6
French Side
Aliette was tired, but she was resisting going home. Claude would be in their bed by now and she did not want to be. Once back on French territory she stopped at a riverside lay-by and sat for a spell, going over the details of the case in her mind: a chaotic crime-of-passion scenario made the most sense. A visit to a gay nightclub added a new range of possibility. Yes, an outraged wife taking revenge fit. Poor Lise. Though a fine painting smashed and ruined on the head of the victim who was likely already dead still did not make sense, at least it was clearly related. Or could be. Martin Bettelman. Security guard. A gay security guard who minded some of the finest art around. Who had, it seemed, screwed his way through the regular crowd at Zup. What had he said, that elegant dancer?…they were safer without Martin. Why? Was it strictly sexual innuendo? Or had Martin brought something criminal into their madcap midst?
It was a warm night in the final days of Alsace summer, surely one of the last they’d have. The inspector started the car and continued on, in no great hurry, mulling, heading back to the scene of the crime. If the ‘beach’ was what they said it was — a dark meeting place for anonymous sex, a nexus of forbidden need — could violent death be a tempting extra? The Day-Glo-treated yellow-blue remains of a police barrier ribbon were clear and bright in the glow of the pump parts factory. The inspector turned off the road and bumped along the track through the trees, pulled up at the edge of the unkempt field, cut motor and lights and waited, peering into the haze of moist air rising off the canal.
Her eyes adjusted. She saw no cars parked surreptitiously among the trees. A tiny sliver of new moon made it impossible to see the shore from this distance. She sat with the window down a crack, listening, waiting for a car to come rolling into the woods and stop beside her. Or for someone to come walking out of the misty dark.
She smiled at the thought. She was comfortable. This was her job.
What I’m supposed to be doing, Claude.
Aliette Nouvelle had spent a strange six weeks sitting in a car with Claude Néon, driving the streets, searching for a man who was supposed to no longer exist. You could say it was how they’d met. She had been his boss, then. Claude had been her pain-in-the-ass assistant. She had found the missing man, but her methods were questioned. Claude Néon had won the promotion.
It was difficult to divine how those six weeks had led to passion, but they had. Eventually. Something to do with a sharing of experience too inchoate to define. Which is why it was a miracle. Eh, Claude? A miracle within a mystery. Now Claude preferred that she cook supper.
Brooding on what might have been and should have been was not constructive. It probably put her briefly to sleep. But something broke the spell. She jolted awake, then froze, alert.
What? Slowly rolling the window fully open. Eyes straining.
There was a faint cracking sound, stones or branches…Where?
The inspector exited carefully, stepped onto damp grass, walked cautiously toward the water, listening, watching. She had no gun. She never did. She had a can of pepper spray and a Swiss army knife Claude had given her after they’d argued to a stand-off as to her need for a gun. She could smell the water, then hear it. Water barely moving. She froze mid-step and listened. Sounds in the bushes to her left. She moved in that direction, eventually came to the edge of the bank and moved down the rock-strewn slope. Heard a splash downstream and froze again.
She crept closer. There: a figure on the shore.
Aliette took another step, careful, aware of her feet on doubtful purchase.
He was naked, standing on a large rock, perched there, white back, falling hair, lean buttocks, taut legs, an arm outstretched like a sentinel signalling. And so deathly white set against shapeless darkness. Like marble. A perfect, statuesque pose, strange and oddly beautiful.
Aliette Nouvelle did know how to process what she saw, except to feel that it was somehow remarkable, almost unworldly. Of course he did not have wings — but the image of an angel came to mind. Her impulse was to get closer, to see his face full on.
And so another breathless step, inching down and closer…
She slipped on a loose rock, cursing, ‘Bordel!’
She was on her feet in a second, calling, ‘Police! Halt!’
But the figure on the shore dove into the dark canal and disappeared.
Not a trace, not a ripple, as she reached the place and stood there on the shore.