of hair. He laid a kiss on the nape of her neck.

"Mama isn't here?"

"No, she had a student evaluation meeting at school."

"A student evaluation meeting? Two days before vacation?"

"You're right, it's not an evaluation meeting. I think it's more like a disciplinary council meeting. Something like that."

"I see. What about Leo?"

"Papa, he's playing basketball in Perpignan, like every Thursday."

"Drew, do I need to go get him, or did he go on his scooter?"

"He took his scooter." Zabag hesitated between relief at not having to go out again and worrying about his son on the road with that damned scooter. He hadn't wanted to buy him one, but after a bitter fight, he'd had to give in to Leo's insistent requests relayed by his mother. We are always done in by those who know us best, or abreast. One night his wife had come to talk about the scooter with her blouse unbuttoned. She'd sat on his lap and ended up getting him to agree. Who will still claim that men are the stronger sex?

Severine had gone back to her homework. She was in seventh grade, a good student, no problems. He put his hands on her slender shoulders and leaned over her work.

"You still have homework just before vacation?"

"No, not really, but I'm interested in this subject. Charlemagne and the organization of the Carolingian Empire. Woof, the Missy Domenici, the marches, Aix-la-Chapelle, the coronation in the year 800, the emperor with a full beard."

"Hey, you really know your stuff."

"Of course I know it. Who in the police hasn't heard about the Domenici case?" She let out a little crystalline laugh. enchanting. A few weeks earlier, they'd watched a documentary on this famous murder case Zabag closed his eyes. He knew that his daughter wouldn't always laugh at his facile jokes.

Before leaving the room, he took a brief look around. A few stuffed animals were waiting patiently on the bed. A bear, a rabbit, a cat, the last witnesses to a childhood that was rapidly passing away. On the walls, posters showing fashionable singers were already publicly proclaiming the teenager's emotional turmoil. At least Sibag could rejoice in his daughter's preference for a more literary kind of song. the chanson française at text, which he was discovering at the same time she was. With Leo, it was different. The boy's only passions were for sports and rap, two domains about which Sibag was proud to say he knew nothing.

At all. He quietly closed the door. Holding his glass, he went to the laundry room. He sorted the wet clothes in the washing machine. Claire had started a load in the morning before leaving for work.

In the yard, he hung the clothes on the line. The wind out of the north-northwest, La Tramontaine, was singing in the trees, and the sun was beating down despite the fact that evening was coming on. In just an hour, he would be able to bring everything in. He didn't mind doing household tasks. These repetitive acts carried out with care gave him time to think. He'd been accustomed to doing them after Savarin's birth, when he'd opted for a half-time parental leave in order to spend more time with his children. That was the notorious career choice that had cost him dear. However, the law had not excluded cops from the program. Everyone had the right to choose an adjustment of his work time during his youngest child's first three years. And no one had been able to oppose it at the police headquarters in Chartres where he was working at the time. But his decision had surprised and displeased people. A man who chooses his children over his profession. That was obviously not part of the habits and customs of the French police. As a result, his career had been significantly slowed.

After his transfer to Perpignan, he'd gone back to full-time work, but his name was probably on a blacklist in a secret file in the Ministry of the Interior. People all around him had been promoted, but he had received nothing, until Costello took over three years earlier. Then, Sabag had finally obtained a salary increase, and still more importantly, he had recovered his superior's trust. That made his work more agreeable for him on a daily basis, but for the rest, it was too late. Today, his life was outside the police station, and his only ambition was to do his job well enough without pointlessly complicating his life.

In the laundry bag, he picked up a bra he didn't recognize, pink, small. It took him a moment to realize that it belonged to Severine, her first bra. He remembered a summer when she stubbornly refused to take off the top of her swimsuit. She kept it on under her t-shirt, even to go to school. She must have been seven or eight years old. That was yesterday. He picked up another bra, larger and with lace. It belonged to Claire, that one. The girl still had a way to go before she would have her mother's seductive figure. No need for nature to hurry. He hung the bras far from one another, so as to avoid annoying anyone.

He'd worked hard with Melina this afternoon. He'd gotten them into deep shit with his stupid instinct. There was probably nothing mysterious about the cab driver's disappearance. When he found out, the boss would be furious. If at least they could bring the adulterous husband home by tomorrow night, they could limit the damage. To ease his conscience. Jacques had also left a message on Lopez's answering machine while Sebag was calling the Perpignan Hospital and then the main clinics in the area. He had even contacted the psychiatric clinic in Tuya. Without result, they had communicated the taxi's license number to the police patrols. And to the municipality as well. No trace of it on the streets of Perpignan. In the late afternoon, they had transmitted the number to the gendarme. Jacques had gone back to see Sylvie Lopez at her workplace. She had given him a photo of her husband that she kept in her wallet. In the meantime, Sebag had gone to the train station and the airport. He'd questioned Lopez's colleagues. No one had seen him, not today, and not yesterday either. In theory, he'd completed his last trip on Tuesday, not at 11 o'clock p.m., as his wife supposed, but around 7 o'clock p.m. Finally, armed with Lopez's photo, together they had made the rounds of all the hotels near the train station. In case the taxi driver had taken his conquests there, they'd come up with nothing. Molina still had to work this evening. He would go to a bar where Lopez played billiards on Friday nights. Maybe he would meet the cab driver's friends there. For his part, the next day Sibag was supposed to resume the rounds of the hotels, extending the scope of his search. For the time being, he'd had enough. "Sufficient unto the day is the idleness thereof." That was his motto.

Before leaving work, they had received Lopez's police record, a conviction for car theft in 1994 when he was 17. Another for assault and battery five years later. Lopez wasn't a greenhorn. That was something of a surprise. A second tangible fact, but it did not provide a new line of investigation any more than the first one did.

After he'd hung out the laundry, Sabag sat down on the edge of the swimming pool. Dangling his feet in the water, he enjoyed his iced pastis. So where had this damned Lopez gone? He had a nice wife who not only pardoned him his escapades, but also pretended she didn't know about them. No remark, no reproach. Why did he have to take advantage of her? Was a daddy's baby blues? It seems that these fathers often don't accept their responsibilities. Many couples split up within six months after the birth of a child. Gilles had always found that strange. Leo's birth had been the most beautiful day of his life. He found the expression appropriate, even if its banality weakened its force. After leaving the maternity ward after a long night without sleep, he'd wandered through the streets of Chartres, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep. He examined the faces of the men he met, thinking he could see in them the happiness of paternity. How could they be fathers and not shout it from the rooftops? How could they continue to live as they had before? For his part, he had such a feeling of fulfillment and accomplishment. He'd taken part in the birth from the beginning to the end. He'd breathed with Claire. He'd pushed with her. They'd cried out together at the moment the baby emerged. Taking in his hands that little ball of a person curled up on itself, he'd felt strong, invincible for the first time in his life. Then he'd understood what no one had been able to explain to him. That if the bitter struggles of life shaped character, only the suffocating warmth of a maternity ward could make you a man. A new Gilles Sebag had been born that day.

Severine had joined them scarcely two years later. A boy, a girl. The king's choice, as they say. Perfect happiness.

"Good evening," a sweet melodic voice. Gilles extricated himself from his thoughts. He turned around. "Good evening." Claire came toward him. She wore a flowered dress, light on her tan skin. Her walk was aerial. Earlier, she'd studied dance for ten years, and her body remembered it. She bent over and kissed him on the lips. "You're beautiful." She gave him an astonished look. "That's kind," she said softly. "No, it's not kind, it's sincere." She bent down again and gave him a long, sensual kiss. Their lips lingered. Claire's cheeks were red. "She must have been hot in the car," Sabag said to himself. "You're late getting home." The words had just slipped out of him, and they sounded like a reproach. Fortunately, Claire didn't notice. She limited herself to blowing out a long sigh. "We had two difficult cases to deal with. Students in 10th grade whose parents are refusing to let them repeat a year." Claire was a French teacher. She taught in a high school in Rivesalt. She was still passionate about her profession. He wished he could say as much about himself.

"What are we eating?" she asked. "I don't know. There's a leftover tomato salad." "Again? We can fry up some bacon bits with little onions. That'll be something new." She gave him another kiss on the lips. Tender. "Can I let you take care of everything? I'd like to have a swim." "No problem." She let her dress fall to the floor and slowly unhooked her bra. "Well, he didn't know that one." Then she took off her g-string panties and plunged naked into the water. He contemplated her for a moment. He found her beautiful, even more beautiful than before. He finished his glass, pulled his feet out of the water, dried them off, and went into the kitchen to make dinner.

When Leo came home, they were finishing the meal on the terrace. He was proud as a peacock and took off his helmet only when he sat down at the table. "Great," he said. "You think a tomato salad is great?" Asked Severine, who was sulking over her dish. "No, basketball." Zabag questioned him in turn. "Basketball or the scooter?" Leo laughed. "Both, Captain." "Lieutenant," Severin corrected him. "Today, an inspector in the French police is called a lieutenant." "Oh yeah, that's right. I always forget." "I do too," Sibag assured him. "And I'm not the only one." "Lieutenant, Leo laughed. That's too cool, like in the States. Papa, are you Starsky or Hutch?" "Neither. Inspector Gadget, rather." Gilles and the children giggled. Claire, who seemed not to have followed the conversation, smiled to be in tune with the others.

After the meal, while they were alone in the kitchen cleaning up, Gilles asked his wife, "I have a feeling that you've been preoccupied for some time. Is it work?" "Yes, a little," she replied without conviction. "I don't know. Maybe it's just the end of the year or a midlife crisis." She pretended she was going to slap him. "Oh, it's okay. I'm not yet 40." "Getting pretty close. Next year." "That's what I said, a few months." He kissed her on the neck. "You've never been so beautiful." She ran her hand through his hair, gently made him lift up his head. "Do you love me?" "Not yet, but I have a feeling it might happen someday." "How soon?" "Let's wait another couple of decades." They kissed for a long time over the open door of the dishwasher. A little later, at bedtime, he undressed her. She seemed embarrassed. He closed the window and they made love. It was hot. Claire's body shone in the moonlight. It was of an almost unreal alabaster color. Gilles caressed her skin. His fingers slipped over her neck, then her back. Down to her buttocks. "J'aime le clair de lune et la lune de clair." He'd already told her that countless times, but you had to know how to repeat yourself. She turned her face toward him, smiled at him with a little too much gravity. Her cheeks were red like a little while ago.

Chapter 5

She'd eaten pasta, cooked too long and not salted enough, but she'd eaten and drunk too. Before she sat down in front of a plate and a glass, the young woman hadn't realized that she was hungry and thirsty. The fear that was tying her stomach in knots was too intense. Her jailer had come in on tiptoe. He'd made no sound. She had simply noticed his calm breathing. Before untying her hands, he'd checked to make sure that the mask over her eyes was secure. She'd gotten the message and assured him she wouldn't take off the mask. She had talked to him at length, moreover, at first in Dutch, and then, realizing her mistake—in French, the words had come to her all by themselves, even in that language that she still didn't speak very well. They gushed forth like a tide that has been too long held back. They let out her fear. To speak is to live. It is to remain a human being. And it is also to create a bond. She'd asked her kidnapper questions about his intentions, his motivations, and his choice. Why her? But she'd received no response. He'd taken her hands and put them on the plate. Then he left. She devoured the pasta, shoveling whole forkfuls into her greedy mouth. It was so good to eat. When the body is busy, the mind rests.

After the meal, she'd meekly lain on her stomach to make it easier for him to tie her up again. He'd returned immediately. He must be watching her from behind the door. But he'd knocked before coming in. That had astonished her. He'd come up to her, taken her by the arm, and guided her into a corner of the cellar. The cool dampness of the place meant that it had to be a cellar. The man had made her touch something she had easily identified. A pail. He'd pushed firmly on her lower abdomen. And initially, she'd mistaken his intentions. Then she understood. Since he didn't move, she'd ended up lowering her panties in front of him, lifted her skirt and sat down. It took hours before she could let go. He hadn't said a word in protest, just breathed, always calmly. Then, he'd taken her back and tied her up again. First her hands, behind her back. Then her feet. He'd stopped there, hadn't tied her hands to her feet. Her situation was less uncomfortable now. She saw that as a reward for her docility. The rules of the game were simple. That was a positive sign. It had to be a positive sign. She needed one. To keep from cracking. From screaming. Because at first, once her physical needs had been satisfied, she'd felt surprisingly calm. But now that she was alone again in the dark, fear was taking up all the space. It was coming back, stronger than before.

Chapter 6

Tabak had been going over the cab driver's file for a good half hour when Melina appeared in the office. Jacques was holding a paper cup containing a hot black liquid that Sebag refused to call coffee. "So?" Gilles asked abruptly. "None of his billiards buddies was there yesterday, but I got their names and phone numbers. We'll be able to contact them this morning." Valina took a sip of his coffee before expressing his astonishment. "Weren't you supposed to be continuing the rounds of the hotels first thing this morning?" "I started at 8 o'clock sharp. I did a dozen of them, and then gave up." "Ah." The task had quickly annoyed him. Going from one hotel to another and showing Lopez's photo was already not exactly fun, but it was part of the job. What he'd found more difficult to put up with was the way he was received by the hotel staff. At the Hotel de la République, he'd almost blown up at the person on the reception desk who told him without even glancing at the photo, that he didn't recognize the taxi driver. "If you want my opinion, we're wasting our time. The people who work mornings aren't going to have seen Lopez. If he'd been to one of these hotels, it would have been in the afternoon or evening. Not the morning. He was with his little wife." "They're also hotel registers," Molina retorted. When he tried to look at them, the other grump at the Republique had asked if he had a warrant. Sibag felt like making the asshole Eda's register page by page. The older he got, the less patience he had in such situations. Molina wasn't happy. He didn't like his colleague giving up so quickly. "You know," Sabat continued, "I think we've already expanded the circle around the train station enough. Either he went to get laid somewhere right nearby, or he could have gone almost anywhere else. After all, we're not going to visit all the hotels in the department." Do you have any idea how much work that would be?" That was a surefire argument. Molina made a quick-fire calculation. The Roussillon plain formed a rough rectangle about 25 miles long by 12 miles wide, and included not only the city of Perpignan, but also the Mediterranean coast with all its hotels. That made it certain, a job impossible to finish before evening, especially for two such highly motivated inspectors. He leaned back his head and swallowed the last drop of his coffee, crushed the cup in his hand and threw it in the wastebasket. Then he heaved a long sigh, defeated if not convinced. "So what do you think we should do?" Sibag wasn't very happy about having won the argument. "The usual. We poke around and see what turns up." "Can you be a little more specific?" "We'll do the most efficacious thing." "And what's that?" "No idea." Sabag went back to reading Lopez's file, the cab driver's two criminal convictions. The first concerned a car theft in August 1994. The young José had gone out with some pals, apparently all sons of Spanish immigrants living in the Saint-Jacques neighborhood of Old Perpignan. They'd met some German girls during the day and were supposed to meet them that night in Cannae. Since they thought it would look stupid to show up on motorbikes, they'd simply stolen a car. It probably wasn't their first car theft. But this time, they got caught for speeding. Lopez was in the back seat. And he had no police record. But he got two months in jail anyway, suspended. He'd argued with a policeman. Molina interrupted Sibag's reading. "Okay, I'm gonna call Lopez's two billiards buddies. That's all that's left to do. I'll take one, you take the other. Unless you'd rather do it the other way around." Since his partner didn't react, he added, "Well, if you don't care, I'll take one and you take one. Fine with me." Lopez's second conviction went back more than six years. Some kind of fight outside a discotheque. He'd been flirting with a girl, and her boyfriend hadn't liked it. They'd shouted at each other in the discotheque, and then taken it outside. Lopez had won the fight, naturally. He had a buddy who held the jealous guy while he beat the shit out of him. The victim got two weeks off work, and Lopez got six months in jail.

"That's perfect, Mr. Bauer. Thanks for fitting us in so quickly. I'll send you one of my colleagues. He'll be there in ten minutes." Jacques Molina hung up the phone. He looked happy. "Will?" Sibag asked. "It worked, pal. I got us two interviews this morning. I'm going to see Fabrice Gache. He runs a security company in Kabestani, and I've got an appointment with him at 10.30. You're going to see Gerard Pereira. He's waiting for you. He also has a company located near the station. I didn't understand very well what he does exactly. Something in public relations. Lopez knew people. Among provisionals. That's understandable. Shall I meet you here afterward?" "No, not here. It's too depressing. The less I'm here, the better I feel. And by the time we finished... It'll be time for a drink. Meet you at the Carly?" "Great."

"In fact, I hardly know Lopez." Gerard Barère gave him an armor-plated professional smile. He was a little hairball, hardly over five feet tall. His flowered shirt, unbuttoned over his chest, revealed a dense, damp savanna. He was sweating heavily despite the air conditioning, which was set for a temperature close to that of Stockholm on Christmas Eve. "We met in a billiards hall and played a game, which I won, moreover. Since then, we've played regularly. He comes every Friday." His mouth opened wider, showing the little pointed teeth of a carnivore. "Generally speaking, I win," he added. "When did you first play?" "About six months ago, more or less." Gerard Berere had rejected his office in favor of sitting on chairs that were fashionable, but nonetheless soft and comfortable. A low round table separated him from the inspector. The room was well lighted, the walls light colored, and the furniture made of glass. Everything gave an impression of transparency and conviviality. Gerard Barer's gestures were ample and gentle. But his apparent affability was contradicted by two bright, piercing little eyes hidden behind round eyeglasses. "Do you play for money?" Sibag asked. It was a direct question, as Sibag was well aware. That was his way of refusing the crony relationship that his interlocutor was offering him. Barrere pursed his lips but continued to smile. "Oh, Inspector, how could you think that?" His right hand rotated the silver band on his Rolex. He was lying and didn't even try to hide it. One might even say that it amused him. "When did you last play with him?" "Last Friday, I suppose." "You suppose?" Sabag felt a tingling in his fingers. He was beginning to get annoyed. "Some weeks I'd play billiards two or three evenings in a row, but if Lopez was there, I suppose it was a Friday. That doesn't help me much. I'm very sorry about that." Sabag looked carefully, but he detected no sorrow in Barer's eyes. "Was he alone?" "What do you mean?" "I thought my question was clear enough. Was Jose Lopez alone, or was someone with him the last time you saw him?" Pereira took his time before answering, as if he were weighing the pros and cons. His eyes left Sibag's and looked somewhere behind him. "Yes, of course. He was alone, as usual." Barrera was still lying, but this time trying not to show it. He turned his eyes away from the inspector again. Sibag took advantage of this to have a close look at the man. He had little close-set eyes under thick but delicate eyebrows. His mustache looked like a freshly trimmed broom. A thick neck under a dimpled chin. The body was husky without being fat. Sibag's eyes moved down Barer's white, hairy arms and stopped at his small hands. Manicured. Being ugly doesn't mean you don't have the right to take care of yourself. Since Barer was still looking behind him, Zabag decided to turn around. On the other side of the glass wall that protected the office from indiscreet ears, a pale secretary sat facing them, diligently filing her nails. When she saw the inspector looking at her, she quickly pressed her legs together. "What exactly do you do, Mr. Barrere?" "I'm not sure I completely understand." The mustache lengthened as Barrere smiled. "I'm an event organizer," he answered, handing him a business card. Sebag examined it closely. On it was the name, Perpignan Company, along with the firm's address, phone number, and website. "That doesn't get me very far," he said. Barrère furrowed his brow and raised the left corner of his upper lip, hollowing his cheek. This meant something like, "You're really stupid, but it's okay, I'm willing to explain it to you." "I organize events for businesses, seminars, parties, weekend retreats, sometimes trips." Sabag looked doubtful. "And you do all right?" "I can't complain," he answered, smiling complacently and making a broad sweep with his arm to invite Sibag to admire the luxury of his place. Objects worth their weight in cash and ostentation were arranged here and there on the glass furniture. A few old books, probably rare. A statuette in genuine ivory. Numbered Tintin figurines, a coaster containing ancient Roman coins. On the desk was a miniature replica of Alberto Giacometti's Walking Man. "It's a copy, but it's a real one," Barrera explained. Sibag pointed to a garish painting, the only decoration that hung on the walls, composed of splashes of color with a preference for blood red and goose shit green. It reminded Sibag of the first autopsy he'd witnessed when he was a young cop. "And that's a real what?" Barrera had seen what he was looking at. He smiled. "The work of a young Catalan artist. A complete madman. Very nice." "When I say very nice, I'm referring to the artist, obviously. His work is a little more complex and tormented. You like it?" "Let's say I put up with it." Sibag didn't hide his astonishment. "In fact, I'm doing him a favor by displaying it. Lots of people pass through here, you know. CEOs, politicians, people who count. That's useful for a young artist." Sabag was not fooled. Barrere's allusion to his connections was no accident. It was a kind of notice, a warning. "Events are a big thing in business these days," Barrère went on. "It's a form of management that's currently very trendy. An event can range from a simple Christmas tree to an outing to go canyoning, by way of a weekend in Morocco. Tuna fishing in the Mediterranean, or a private box at a rugby match." "Are there many of you doing this in Perpignan?" "No, I'm the only one, and especially the best." He laughed at his own joke. Sabag, frowning, didn't even try to look amused. He looked behind him again. The young secretary had put her legs back under her desk. She was on the telephone. Judging by the excited gesture she was making, he guessed the call was in no way professional. He winked complicitly to the Perpignan king of the event. "There are good sides to your business, it seems." Barrera pretended to be offended. "Don't jump to conclusions, Inspector. She's the daughter of a friend, a student who might took on as an intern for the summer. As I was telling you a moment ago, our business concerns relationships, and we have to know how to be useful." "All right then," Sibag said in conclusion. "If you haven't anything else to add—" "I'm sorry, Inspector. I wish I could have been more helpful." Barrera had stood up, ready to usher his guest out. But Sebag remained seated, flipping through the little blue notebook in which he wrote down the important points in his interviews. "All the same, it's odd. He circled a few words written in his notebook. What's odd?" Barrera asked impatiently. "Maybe I made a mistake. I probably wrote down one of your answers wrong." Barer's smile grew broader, a little too broad to be sincere. Sibag turned several pages, pretending to reread certain sentences. A petty revenge. It was amusing the way sometimes the person standing up could find himself in a position of inferiority. Regarding Lopez, Pereira shifted his weight from one foot to the other, irritated, or not very at ease. "Yes." Sibag decided to try a bluff. It didn't cost anything to try, especially when you'd arrived at a standstill in an investigation. "Another witness told us that Lopez had someone with him the last time you played billiards." "Really?" Barrère changed his position again, crossed his arms over his belly, and then immediately uncrossed them. "Who told you that?" Sabag leafed through his notebook again, stopped at a blank page, holding his pen in the air. "You don't want to change any of your statements?" "My statements? I thought we were just talking. My statements, all of a sudden that sounds very official." He puffed a little inaudibly and then sat down again. "Oh, and then after all," he shrank back into the cushion of his armchair. "I didn't think that all this could be that important for you, and I was afraid of getting Lopez in trouble. He's married, but since you already know about it—" He hesitated a little longer, then began to talk. "In fact, we played only one game that evening. There was a young woman with Lopez. They lived together around 9.30." Sebag inwardly congratulated himself. "How would you describe this young woman?" "Tall, blonde, quite pretty, if you like that type." "What type?" "The Germanic type, or... Scandinavian. She spoke French well, but with a northern European accent." "Did this woman have a name?" "He introduced us to her as Vanessa." Something in his tone suggested that he was skeptical. "That wasn't her real name?" "I don't know. Aren't all tall blondes called Vanessa?" "Is that what you think?" "In a certain milieu, yes." He looked down at his patent leather shoes and seemed to regret having spoken too fast. "You know what I mean. The milieu of loose women and sex for money." Sabag carefully noted down this last information. "Anything else? Is something unusual? A detail? A..." "Yes, the young woman had a bird on her right shoulder. That is, she had a tattoo of a bird. And that was which evening again?" He seemed surprised by the question. "Well, Tuesday night, of course. I thought you knew that already."

Leaving Barer's office, Sabag felt rather proud of himself. Young intern a friendly smile and almost ran into a big crew cut guy who seemed to be waiting. The client looked him up and down with curiosity. In the end, he hadn't needed to bluff. Without trickery, Melina had obtained the same information from another of Lopez's buddies. It was, in fact, Tuesday night that the cab driver had played billiards in the company of a blonde. "That coincides with what I was told, and that's good," Sebag commented, "but it's still not very much. And above all, it seems to confirm that we're dealing with a simple case of adultery." "Yes and no. That still doesn't explain this two-day absence." "By the way, are you drinking something?" Molina had arrived at the bar before him and was drinking a pastis. Sibag asked for a lemonade with barley water. Rafael, the bar's owner, had foreseen his order and brought it immediately. "Voltombe un caff?" "Would you like coffee, too?" "No thanks, not now. Mainly I'm thirsty." Fabrice Gache, Lopez's other friend, ran a surveillance firm. He provided watchmen for small and large stores in the city and doormen for a few nightclubs. He recruited mainly in the department's boxing clubs and had himself boxed with the professionals a few times on the quiet. Gash and Lopez had known each other ever since they were children. They'd grown up together in the Saint-Jacques neighborhood. Pals. They had also been accomplices. It was Gosh who'd helped Lopez beat up a rival outside a discotheque ten years earlier. Perpignan's company sometimes hired guards. Barrera had taught Gash how to play billiards. One night Gash had invited Lopez to join them. And that's how the three men had gotten into the habit of meeting regularly. He spontaneously acknowledged that Lopez was accompanied by a young woman Tuesday night. "Yes, almost. First he told me that he'd seen Lopez Tuesday, and when I asked if the cab driver was alone, he admitted that he wasn't. After two or three seconds of hesitation, maybe." "Did he know the young woman?" "No, it was the first time he'd seen her." "What did he tell you about her?" "Not much. That she was blonde, tall, rather pretty with a tattoo on her shoulder. A description that tallies with the one Borer gave you." Sebag was pensive. "I wonder why Barrera tried to hide the fact that Lopez was with someone." "He claimed that it was to avoid getting Lopez in trouble. But Gash didn't hesitate even though he was closer to the couple." "Not necessarily. Why not?" "If he knew about the relationship between Lopez and his wife. He knew there was hardly any risk in talking to you about the blonde." "Maybe you're right," he conceded. However, he wasn't really convinced. He had a feeling there was another possible explanation. He also tried to lie about the date of their last meeting. He said it was Friday and not Tuesday evening. "But that's very important information. That said, he didn't stick to his lie either. He gave in as soon as I bluffed. So?" "So I don't know. It's a little as if, as if he'd been afraid at first of saying too much. And then later of attracting our attention by telling too big a lie. A little fuzzy, huh?" "For sure. But maybe it would be worth poking around a little along that line. How?" "That's the problem. We can't pick a fight with Barrère. For the moment, we're concerned only with the disappearance of an adult person. No misdemeanor has been committed, much less a crime." "We have to draw one conclusion, however," Molina said, looking at his watch. "What?" "It's time to eat." "You're staying here?" "No, I've got an errand to run. I'd like to buy a cell phone for Leo. He's going to a summer camp next week, and if I want to hear from him from time to time, I think I'm going to have to get him a phone." "A cell phone? He's going to be one happy kid." "Are you kidding? His reaction will be something like, 'Finally.' All his friends have one, and some of them have had one since they were in primary school, so you can imagine." "And you've held out up until now. Bravo. What heroism." "Go ahead, make fun of me. What about your sons? Do they have cell phones?" Molina had two boys. The younger was Leo's age. The elder would soon be 18. "They've had them for years. After the divorce, I had to. They allow me to talk to my boys without going through their mother." He lifted his arms toward the heavens and then let them fall back heavily. Fatalist. "Note that it's cheaper to buy one now," he went on. "It'll cost you less." "I don't understand." "Well, when you get divorced." For Jacques, three things in life were inevitable: death, hemorrhoids, and, if you were married... divorce. He'd mocked Gilles ever since the latter had told him one day that in 18 years of married life, he'd never cheated on Claire. "You're a poor imbecile if you've never tried to see what else is out there, and a dull cretin if you think that being as beautiful as she is. Your wife has always limited herself to your pretty little face. And when I talk about your face, I mean..."

Sebag was walking through the streets of Perpignan, looking down on the Basse. The little river ran quietly in its channel through the downtown area, below street level. Its grass-covered banks looked like nice places to hang out, but they were not accessible to the public. Planted on the lawn, pink, white, and red oleanders grew their brightly colored leaves as far as the sidewalk. Sibag was satisfied. He'd found a cell phone that could actually be used to make calls. He'd had to wage a long battle with the salesperson, but had finally managed to get a model without too many gadgets. He'd yielded on the camera, though. He imagined that Lael would enjoy sending pictures even more than having a conversation. And the idea of receiving photos from his son from time to time during his vacation had convinced him.

The police headquarters in Perpignan was a grim building, a three-story block that looked like one of the low-cost housing towers in the working-class neighborhoods of the northern part of the city. Two sickly palm trees framed the main entrance. In the reception hall, Martine, the young policewoman on duty there, gave him a warm smile. Sibag slid his badge over an electronic reader. The door opened with a click and allowed him to push it open. He briskly climbed the two flights of stairs that led to his office. Jacques was already back, with both feet on his desk. He was reading L'Equipe. A cup was sitting next to him. Sibag had wolfed down a sandwich and hadn't taken time to drink a cup of coffee. He felt a terrible craving, but didn't feel like going back downstairs to drink the lousy stuff dispensed in the cafeteria. "I asked a couple of pals at the Gendarmerie to put out a search bulletin for Lopez's car," Molina told him. "I also went by the vice squad. They do in fact have a Vanessa in their files, a blonde, but small and rather plump. I've got her address, but I'll try to stop and see her this evening." He winked at Sibag before going back to his newspaper. Sabag looked at his watch. It was three o'clock. They hadn't found anything. Soon, Costello would be blowing his top when he learned that they'd wasted precious time on a case that wasn't worth it. At least he might give up that stupid idea of a promotion. Gilles was already thinking about the weekend. The last one all of them would spend together for some time. Tuesday Leo was going to take the train to the Savanne, where he would spend a month at a special motocross camp. Seferin was leaving the next day with the parents of a friend of hers for a vacation on the Costa Brava. The following week, it would be Claire's turn. Rather than spend her time alongside the pool with her dear and loving husband, she had decided to book a Mediterranean cruise for herself. He couldn't blame her, but he didn't at all like the idea of being alone part of the month of July.

So, what about this Lopez? He tried to concentrate on the investigation. The difficulties they'd run into made him think that it wasn't just a banal romantic escapade. There was something else. However, no matter how much he reflected on it, the information they'd gathered up to that point in no way justified that impression. So what was it? Instinct? Nonsense. And why not simply the unconscious hope that a great case would soon help him forget the absence of his family members. He went down to the cafeteria to drink a Perrier. The headquarters break area was in fact only an old storage room whose walls had been torn down. It had been fitted with five chairs attached to the walls and two vending machines. One distributed hot drinks, the other cold ones. Sebak put a couple of coins in the cold drink machine and received his can of water. Despite the smoking ban, an odor of cold tobacco lingered in this closed space. He opened the window. The warm air that flowed in carried the acid effluvium from exhaust pipes. The headquarters was next to a highway interchange. National Route 9 came in from Narbonne over the Arago Bridge before heading out toward Barcelona. and crossed the National Route 116, which wound around toward Andorra. Barcelona, Andorra, in Roussillon, the highway signs encouraged you to dream and to travel.

When he got back upstairs, Molina was hanging up his phone. He was beaming. "You know the Forçat Real Hermitage?" "A little. I went running there once. But I much prefer the Saint-Martin Chapel above Castelnau." "Oh, yeah," Molina said, looking as if he was thinking about something else. "Over 1,300 feet difference in elevation, if I remember correctly." "For Forza Real?" "Yes, when I went there, the hermitage was closed, but the view is superb. It's quiet up there in any case," Valina commented, all smiles. "That's true." His colleague's jubilation surprised Zibag. "Very quiet, in fact," Molina went on. "When you abandon a car there, you can be sure that the gendarmes won't find it right away." "Which means," Sibag urged, thinking he'd understood. "Which means I've got a pal at the police brigade in Mila who has just called me. Lopez's taxi has been found in the parking lot at the Hermitage." "Shit, it can't be true. And Lopez?" "No trace of him." "Well, well." The case was getting interesting. A taxi and no driver. So there was a mystery after all. Zibag thought quickly. An hour to get together a team of technicians and get over there. Two hours there to check all the usual things and inspect the area around the hermitage. Before seven, they'd be in the boss's office for a quick summary, and maybe a few congratulations. Then, enough time to throw together a report and give instructions to the teams on duty over the weekend. And off he'd go. He'd be home by eight at the latest. Wasn't life great?

Chapter 7

"Will you play with me, Grandpa?" The boy set his blue eyes on his immobile grandfather. "Hey, hey, Grandpa." He put his delicate fingers on the big dry hand of the man who was still sitting motionless in front of his glass of pastis. "Will you play petanque?" Louie kept at it with the stubborn patience a four-year-old can show. "Will you play, Grandpa?" Despite his clear high-pitched voice, he couldn't get his grandfather's attention. Finally, the boy dropped a ball on the table and overturned the glass of pastis. Robert emerged from his lethargy, and seeing the damage done, swore. He met his daughter's saddened eyes and got hold of himself. His grandson's repeated questions finally made it into his consciousness. He managed a slight smile and got up with difficulty. In any case, the alcohol couldn't do anything for him. He picked up the set of petanque balls and put his hand on Louie's shoulder. "I'll start," the boy demanded. "I get to throw at the conchon." "The cochonette," Robert automatically corrected. "Yes, the concha net. And I get to throw it out first, okay?" Robert led Louis toward the area in the campground reserved for Pétanque. He distractedly greeted the four vacationers who were already playing a game. He recognized at least two of them, Jean and his son. How did he know them? Oh yes, Patrick. It must have been twenty years ago now. Twenty years. The age of the young Dutch woman. "Are you all right, Robert?" Jean asked, looking at him over his glasses. "I'm all right," Robert answered without the slightest conviction. At first, people had felt sorry for him, pitied him, more, in fact, than the young woman, whom few of them had known. Most of the vacationers now staying in the Oleander's campground had arrived after the tragedy happened. "Making a discovery like that, just imagine, what a shock. It's hard to get over it. That's normal. It'll get better in a while. You'll see. You'll forget." It was two weeks now, and he hadn't forgotten a thing. Yoseta's crushed-in face continued to haunt him. Day and night. People had gotten tired of hearing him talk about it, and it ended up turning away. Then, Robert had retreated into silence. The local newspapers had also quickly gotten tired of the subject. The murder of the young Dutch woman had been in the headlines the first day. The following day, it was accorded a less prominent place, but it was still on the front page. Then it had slipped into the inside pages and finally disappeared. Since there were no new developments and the investigation wasn't getting anywhere, it fell victim to oblivion and indifference. Argeles was prepared to receive hordes of tourists, as it did every summer. The population of the area was going to be multiplied by a factor of 10 or 12 in less than a week. There was no longer a minute to lose. Soon the tourists would be there. Everything had to be ready. Everything had to be beautiful. Only Robert's torments perpetuated the memory of the young woman.

"I threw out the conchon, Grandpa. I've also thrown a ball. Your turn to play." Robert looked at the playing area. He had some trouble remembering what he was doing there. The colchonet had been stopped by the planks that enclosed the area. But where was the ball Louis had thrown? "Go ahead, Grandpa," the boy said impatiently. Finally, Robert located Louis' ball, only a yard from his feet. He threw his ball. Or rather, he tossed it. Luckily or unluckily. It struck the Cochonet. Louis was simultaneously dazzled and furious. "You're cheating, Grandpa. You're bigger than I am. You should stand farther away." He went to draw a line a good yard behind them. Robert, docile, moved back. Louie took advantage of this to advance a bit. He positioned himself right next to his first ball, which he shamelessly picked up. "It's amusing. He's always been like that," Robert thought. A nitpicker in a poor sport exactly like his father. He was not being fair to his grandson he knew and didn't care. In fact, it did him good. Louie threw another ball that bounced off the plank and hit his grandfather's. He shouted with joy and pride. "I beat you, Grandpa. One point for me." Robert accepted the rules improvised by his grandson. He picked up the cochonet and handed it to him. The police had questioned him. Briefly, they'd seen how upset he'd been by the discovery of the body and hadn't gone on. After all, he didn't know much. He just accidentally found the body. The path to the beach had remained closed for 24 hours. The team from the crime lab had gone over the sector with a fine-toothed comb but found nothing. At least, that's the impression he'd gotten from reading the newspaper. Every morning for a week, he'd gone to the closest cafe to look at L'Indépendant. He sat down on the seaside terrace and ordered an espresso, which he sugared heavily, as he used to do. It was good. And to hell with his diabetes. Death would come when it came. Whatever people did, whatever they said, death always had the last word. Always. According to the journalists, the investigation was not advancing. The police seemed not to have any sure leads. And since there was no evidence of sexual violence, they were saying that the crime might have been committed by a vagrant, which meant they had no idea. After the autopsy, Josetta's body had been returned to Holland, where it had been cremated the following day. A moving ceremony, to use the reporter's expression. The article was accompanied by a photo of the victim's parents and sister, weeping.

The game of petanque continued without hitches. Robert was careful to throw his balls randomly. Louis played his turn over until he'd placed his ball near the cochonnet. Not knowing how to count, he innocently jumped from five to ten points. Robert congratulated him. "Ten to zero, you've won, bravo." Louie was modest in victory. "I can't wait for Papa to come. He's better than you are, but maybe I'll beat him anyway. Shall we play another game, Grandpa?" Robert ran his wrinkled hand through his grandson's short brown hair. "Later, Louis, later. You're too good for me. You've worn me out. If you want," the boy persisted, "I can let you have a handicap." "Thanks. We'll see next time. Then you have to put everything away." Louis ordered as he went off toward the campground's play area. Robert picked up the balls and the cochonnet. He put them in their plastic case and went back to the trailer. Florence was waiting for him under the awning, sprawled on his seat, her legs spread and her belly full-blown. "Thanks to him, he loves playing with you." Robert collapsed on a chair. He took up his crossword magazine and leafed through it, looking for a new puzzle. Most of them had been begun, but none had been finished. He closed the magazine, then reached for the bottle of pastis. He hesitated. He didn't really want any. "You're drinking a lot these days, aren't you?" Florent said. He replied with more weariness than anger. "Your mother is no longer here to bug me about it. Don't feel obliged to replace her." He poured himself a comfortable dose of pastis and filled the rest of the glass with the lukewarm water from a carafe on the table. Florence bit her lip to keep from crying. She'd never seen her father in such a state. She watched him drink half his glass in a single draft. He'd changed, paler, thinner, older. Alarmed by the sadness of his tone on the telephone, she decided to come down earlier than planned, without waiting for her husband's vacation time. She was on maternity leave, pregnant with a little Anais.

And had nothing to do with her days except to rest and take care of Louie. Provided the two could get along.

She'd taken the night train from Paris with her son. Got off at Eln in the wee hours of the morning. Robert had come to pick them up in the car. She was startled to see his hollow cheeks, the bags under his eyes, and his wan complexion. Louis had refused to kiss his grandfather.

Robert looked up from his glass of pastis. "We need or no getting here." He didn't really care, but the tears in his daughter's eyes had struck a chord in his soul that was still sensitive. Poor Florence had nothing to do with what was happening to him.

"Not before July 10th," she replied, sniffling. "He's got a lot of work." Florence's husband was an architect in a large firm outside Paris. He always had trouble getting away for vacations.

"I'm not sure it was wise for you to come, my dear Flo."

"Why do you say that, Papa?"

Robert examined the bottom of his glass. "I'm not an ideal companion for a woman in your condition."

Florence struggled up from her seat and came to sit alongside her father. She put her arms around his neck. "Does it bother you that I'm here?"

He managed to smile at her. The presence of his daughter forced him to make superhuman efforts. "No, my dear, on the contrary." He pushed the empty glass away. "I'm mad at myself for not being able to show you a better face. I'm trying, but I just can't do it." The last words were muffled by a repressed sigh.

"Don't worry about me, I've grown up. I know that for you I'll always be your beloved little girl, the youngest in the family. But I'm not a child anymore, and I haven't been for some time now." She massaged her father's neck. For a long time, they hadn't had any physical contact. She realized that they were entering new territory. The roles were being reversed. Now it was she who was going to care for him.

"I think you should see a doctor." She felt his body stiffen.

"I'm not sick," he protested.

"It's a kind of sickness," she said gently. "And like all sicknesses, it can be treated." He stood up.

"You want me to go see a psychotherapist? At my age?"

"There's no age limit for that. No shame either. But if you prefer, first go see a general practitioner. He'll at least be able to give you some pills to help you sleep."

"Sleep? That's all I do." Her father's bad faith made her smile in spite of herself. "You aren't sleeping. You're drowsing. You nod off a dozen times a day, but you don't sleep at night. You try as hard as you can to be quiet, but trailers are small. I hear you."

Robert went to bed early every night, exhausted. Sometimes he fell asleep quickly, but he never slept soundly. He woke several times during the night and finally got up to lie under the awning. There, in the relative softness of the morning, he waited, listening for the campground's first sounds. Footsteps on the gravel, a toilet flushing, a toad whistling in the distance. When he heard the first movements in the trailer, he got up and went to the closest bakery. 20 minutes round trip. Fortunately, the road ran far from the beach.

"Do I keep you from sleeping?" She seized the opportunity he offered her.

"A little, yes. And in my condition, I need to sleep." She caressed her round belly.

"All right, dear Flo. I'll go see a doctor. Do you remember Dr. Pascal? We used to go to him when you had earaches. I think he's supposed to retire at the end of this year. It would be a chance to say goodbye to him."

Chapter 8

Sabag knew only one remedy for Monday morning blues. Work all weekend. Unfortunately, he hadn't worked the day before. Worse yet, he'd had an excellent time with his family. So he looked like death warmed over when he came into police headquarters that Monday morning. Before going up to his office, he stopped in to say hello to the men on duty in the service de corps, the equivalent of the emergency room at a hospital. He glanced distractedly at the log and then approached Francois Ravier, who headed the service.

"I'm working on the case of the cab driver who disappeared, the one whose car the police found at Força Real. Do you know if there is anything new on that?"

"Apparently not. But ask Menar. He's the one that was assigned to it yesterday." Francois Minard was the officer responsible for the weekend teams, a native of Picardy. A good cop, serious, even austere according to some, sparing with words, not with his work. A grind, a real one, whose example made others feel they should work harder.

In their office, Jacques Molina was on the phone, pretty annoyed. He was talking with his ex-wife. Sabat greeted him and sat down. He was in no hurry to go to work. The preceding day, Gilles and Claire had taken their children to the summit of Le Conigou for the first time. By way of the Marais refuge, Four hours up, three hours down, a marvelous hike. The trail wound through the forest undergrowth, then slalomed between broom and wild pansies. Afterward, it continued over loose stones and ended with a climb through a vertiginous chimney. Nothing insurmountable. If you didn't have vertigo. Up there, the view was splendid. On the rocky peak, there were about 20 people picnicking around the ashes of a gigantic fire. Several years earlier, the Catalan tradition of the bonfires of Saint John had been revived. A few days before the ceremony, the pluckiest carried logs, vine stalks, and bundles of vine shoots up to the summit. They piled them in a pyramid to make the mountain even higher. On the night of June 23rd, the peak was set afire, and... weather permitting, the Flama del Canigo could be seen all over Roussillon. On the way back, they'd had a snowball fight with the last Nevis.

Molina hung up. He stirred his coffee angrily. The bitter odor dissipated the warm fragrance of the broom that the thought of Le Conigou had put into Sebag's nostrils. Jacques' face relaxed. His eyes became complicitous. "I don't know what you did this weekend, but obviously you haven't calmed down again yet."

Sibag knew that he was going to disappoint his colleague. He hadn't any salacious anecdote to tell him. "We went to Lukanagu."

"Ah." Jacques had played rugby for 20 years, and during that time exhausted all taste for physical effort. His passion for sports was now expressed only on the bleachers of the Éméchiray Stadium, the temple of Perpignan rugby.

"Have you ever climbed to the top?" Gilles asked. "My father took me there when I was a kid. I've never gone back."

Lukanagu is to northern Catalans what Mount Fuji is to the Japanese. A sacred mountain and a symbol of identity. A local legend says that God laid his hand on the earth and between his fingers, Three mountains rose up, Sinai, Olympus, and Lukanigu. However, many Catalans seldom went up there, or had, in fact, never even climbed it once.

"I never get tired of it," Sibag went on with the fervor of a new convert. "The climb is worth making, and not just for the views from the summit. When you go by way of the Mariay Refuge, the whole hike is superb." In the last part of the ascent, Leo had challenged him. They'd raced, leaving the trail and its endless switchbacks and climbing straight up the slope. The little devil. He'd pulled out all the stops, but Sebag had showed him once more, probably for the last time, that he was still the boss. That night, Leo had devoured two plates of pasta and gone to bed. By 8.30, he was snoring like a baby. Gilles had had a little more trouble going to sleep, and had awakened this morning with cramps and a very stiff back.

"By the way, Molina remembered, our meeting with Costello isn't until 10 o'clock this morning."

"If I'd known." Usually, the Monday meeting began at nine on the dot. Current investigations were reviewed, and the boss set the priorities for the coming week. It was the only day on which Sibag couldn't come in late.

"So we're free until ten."

"Do you know why?"

"No idea."

"Do you know if there's something new in the Lopez case?"

"I talked with Menard a little while ago. The police combed the area around the hermitage, but didn't find anything. A search bulletin has been put out."

Sebag booted up his computer and connected to the internet. He took out the business card Barrera had given him, and copied the address of the website of Perpignan Company. There were several rubrics. the types of organization, travel, parties, weekends. The themes, sports, culture, entertainment. He found the site attractive. A little flashy, perhaps, or even enticing. Lots of pictures of pretty girls, often not wearing much. A subliminal message?

"Incidentally, did you meet the famous Vanessa?" He asked Melina.

"No, I only saw her roommate. Vanessa is in Barcelona for the week, but I was able to see photos. She's clearly not the one who was with Lopez."

"We kind of suspected that."

Sibag started printing several pages of the Perpignan Company website and then moved on to other sites. He looked at the local newspaper long enough to be sure he hadn't missed any news over the weekend, and then surfed sites specializing in training advice for runners.

"Shall we go?" Molina asked.

Sabag looked at his watch. The hour had passed very quickly. Lambert and Locke were already waiting in the meeting room. Menard was there too, and a young guy sitting to the right of Costello. Sunglasses on his forehead, fashionable linen jacket, relaxed. He was tall, emanated a lot of energy, and a little too much self-assurance. Raynaud and Moreno came in. In-house, they were called the Brotherly Friends or the Duet because they were inseparable and their name sounded like something on a music hall program. Behind their backs, the two of them were called instead the Laugh Brigade because of their total lack of humor. and the way in which they went through life as if they were attending a perpetual funeral.

Sabag passed in front of the air conditioner, which was running full tilt. He turned it down and went to sit on the other side of the room. The boss cleared his throat. It was serious. Everyone sensed it and silence fell immediately. Costello signaled to Lambert, who was closest to the exit. The young inspector understood and closed the door.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce Cyril Lefebvre. He's a superintendent at the Office of International Technical Cooperation. He's just gotten off the plane from Paris. I delayed our weekly meeting by one hour so that he could be with us. The Technical Cooperation Office is a kind of diplomatic police assigned in particular to exchanges of information with police forces in other countries Cyril Lefebvre is here in connection with the case to which we will have to give priority this week. It involves the disappearance of a young Dutchwoman. But I'll let Cyril tell you the facts in greater detail."

Another disappearance, thought Sebag. It's the rule of threes. Cyril Lefebvre quickly surveyed his interlocutors and then went straight to the heart of the matter without any polite preamble. He was the direct type.

"Ingrid Raven is a Dutch citizen, 19 years old. A university student, she was vacationing in the region. She was traveling alone. She took a flight from Amsterdam to Girona on June 10, a Sunday, and then got on the train to Perpignan." He took an electronic organizer out of his hip pocket. He turned it on and continued his narrative while it started up.

"She usually called her parents every evening, but they have had no word from her for a week. Her last call goes back precisely to the evening of June 26th. They have left her numerous messages on her cell phone, but there has been no reply." Glancing from time to time at his agenda, which he seemed to use mainly as a notebook, Lefebvre outlined the case for the Perpignan police.

"Ingrid Raven was studying history of art, he told them, and had chosen Fauvism as the subject of her thesis. Hence her stay in the region. She'd reserved a room in a student residence hall, but stayed there only a few days. She made friends with some local people and went to stay with them in Kolyur. These friends were an artist couple who owned a house in the village. That was all she told her parents. Ingrid had no car and traveled by train and bus. Her parents had advised her against hitchhiking, but were not sure that she had taken their advice on the subject." During his presentation, Lefebvre handed around photos. In some of them, the young woman's hair was red, in others, blonde. She had a pretty smile and emanated joie de vivre.

"Ingrid Raven's parents are very worried, I can tell you that. Their daughter has never gone for such a long time without contacting them. The Dutch authorities request that we look into this disappearance with all due diligence. A request relayed by the Minister of the Interior, who also wants results."

Superintendent Costello took the floor again to add something intended to galvanize his troops. "Ingrid Raven's father is a policeman in Amsterdam."

Cyril Lefevre typed a few notes on his electronic organizer and then laid it on the table. "Any questions, gentlemen, he asked."

Lack didn't hesitate. He often spoke up first in work meetings. An activist in the professional association, he had adopted above all the labor unionist's habit of making objections of principle. "Before attacking a problem, make sure it can't be circumvented. If I understand correctly, the parents are our only source of information."

"Correct," Lefavre acknowledged. "I ask because I've already encountered a case in which a father claimed that his son had disappeared. After investigating, we found out that in fact they had been at odds for several weeks. The boy no longer maintained contact, and he'd even moved without notifying his father. We wasted our time."

"I have to say that I hadn't thought of that possibility," Lefevre admitted. "I suppose our colleagues in Holland made sure the parents were reliable before alerting us."

"Let's hope," Melina muttered.

Costello spoke again to reframe the discussion. "There are no grounds for entertaining such a hypothesis. We have an official request from the Dutch authorities and we will investigate. with all our diligence and experience." There was a pause, as there was every time the superintendent allowed himself to be carried away by a certain bombast.

"Our first task will be to draw up a detailed account of this young woman's activities. Castello went on. We have to find her room in the residence hall and her friends from Collior. Since she was working on Fauvism, we can also assume that she went at least once to the museum in Serre."

"Couillor and Serret are under the jurisdiction of the gendarme," Locke noted.

Nefever looked at him like an explorer in an equatorial jungle who has just discovered a tribe that still practices cannibalistic rites. "Is that a problem?"

"We have excellent relationships with the department's gendarmes," Costello assured him.

"If I'm not mistaken, what concerns Inspector Locke is whether the workload you're asking us to take on will be equitably distributed among the various services." Locke scowled at this ironic presentation of his thought, but did not contest it.

"That question does not fall within my domain," Lefebvre explained. "It will be up to you to make the arrangements, but it seems to me preferable that the responsibility not be shared. And I even think it should remain in the hands of the local police. It's a matter of efficiency, I'd say."

Sebag sensed his colleagues becoming less reserved as Lefebvre's flattery began to take effect. He met the young superintendent's eyes. They made him think of sparrows, always alert. They fixed on people only reluctantly and flew away at the first sign of danger. At first, he'd taken that for modesty. Now he knew he'd been wrong. The discussion went on for a good quarter of an hour. Sun was pouring into the room, which the presence of so many people had already made warm. Lambert quietly got up and put the air conditioning back on maximum.

Sebag decided to speak up. "The photos of Ingrid Raven that the superintendent has shown us suggest that the young woman likes to change her style. Is it possible to know how her hair was done and what color it was when she arrived in France?"

"Photo number one is the most recent," Lefebvre said. "It was taken just before she left Holland. Her hair was blonde then. That is, in fact, its true color. And it was cut short."

"That's interesting, because it implies that she couldn't have changed her hairdo that much since then." The photo was handed around again. The young woman was posing in front of what must have been the family bungalow. She was wearing a loose tank top over light-colored, close-fitting pants. The inspectors examined the image attentively in order to memorize the young woman's features. Lefebvre seemed to be looking for something else in his electronic organizer.

"Your question makes me think of an important fact that I forgot to mention, and which does not appear in the photos. Before leaving Amsterdam, Ingrid got a tattoo, a real tattoo, not one of those decals that are so fashionable among the young."

Gilles Sebag felt a shiver down his back. A tattoo. He thought quickly. A young blonde, tall and pretty. Another disappearance. It was probably just a coincidence. He consulted his little blue notebook. Sylvie Lopez hadn't heard from her husband since last Tuesday, June 26th. the date of Ingrid Raven's last telephone call to her parents. He turned over a page and re-read the notes on his interview with Gerard Barère. He had written Northern European accent, Nordic or Germanic. There were getting to be a lot of coincidences. With a tattoo? Too many. He went for it.

"Her tattoo was on the right shoulder, wasn't it?"

Lefebvre confirmed that it was, without trying to hide his surprise. Everyone turned towards Sebag. Molina was also beginning to make the connection.

"And it was a bird, wasn't it?" He went on.

Chapter 9

Her physical situation was improving day by day. The young woman was now free to move around. Her hands were no longer tied. She could dry her tears with the back of her hand, wipe her nose with her fingers, and above all, scratch herself. She could tell that her body was covered with bumps. It was being bitten by the minuscule but countless insects that were swarming in her prison. When she thought about it, a long shiver ran along her spine.

This morning, she'd taken off her mask. She didn't know whether she was allowed to do that, but she'd made up her mind to do it anyway. She dared. During the first days of her captivity, her jailer checked her bonds every time he brought her something to eat. Then he'd stopped doing that. Before coming into the room, he took care to knock three times, then waited a few seconds. as if he wanted to give her time to put her mask back on. After having imagined her universe for a long time, she had finally seen it. It didn't amount to much, really. Her prison was a cellar, dark and sinister. At the end of the room, there was a small window near the low ceiling. It was blocked from the outside by a pile of planks and cardboard boxes, but nonetheless let a little air and light into the room. She stood on tiptoe. She could clear the obstruction with a single vigorous blow of her fist. Then she could take a deep intoxicating breath of fresh air. Dazzle her eyes with daylight, but then what? What would her kidnapper's reaction be? She couldn't bear being punished, being tied up again and plunged into darkness. Still, if only she'd had some hope of escaping through the opening, but it was too high and too small.

Now she could count the days. She remembered falling asleep in Jose's taxi. It was a Tuesday evening. She must have slept until the next day. How many days had she been held captive? At least a week, she guessed. She imagined her parents' concern, their mother's tears, her father's worried silence. My God, what a terrible week they must have endured. Had they continued to work or had they stayed home all day? Waiting for a telephone call that became less and less likely. She knew that they were not sleeping. Or if they did, only for a few minutes here and there, prostrated by fatigue and fear. She was their only daughter, their angel, their pearl, the apple of their eyes. Earlier that had pained her. As a teenager, she'd even come to envy her friend Mary, who had been orphaned at birth. What a marvelous feeling of freedom one must feel when one didn't have to bear on one's frail shoulders the hopes, worries, and ambitions of a mother and a father. At times, she still felt that way. Everything would have been so simple if she hadn't had to worry about anyone but herself. And then at other times, when she was seized by despair and feared she would go mad, she clung fiercely to the memories of her father and mother. If she could no longer fight on for herself, she had to fight on for them. They would be too miserable. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jose, she never stopped wondering what role her lover had played in the kidnapping. The deep sleep that had overcome her during the trip in the taxi was not natural. She'd been drugged. She remembered the way Jose insisted that she drink a beer when they got into the car. "That'll give you courage," he said. She'd ended up agreeing to do it. She was about to do something she'd never done before. Her parents must have quickly notified the Dutch police. But how long would it take the French police to start looking for her? And how long before they found her?

She thrust her hands into a basin of cold water. From the beginning, he'd put one there every morning, on a stool next to the pail where she relieved herself. she could clean up. And each time she was gripped by fear, she came and washed her face. Despite these repeated washings, a strong, rancid odor persisted around her. Her skirt and blouse were imbued with it, not to mention her underwear. It was warm enough in the cellar for her to go naked. She'd stayed in nudist campgrounds and had never felt embarrassed. She was not prudish and was, in fact, proud of her body. But she wasn't in a nudist camp. and she sensed that to be able to continue to consider oneself a human being, it was sometimes better to wear clothing that stank rather than go naked. She felt that she was under surveillance. As soon as she'd finished her meals, her kidnapper came to take away the tray, as if he'd been watching her the whole time. On some occasions, she'd intentionally dawdled, chewing slowly, drinking in tiny sips. On others, she'd eaten very quickly, gulping down the food the way she had her first meal. But every time, as soon as she had swallowed the last mouthful, he'd come in. She constantly talked to him, even when he wasn't at her side. She told him about her childhood, her city, her parents. She talked about painting and film. She asked questions about what he liked or what the weather was like outside. She adopted a light tone, that of a conversation among friends. She knew he would never reply. Besides, she didn't want him to reply. She didn't want to know things that would allow her to identify him someday.

Chapter 10

The machine had gone into high gear. Costello had grabbed the telephone and called the prosecutor, who had immediately decided to open a preliminary investigation. However, by lending support to the hypothesis of an amorous adventure, The simultaneity of the disappearances of Ingrid Raven and Jose Lopez might have been considered reassuring, But the magistrate had preferred to play it safe in this matter than involved a foreign national. He'd also asked that the cab driver's home be searched.

Sebag and Molina had gone to pick up Sylvie Lopez at her parents' house. The young woman had insisted on taking her daughter with her. She held her tightly in her arms and patiently put up with her screams. Above all, the child's presence allowed her not to think. and provided an outlet for her fear. Now she was afraid for her husband. Afraid that something serious had happened to him, and afraid that he'd done something stupid. She didn't know what she should fear more.

Gilles Sebag thought again about his little minute of glory, his boss's proud smile, and Lefebvre's surprised one. Also the frowns of some of his colleagues, generous and triumphant. Sibach had let Molina set forth the main lines of the case they'd been working on for several days. Jacques had done that very well, giving a great deal of importance to their insignificant advances. and emphasizing particularly the facts that had made them suspicious. Sibach himself had ended up thinking they'd been very shrewd.

The Lopez family lived in Moulin Levant, a neighborhood built in the 1960s on the heights above Perpignan. The apartment buildings were a little dilapidated, but the whole still looked pretty good. Vigorous palm trees and svelte pines prospered over well tended lawns. Logias with wooden railings decorated the facades of the buildings, while open-work brick screens concealed the poverty of cluttered sculleries. Finally, red tile roofs lent these blocks of buildings a certain village quaintness. The neighborhood had initially housed hundreds of thousands of pied-noirs who had returned from North Africa with heavy hearts and empty hands. Then, with the rebirth of the university system toward the end of the 1960s, it had begun to be a place for nice, quiet students.

"We moved in when Jose started driving a taxi," the young woman told them. "Before, we lived in a low-cost housing development in Bath-Varnay. It was less expensive, but José was too afraid something would happen to his car. You know, these days young people don't respect anything. Jose used to sleep in the taxi at night. We couldn't live that way."

The elevator took them to the fourth floor. Jacques offered to carry Sylvie's daughter for her. He held out his arms, but the girl immediately began to scream. The young woman politely declined the offer. "Jenny is a little shy. She doesn't do well with new people."

In front of the door to the apartment, Sylvie, her hands full, handed Jacques her purse. "The keys are on a big chain with the Perpignan rugby team's logo on it," she told him. Suddenly overcome by a young man's timidity, Molina carefully probed for the keys with his big fingers. Hardly daring to move the various objects in the bag, he put out his tongue and two big beads of sweat appeared on his furrowed forehead. Sebag thought with astonishment that some men felt more uneasy putting their hands in women's purses than they did putting them in their pants. After a few seconds of superhuman effort, the inspector held up the keys with as much pride as a Perpignan rugby player raising the championship trophy in Paris. He immediately put the key in the lock and opened the door on a cool, dark apartment. Sylvie opened the shutters in each room. A kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and a bath. Melina noted with satisfaction that the search wouldn't take long. Their hostess offered them a drink before they began their search. Jacques opted for a beer, Gilles for a simple glass of water. Astonished by his frugality, The young woman insisted on flavoring his water with fruit syrup, or even a little anisette. He refused, but managed to satisfy her by asking for a few ice cubes. Outside, the sun was already high in the sky, and the tramontane had stopped blowing. It was going to be a hot day.

Sylvie Lopez put her daughter on a play mat in the living room and headed for the kitchen. "Does your husband keep his personal things in some special place?" Sabag asked her from the living room.

"His clothes are in the bedroom closet." Gilles waited until she came back with the drinks before explaining what he meant. "By personal things, I meant papers, documents, files." The question seemed to surprise the young woman. Her husband wasn't the kind to like paperwork. She finally pointed to the PC that stood on a desk in a corner of the living room, right next to the play mat. "Jose spends lots of time on the computer, but it's mainly to play with CD-ROMs or on the internet. I don't think he has many personal things on it. What about accounts for the taxi?"

"Oh, that's on the computer, yes. But I'm the one who handles it. Jose hates bookkeeping." Sylvie Lopez dropped two ice cubes in a glass of water and handed it to Sebag.

"Would you like a glass?" She asked Jacques.

"No, I prefer it this way, out of the bottle."

"Jose does too," she replied, not without pride.

Once they had finished their drinks, they divided up the work. Sebag took the living room, Jacques the bedrooms. Sylvie Lopez hesitated a moment, then decided to follow Melina. Gilles gave little Jennifer a friendly smile, but prudently kept his distance.

"Where would you begin?" He asked her. The little girl let out a little chirp. "Really, you think?"

The furniture was modest and disparate, Sabag chose to examine first a strange pile of gray wood boxes that claimed to play the role of a bookcase. The latter was not large, and the books, not very numerous, included a few recent bestsellers. an older volume that had won the Goncourt Prize, and a handsome work with aerial photographs of Rousselon. At the very bottom, there were three photo albums. which he ignored. He had a feeling that the solution to the case was not to be found in the Lopez's family life. He set aside the book that had won the Goncourt, lifted up a colored candle, and ran his finger along the shelf. No trace of dust. He flipped through the books one by one and shook them. A piece of paper fell out of the da Vinci code. He picked it up with care. It was a page torn out of a notebook with small squares. A telephone number was written on it. A cell phone number. Nothing else. He started to explore the family address book lying on the desk. It bore names, sometimes just first names, and also a few nicknames. Jeff, Fred, Lulu, but no esoteric signs, abbreviations, or even initials. Nothing obscure or suspect. Nonetheless, Sibag found no trace of the mysterious cell phone number. He took a plastic bag out of his pants pocket and carefully put the paper in it.

"Watch carefully what I'm doing. Okay, Jeannie? I need a witness. It's the law." He went up to a piece of furniture and formica that held the television. Underneath was a DVD reader. And under that, two drawers containing films. American TV series. A complete collection of Star Wars. French comedies, two or three little romances. Then he went through the couple's CD collection. Popular television singers mingled unabashedly with English and American hits. Sebag noted the impressive collection of Barry White CDs. He took one at random, put it into the CD player, and turned the sound down low. The American crooner whispered his sugary songs in his ear. He ran his finger over the television screen. Still no dust. His suspicions were confirmed. Sylvie Lopez was assuredly a meticulous housekeeper, maybe even a maniacal one.

Sibag went back to the desk. He stepped over the play mat. Little Jennifer followed him with her eyes. A pungent odor was emanating from her. "Oh, don't you smell good," he said, holding his nose. He switched on the PC. It was a new one with a flat screen. The home page showed two accounts. One under the name of Lopez, the other under the name of Jose. Sebag clicked on Lopez. A photo of a baby appeared in the background. It was without any doubt Jennifer Lopez. He now noticed, for the first time, that she had the same name as the actress. Scarcely a few minutes after she had appeared on Earth, a woolen bonnet protected her head and forehead. but could not conceal the birthmark that decorated one of her eyelids. Sibag looked deep into the baby's dark eyes. Severine had also had very dark eyes when she was born. Her skin was red and wrinkled. Her hair was already thick and brown. an adorable little Inca doll. He saw her again just after the birth, lying all flushed on her mother's white round belly. That was 13 years ago. A heartbeat, an instant. The screen went dark. It had taken advantage of the inspector's reveries to put itself to sleep. Sibag hit a random key. The screen jerked and agreed to wake up. Sebag surveyed the icons, the usual programs installed on the computer at the factory. A shortcut led to the taxi's books. He had no time to waste on that for the moment. He exited the family account and tried to open the husband's account. Impossible. It was blocked. He called on Sylvie Lopez for help. The young woman came in three seconds. She smiled when she recognized the music.

"Do you like Barry White too?" She asked.

"Yes, well, a little," he replied politely. "I don't know him very well. I've often heard his songs on the radio, like everyone else."

"Jose is a real fan. Absolutely. Their CDs he sometimes plays over and over."

"It seems odd to me to hear them when he's not here." To hide her embarrassment, she bent over her daughter, sniffed her, and then took her in her arms. "Is she bothering you?"

"Not at all, we've been talking. She's charming." Sylvie Lopez gave him her most radiant mother's smile.

"I called you in because there's a password on your husband's account. Do you know it?"

"A what? A password." She seemed still not to understand. He explained. "There's free access to the computer, but your husband's account is protected. It can be opened only with a code, a password that he put on it. He pointed to the flashing cursor. Look, here you have to write a secret word, a name, nickname, anything. Afterward, it simply opens." She leaned over the screen despite the burden in her arms. He pitied her back. He'd always admired women's ability to hold a child in their arms for hours and to go about their business as if it were nothing at all.

"Haven't you ever used the computer on your husband's account?" She looked perplexed. still leaning over the computer. She was holding the child's bottom near the inspector's nose.

"I think there's a little problem," he dared to say. She stood up. "I'm sorry. I use the computer only to do the bookkeeping for the taxi, and I don't need a password."

He sighed. "Too bad. Thanks all the same. You can go back to my colleague now." After a short hesitation, he added, pointing to the diaper. "The little problem I was talking about was related to the big job." The young woman's eyes smiled. They were just as dark as Jennifer's. "Yes, excuse me. I'm going to change her."

Sabag was done again. That's how he preferred to work, even if it wasn't altogether legal. He opened the desk drawers. The files were categorized. Taxes, gas, electricity, health. Just like his. Like everyone's, he imagined. He glanced through it all rapidly. Nothing caught his attention. He sat down on the sofa in front of the TV. The sofa was soft, too soft as always. It was incredible how many uncomfortable sofas could be invented. Sibag preferred chairs, but he could see the whole room better from the sofa. He silenced his thoughts and tried not to pay attention to details. He wanted to feel the soul of this apartment. The sunlight made the stark white walls of the living room dazzling. Sibag stroked the paint with his fingertips. It was rough. A simple primer coat. The only thing that enlivened the room with a touch of bright color was a painting that hung to the right of the TV. Despite the heat that was gradually filling the room, he shivered. Something was wrong. The furniture was disparate. The place hadn't been fully moved into. There was a total absence of disorder. Those were the objective facts. They could have been found in many other homes, but what he felt beyond that was a kind of absence of life. That was it. That was what he felt deeply. There was no life in the Lopez's home.

"I've searched the bedrooms and the bath," Melina interrupted. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary." Jacques' sudden appearance had made Sabag jump. He slowly raised his eyes and looked at him. Sylvie Lopez came in as well. with little Jennifer still in her arms. She smelled of baby powder.

"In fact, you don't spend much time here, do you?" The apparently anodyne question seemed to hit the young woman like a sucker punch. She started breathing faster. Her back hunched slightly. Sebag had wanted to be direct, not brutal, but he'd touched a sensitive spot. Sylvie Lopez shifted her daughter from one hip to the other. and answered looking down at the living room's linoleum.

"We work a lot, you know, and especially we come home late. It's true that some evenings when I stop at my parents' home to pick up Jenny and I see her sleeping peacefully, I don't have the heart to disturb her. Sometimes I just lie down beside her, and at other times, I go to sleep in the bedroom I had when I still lived with my parents. That way, if Jenny wakes up crying, it's my mother who takes care of her, and I can catch up on my sleep a little." Little Jennifer began to fuss. Her mother hoisted her up a bit on her hip.

"The first evening, when your husband disappeared, you weren't at home, in fact."

"No," she whispered. "I was with my parents."

"Quiet up to now," Jacques broke in. "So he could very well have come home without you knowing it."

She turned her delicate face toward Melina. Her eyes detached themselves from the floor. They were darker than ever. The color of night. "No, he didn't come home. I'm sure of that."

"How can you be so sure if you weren't here?" Jacques persisted with a gentleness Sibag had never seen in him. "He could have at least been here briefly, that night or even another night, or any time during the day." The young mother's eyes jumped from one to the other of them. She didn't know how to explain. Then she took on a stubborn air. "I'd have noticed if he'd come home."

Sabag had tried to help her. that the most experienced policeman's power of observation was not equal to the steely and inquisitorial eye of a homemaker. "You think he would have left some trace behind if he'd been here, don't you? A footprint in the entry hall. A coffee stain on the kitchen table, a dirty glass in the sink, or simply some object that he moved and didn't put back exactly where it belonged." The young woman's eyes fell on the inspector and lit up for an instant, putting his hand in his pants pocket. Zabag felt a plastic bag. He took it out and showed Sylvie Lopez the paper he'd put inside it.

"Does this telephone number mean anything to you?" She looked at the paper attentively. Her eyebrows came together and furrowed her forehead. Then her features suddenly relaxed.

"Where did you find this?"

Sibag didn't like it when a witness answered him with further questions, but he chose not to be offended. "In a book, in a bookcase."

"That's the phone number of a girlfriend of mine who has just come back to France after a stay in New Caledonia. Her husband is in the military. I wrote it down the other night when she called me, and I couldn't find it again." She reached for the plastic bag, but held back at the last moment. "Can I have it back, or is it important for your investigation?"

Zabag avoided Melina's eyes. He could imagine the laughter shaking his broad shoulders as his colleague gently made fun of him. He took the paper out of the bag and gave it to Sylvie Lopez. Another idea ran through his mind.

"Do you have a garage?"

"Yes, of course. That's why we moved here."

Molina immediately reacted. "Will you show me the garage, Mrs. Lopez? My colleague surely has things to do here." The young woman reflected for an instant. Sibag followed her eyes from little Jennifer to the playmat.

"Will it take long?"

"That depends," Molina said evasively. "Is there a lot of stuff in the garage?"

"No, just a few tools and a couple of boxes. Then 15 minutes should be enough."

"15 minutes? Then let's go right away." She resettled her daughter on her hip and went off with Melina.

Sibag could now snoop around the apartment alone. The walls of Jennifer's bedroom were the only ones that were papered. Cherubs on a sky blue background. A large photo hung over the crib. Papa, Mama, and little Jenny. The only thing tying the three members of the family together. Sylvie and Jose were clearly having problems, but had they ever really been a couple? Sabag had met many people like them in the course of his career. Far too many of them. A man and a woman meet one evening and go out together. He could have chosen another woman. She could have done worse. And they take that accident for love. one day they have a kid. Because when a man and a woman are together for a couple of years, they have a kid, necessarily. Ultimately it's easier than choosing not to have one. The headlong rush maintains the illusion. Jose and Sylvie Lopez no doubt met from time to time, around the dinner table, in front of a television screen, over the crib, or perhaps simply on the landing. They weren't happy together, or unhappy either. The music stopped and the room was silent again. Sebag got up, put away the CD, and sat back down. Who was Jose Lopez, really? And what role did he play in all this? That of a man in love who'd run away? He no longer believed that. The hypothesis didn't fit with either the abandoned taxi or young Ingrid's profile. She could have gone off to the other end of the world with her cab driver, had a perfect love affair with him, and continued to call her papa and mama every evening. He probably had to assume that the worst might have happened. Was Lopez a victim or a murderer? His convictions, including the one for assault and battery, meant that he wasn't gentle as a lamb. But to jump to the conclusion that he was a killer, The fact that someone will break an egg doesn't necessarily mean he would kill an ox, and still less a young woman.

The door at the end of the hall opened. Molina came back in and found him sitting on the sofa, lost in his thoughts. "Are you falling asleep?" Jacques turned to Sylvie Lopez. "Trust my colleague, madam. He looks like he's sleeping, but he's thinking. Me, it's the other way around. I look like I'm thinking, but I'm really sleeping."

Sebag got up. "Did you find anything?" He asked.

"Negative. The garage is almost empty. That's normal since the car is elsewhere."

Sabag looked again at the reproduction of the painting that hung on the wall. He went up to it. The canvas was signed Derain, a classic of Fauvism. He took the frame off the wall to check out an idea.

"This picture is recent, isn't it?"

"Absolutely. It was José who brought it here a few days ago, right?"

"Yes. How did you know that? Is it related to his disappearance?"

"No, that is... not directly." He didn't have the heart to tell her about Ingrid and her studies in art history. When he called earlier, Melina hadn't been very specific. He'd just told her that José's disappearance had disturbing resemblances with that of a young Dutch tourist. and that this coincidence required them to pursue the investigation further, and thus to search the apartment.

"Did you know that your husband has a police record?"

"It was just a fight. He was young."

"Has he seemed worried recently?"

"No, not at all. On the contrary, he no longer seemed concerned about his taxi. He still had loans to pay back, but he said we'd be able to manage somehow."

The inspectors thought about these answers. Then, Seba gave the signal to leave. "I think we're done here. We've bothered you enough for today." She assured them that they hadn't bothered her, that there was nothing worse than waiting without anything to do. and that at least she'd felt for a short time as if she was helping them in their investigation. She offered them another drink before leaving, and when they refused, finally asked the question she was dying to ask.

"Do you think something serious has happened to Ozay?"

The two men looked at each other in silence. They were playing for time, and each hoped the other would take the lead. Sibag was better at this little game.

"It's too early to say," Jacques explained. "Every year, many people disappear in France, and most of the time, things turn out okay." Statistically, Molina was right. What he deliberately failed to say was that these were usually miners who'd run away or senile old people. In cases of adults who had disappeared, the outcome was often more complicated. The sun lit up a star in the young woman's dark pupils. Sylvie Lopez sniffled. The star was soon washed in tears. Jennifer put her hand on her mother's cheek. She was astonished to feel the wetness under her little fingertips.

"Everything will be all right. You'll see," said Jacques, putting his hand on her frail shoulder. The young woman was polite enough to be satisfied with these banal words. Before leaving. Sibag and Molina picked up the computer and had Sylvie fill out the usual form. As they were carrying the PC to their car, she wrote down, as they had asked, a few possible passwords. Their daughter's first name and her various nicknames, the names of her parents-in-law, her husband's birthplace, a place connected with some memory. everything that occurred to her. Sibag sensed that she was willing, but doubted her inspiration. The engine was idling, and the air conditioning made him forget the early summer heat. Parked in front of a

Gym, he was watching a magnificent parade of girls. Some were amazingly beautiful. They knew it and weren't afraid of going out in leotards. It was enough to make you want to get involved in sports.

Zibag and Molina had been the first to return to headquarters. That might be a good sign, so far as the other teams were concerned. They'd find out soon.

There was a meeting at the headquarters in the early afternoon. Zabag had two hours free and wanted to take advantage of them to surprise Claire. To stop and pick her up after her gym class and take her to a little restaurant that Jacques had recommended. It was 12:45 and Claire still hadn't come out. Her step aerobics class had been over for a good quarter of an hour. Long enough to take a shower, do her makeup. She should have already come out.

In front of Sibag's car, two enormous turbines were sweating dirty, stale water as they pumped out into the street the saturated air from the gym. "Air conditioning is a soft drug that is spreading throughout the world," he said to himself. In a gesture he considered heroic, he cut off the motor. The fan pumped out a little more cool air, but it was a matter of seconds. It was time to leave his precarious oasis and confront the world.

A long counter of light-colored wood received members of the club. Behind it, a tall brunette smiled at him. She was Claire's teacher. Last spring, the three of them had had a drink together. She'd asked him to fix a ticket for her. He'd refused. She hadn't liked that. "Hello." She had short hair and was muscular and high-waisted, but didn't have much of a figure. Most of her charm consisted in her hoarse voice punctuated by a melodious intonation. "Hello, I'm Claire Sebag's husband." "Yes, I remember well." She'd almost said, "the cop," but had managed to stop herself. "I stopped by to pick up my wife. Has she already come out?" She was surprised. "I haven't seen her this morning." "Ah," he smiled. Stupidly, it seemed to him. A husband always looks stupid when he doesn't know where his wife is. He felt obliged to explain. "Something must have come up. Anyway, I didn't tell her I'd come to pick her up." And he went out.

In the street, he called to cancel the reservation and quickly headed for the nearest fast food place, determined to stuff himself on fries and burgers.

The windows were still closed and the shades were down, but the sun nonetheless crept into the meeting room. People's foreheads were damp with sweat, and so were their underarms. The air conditioner had died. It had to be replaced, but probably wouldn't be before fall. Sabag sniffed. The odor of sweat would soon mask the aroma of fried food that he was carrying in the fibers of his clothing.

Raynaud and Moreno were absent. It seemed they were on a case, as usual. At the end of the table, the boss had taken off his jacket, but hadn't yet undone his tie. At his side, Lefebvre remained impeccable. Colgate's smile and fresh breath, slicked back hair. He looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower. "All right, gentlemen, who wants to begin?" Superintendent Costello was playing it serious and solemn. The inspectors got the message. As in school, Sabag thought, it was best to begin with the last. And he volunteered. He summed up their few discoveries. A computer hard disk that was being examined, and the confirmation of the idea that part of Lopez's life took place outside his family. The harvest was meager.

Costello wasn't upset. "That was predictable, but we had to carry out that search. You didn't find anything that could show that Lopez was involved in smuggling cigarettes." It took Sibag a moment to understand. He'd already forgotten what he'd invented four days earlier to awaken Castello's interest. "Uh, no. We didn't find a stock of cigarettes at his place, and his wife doesn't know anything about it." "Too bad."

"What's all this about cigarettes?" Lefebvre asked. Costello gave him a brief account of the case. Lefebvre looked puzzled. "And you'd think this might have something to do with Ingrid Raven?" The question was addressed to Sebag. He met Molina's amused eyes. "Ultimately, no."

To Sabag's great relief, the superintendent turned to Locke, who immediately began describing his mourning. With Lambert, he'd visited Fabrice Gache, Jose Lopez's other friend and the owner of Sacurita Catalana. Gosh had immediately recognized Ingrid Raven in the photos. It was, in fact, she who had been with Lopez on the evening of June 26th, and she had called herself Vanessa. Gash had rapidly admitted that he played billiards for money with Barrera and Lopez, and that the latter often lost, sometimes 100 to 200 euros in an evening. He'd claimed he had no idea where this money came from. He just said that his friend, like all independent businessmen, must have put aside a little cash. He'd even added that that was understandable. "What he needed was a good tax audit," Costello grumbled. Questioned about his friend's disappearance, Fabrice Gache had expressed sincere concern. He had no idea where Lopez might be and rejected the idea that he'd run off on an amorous adventure. This wasn't his first extramarital affair, and never, absolutely never, had he shown any desire to leave his wife. In any case, still according to Gosch, if he were to leave Sylvie, he wouldn't do it that way.

Then Castello called on Menard, while Lambert seized the chance to slip discreetly away. Menard had talked to Barrère. The owner of Perpignan's company had also recognized Ingrid in the photos. And this time, he had admitted employing Lopez several times in the evenings to drive certain persons around and give them a tour of the department. "It seems that's often done when there are big contracts to sign," Menard explained. Molina laughed. "Perpignan by night. Night spots, private clubs, and little old men. It's true that people say that makes it easier to get signatures." "There might be something there that we should look into." "The other day, Gilles and I already said that Vanessa was a pseudonym widely used by call girls. In any case..." "There are more Vanessas than Martins or Brigittes." "And what conclusion should we draw from that, in your opinion?" "That through Perpignan and company, Ingrid Raven found a new way of financing her studies?" "Why not?" Melina replied. "That might explain certain things then," the superintendent said enigmatically. He stroked his beard. That morning, it had still been long, but since then, it had been carefully trimmed. He'd also had his hair cut. Lefebvre was tapping on his electronic organizer. "Personally, I had the impression that Barrère was still hiding things from us," Menard went on. "He didn't seem really at ease during our interview. He was exasperated, but also tense. I think he was just dribbling out information, and that he didn't want us to dig around too much in his affairs."

"However, that's what we're going to do, and soon," Costello announced. "There are a number of corroborating facts that put this case in a new light." He took the time to observe his audience before adding, "Because I too have something new." This morning I reexamined Lopez's car. The routine inspection done this weekend hadn't yielded anything but a lot of fingerprints, especially in the rear seat, of course.

Lambert timidly came back in and took his seat, not without trailing behind him the aroma of cheap cologne. The young inspector, fearing that he was giving off too strong body odor, regularly sprinkled himself with perfume. And that was the chief reason his colleagues didn't want to be near him.

"In view of the new importance this case has taken on," the superintendent went on. "This morning I asked our technical team to completely dismantle the vehicle, as our colleagues in customs know so well how to do. And here's what they found." From a briefcase, he took two plastic bags. One containing a roll of pills and the other a foil pack of blue pills. "By taking apart the driver's side door, we found almost 2,000 euros in cash and 20 Viagra pills." The inspectors leaned over the table to see better. Only Lefevre didn't budge. He'd closed his electronic organizer. No need to take notes. He'd clearly been the first to get this information.

Costello circulated the plastic bags. "Thus it seems that Jose Lopez succeeded in making a little pocket money without his wife or the taxman's knowledge. First, all the nighttime drives he made for Barrere were certainly not declared. Second, he undoubtedly took advantage of these evenings to sell Viagra to Barrere's clients. And finally, though this remains to be proven, he might have envisioned the possibility of being Ingrid Raven's pimp in this milieu."

"Cab driving, prostitution, drugs. Lopez is a real specialist of transports of all kinds," Molina joked. "In any case, he's far from being an honest businessman and quiet family man, that's for sure."

Costello loosened his tie and then grabbed the telephone in front of him. He asked his secretary to bring him some water. Lambert, leaning back in his chair, moved discreetly closer to the air conditioner. He pushed all the buttons, but the machine for creating cool air didn't respond.

"We've made some real progress on this case today," Costello continued. "But let's not kid ourselves. Nothing that we've found tells us what has happened to Ingrid since she disappeared." He cleared his throat before going on. "This afternoon, we're supposed to receive the young woman's fingerprints and DNA analysis from the Dutch police."

Three timid knocks on the door. Jeanne, the superintendent's secretary, appeared with her arms full of bottles of mineral water. She was a petite brunette with an alluring figure. Tight khaki green pants showed off her ass perfectly, and the cream-colored T-shirt claimed she had been a White House intern. Sibag didn't get it until he saw the wink Melina gave him. Then he remembered the Clinton-Monica Lewinsky affair and couldn't repress a smile. He admired the boldness or obliviousness of this young woman who was moving from table to table with ease and confidence, while flaunting that delightful joke under the noses of a good half-dozen males. She was playing with fire because, contrary to what she liked to suggest, she was not a loose woman, according to Melina, who had tried and failed.

"Still concerning young Ingrid," the superintendent went on after the departure of his secretary had focused his team's attention on him again. "We are also expecting that the gendarme will succeed in identifying the artist couple in Collioure who are supposed to have put the young woman up. We are hoping that this too will provide us with new information this afternoon." He opened the bottle of water and filled a plastic glass. The signal was given, and everyone did the same. The water was cool, pleasant. Melina got up to open the window behind him. A breath of hot air blew into the room. The good feeling that followed was as ephemeral as it was relative, but Melina seemed satisfied. But then, he was seated next to Lambert.

Costello put down his empty glass and cleared his throat again. The afternoon was already half over, and it was time to distribute the work to be done next. As he had feared, Sebag was assigned to examine López's books, while Maynard was to examine Barrère's. Lambert was given the mission of finding Ingrid Raven's room in the student residence hall, and Locke was to make the rounds of the museums that she might have visited. Castello turned to Melina. "Have you got something for this evening?" "Nothing much," the inspector replied worriedly. "You don't mind doing a little overtime?" "I don't especially go looking for it." "You don't? Too bad. I was planning to ask you to pursue our investigation in the call girl situation. You'd have to find and question the ones who participated in Barrera's evenings with Lopez, but I can give that job to someone else." "Don't bother," Melina interrupted. "In this line of work, you sometimes have to be able to go the extra mile." "My view entirely. And you also have to know how to make the best use of each individual's skills, right?"

"Oh, a cell phone! That's so cool!" "You finally made up your mind." Leo's gratitude was very qualified, but it was a pleasure to see him so happy. He'd understood even before he opened the package. Sabag could see that in his eyes. "And you can make an unlimited number of calls," he added perfidiously. "Unlimited? I can call as much as I want?" "Yep," the kid couldn't get over it. Sabag waited a few seconds, long enough to let him enjoy his illusions. Claire was staring at him. "On the condition, however, that you call our home number or our cell phones, your mother's and mine. For all other calls, of course. You're the one who pays." "Oh, yeah, okay. I wondered." He dialed a number and went off to be alone at the back of the yard while Severine finished clearing the table.

Claire and Gilles were the only ones who kept their seats. They dined on the terrace. A tomato salad, accompanied this time with pine nuts collected under the trees in the neighborhood, and spiced with a few leaves of marjoram from the garden. It had been an outstanding evening, the last one they'd spent together for a long time.

The next day, Leo was leaving for that summer camp in the Cévennes, the one whose theme was motorcycles and ATVs. His father would have preferred rock climbing, hiking, or even kite or windsurfing. But Leo went in only for mechanical sports. Severin, for her part, was leaving to spend the month of July with that girlfriend and her parents on the coast of Brava. Gilles hoped she would at least take advantage of the opportunity to review her Spanish. During this time, Claire would work on her tan between the pool and the sea, first in Roussillon, then on her cruise ship. In August, they'd see what they wanted to do, depending on their desires, their means, and the children who agreed to join them. This was the first summer they were likely to spend entirely alone. That should have been an opportunity for them to get reacquainted. To make a new start. To imagine and prepare for a future for two people and no longer for four.

"You're very pensive," Claire said, passing the back of her hand over his cheek. It was getting late, but it was still warm. Leo and Severine were playing noisily in the pool. The solar lamps that dotted the yard were coming on one after the other. "Is it this missing person case that's preoccupying you?" He sees the pretext she offered him. "I sense that it's going to be a long and difficult investigation. I don't know why, but that's how I see it. You scratch a little saltpeter off a wall, and you think you're making progress, but behind you're going to find concrete. Too solid to demolish, too smooth to climb." His wife's hand caressed his chin and his raspy whiskers, which by this hour were growing out again. "You know I don't always follow you when you speak too metaphorically."

He picked up a piece of bread that had fallen on the tiles and put it on the table. He'd pored over Lopez's books until 6:00 PM and had found nothing significant. Three cab trips for Perpignan's company were in fact listed as credits, which suggested, as Costello had indicated, that others had been paid for in cash. So far as he could tell, none of his colleagues had made any progress. "I don't know how to explain it, but I've got a bad feeling about this." On the dinner table, there remained only his half-full glass of wine. He took a swallow of it. "Right now, we're scratching at the young Dutch woman's activities and some money found in Lopez's taxi. We'll gradually move ahead and end up putting the puzzle together, but the picture we'll form may well tell us nothing. I still don't understand. The disappearances don't necessarily have anything to do with Lopez's illicit dealings. As for what Ingrid was up to, once we've filled in all the gaps, we'll arrive at the point where she disappeared without having a single serious lead."

A shrill cry exploded, followed by a resounding splash. Leo had just pushed Severine into the water. Claire kindly told them to hold it down. It was late and the neighbors had a right to expect a little peace and quiet. Hardly had she finished speaking when another splash was heard over the laurel hedge. Things were hot tonight for the neighbors as well. And too bad for those who didn't have a pool.

"Aren't police investigations always like that?" Claire asked, lifting her husband's wine glass to her lips. He shrugged. "Yes, probably. But in this case, I'm not so sure. I can't get a handle on this case." Claire grabbed his hair and shook his head. "My poor Gilles, you really aren't getting any better as you age. Hasn't experience taught you anything? Ever since you've been in the police, you've always been like that at the beginning of an investigation. You worry and get discouraged by the size of the task, but you inspectors always end up finding the right thread to unwind the ball." She took the time to meet his eyes. "And you know too, don't you, that most of the time, you're the one who finds that thread."

In his heart of hearts, he knew she was right, but this time it was worse than usual. He also sensed that not all his doubts had to do with the investigation. His attack of late evening pessimism had other sources. "That's not true," he insisted. "We don't always find the thread, especially not in missing person cases."

Claire got up and went into the house with her graceful walk. She came back shortly afterward dressed in a swimsuit. She turned on the light in the pool and slowly went down the three steps that led into the water. The children understood and got out of the pool. Severine wrapped her long brown hair in a towel. She walked past her father, kissed him on the forehead, and announced that she was going to bed. Leo approached in turn and laid his hand on his father's shoulder. "We're leaving at seven tomorrow morning. Don't forget." "I won't," he assured him. "I've already set my alarm. You'll be on time." Gilles put his hand on his son's. He didn't dare ask for a kiss. Tomorrow, maybe when he was saying goodbye.

Claire slipped through the water without apparent effort. When she arrived at one end of the pool, she dove and came out again at the other end. She was capable of doing that for hours, and Gilles could follow her with his eyes just as long. Night had now fallen. Gilles didn't need to get into the water himself. He already felt refreshed.

Claire came out of the pool. She took off her swimsuit and hung it up to dry. She knew that he was looking at her. And she took her time. She nodded a sarong around her waist. Her breast swung when she began to walk. She leaned down toward him. She ran her hand through his hair again. "Are you coming to bed? I'm exhausted." "Was your session at the gym tiring?" He promised himself he wouldn't ask, and certainly not in that way. Was it a sudden attack of jealousy? Or an inappropriate professional reflex that led him to set this idiotic trap for her. He'd never know. To his great despair, Claire dove into the trap head first. "I don't know what was wrong with the teacher today. She must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. She made us sweat more than ever before." And then she left him alone with his gloomy thoughts. The water in the pool still remembered her swimming movements and stupidly continued to ripple. Its bluish light made the branches of the palm tree dance stealthily, as the old proverb had it, he is trapped who thought he was the trapper.