Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday Evening

MORBIER WIPED THE perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief in his chief’s overheated office in the commissariat. His back hurt, and the small chair groaned under his weight. After too much wine, he had to force himself to concentrate. To push Aimée to the back of the line.

Morbier shifted his legs, wishing the meeting had ended thirty minutes ago. Irritation shone in Loisel’s small, ferret-like eyes. The mole on his left cheek reminded Morbier of a chocolate smudge. For the umpteenth time, he battled the urge to use his handkerchief and wipe the man’s cheek.

“So how do I substantiate allegations of police corruption, Commissaire?” Loisel asked. “Anything old-fashioned, like attending meetings with documentation? Or evidence? Remember those?”

Morbier had obtained illegal phone taps, and telephoto surveillance of the suspect’s contacts. Incriminating, but nothing Loisel could use. Still, it was leverage for Morbier.

“My neck’s on the block and I don’t like it,” Loisel said. “You’ve had free reign until now, but the stratosphere’s changed.”

His predecessor, Langouile, tasked Morbier with investigating rife police department corruption. It touched the top toes, demanding tact. Morbier met resistance and evasion, hit each bend on thin ice. And with nothing he could use legally.

“What about your indicateur?” Loisel asked, tenting his fingers.

Morbier’s top informer had been found in the Seine, in the salvage net at Evry. A good man. On the force for ten years and with access to high-level reports. But Morbier had arrived too late. It sickened him. The man left a wife and two young children.

“They got to him before I did.”

“So you have nothing besides a dead indicateur?” Loisel’s tone was cold.

“Don’t forget I spent time downstairs in Le Dépôt. A little hard to work when I was a suspect in jail.” Due to circumstantial evidence, there had been accusations that he’d murdered the woman he loved. All engineered at the hands of the top brass he wanted to topple. But he had no concrete proof of that either.

“This would go quicker and without the mess,” Morbier said, shooting Loisel a look, “if you ordered a legal wiretap.”

“I didn’t hear that, Morbier. Alors, deal with your personal issues, satisfy the police psychologist’s mandate, then give me concrete evidence for a court of law.”

Telling him to deal with his issues? That his informer had died for nothing?

Anger rippled inside his chest. That man had dedicated his life to the law, but had it protected him? No, only the big men at the top. Like always.

But Morbier wouldn’t let this go. He had to pierce this cloud of grief, stop drinking every night, move on. His job depended on it. And so did Aimée’s life.

“Give me two men I can trust, Loisel.”

“I need results, Commissaire. Or this investigation shuts down due to lack of evidence.”

Repeating himself, too. Covering his ass. Sweat popped on Morbier’s brow.

Loisel sighed. Sniffed. “Drinking, too. Your memory holding up these days?”

Morbier bunched his fist to knock the smug look off Loisel’s face until he noticed Loisel writing on a scrap of paper. Loisel shoved it across his magistrate’s teak-wood desk.

One name.

Loisel tore it up. A sweep of his ferret-like eyes to the tall window and a quick flick of his pointed finger told Morbier the office was bugged. Ears listened from the centre d’écoute under Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides.

Merde.

“A full report with developments and proof,” Loisel said, “by this time tomorrow night or your investigation goes away.”

Morbier nodded, trying to get a read on Loisel. But he’d already picked up the phone and gave a dismissive wave.

The name that Loisel had written down had shocked him. But if this man cooperated … No time to delay.

On his way down the worn stairs, Morbier tried Aimée’s number. No answer. Typical.