First Blood

by S. Cedric

  Her colleague rolled on the floor. He was shaken but not hurt.

  “Oh, shit, no,” Eva murmured and ran to the door.

  It was too late.

  Eva saw the drawer, literally ripped out of the bureau when the old woman had grabbed the gun. She saw Amina Constantin’s distorted body at the corner of the bed, her neck against the wall, the gun in her hand. There were red smears on the wallpaper above her still-warm body, like an impossible halo, a surrealistic painting. Eva took in the woman’s empty eyes. They glared at her from beyond, as if she were still calling her the devil’s daughter. As if she were still seeing the badness in her heart.

  “No way. It can’t be.”

  The smell of gunpowder and blood made her feel woozy.

  She felt Leroy’s arm around her shoulder and held onto him.

  A noise that sounded like flapping fabric rose outside.

  They turned to the window and looked in disbelief, as dozens and dozens of black birds flew from the trees.

  Eva felt like she was reliving her dream of the park and the crows with chunks of flesh in their beaks.

  She had a really bad feeling about this.

  She remembered stories of souls passing into the next world, about crows ferrying the spirits of dead people into the beyond.

  “My soul will rise because it is pure,” Amina Constantin had said.

  Eva pulled away from Leroy’s arm and bolted to the window. The yard was empty. The people had vanished.

  “Erwan, there were people in front of the house.”

  “What?”

  “They were screaming, like they were accusing me.”

  She turned around and stared at him, looking lost.

  “Men, women, and old ladies in black veils. Didn’t you hear them? They were right there, in the yard.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  She shook her head. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand anything.

  She turned back to examine the yard. Something was wrong with the picture.

  She quickly realized what it was. There were no footprints in the snow, other than hers and Leroy’s. Nothing. Not a trace.

  It is too late. We can’t go back now.

  19

  Toulouse

  Alexandre Vauvert felt it the minute he went through the door.

  Searing, blinding danger.

  He stopped in his tracks, his hand stiff on the door handle. He was trying to understand where this feeling was coming from. He thought he could hear wings beating.

  Eva? Is it Eva? Why was he suddenly so afraid for her?

  He had already felt this intense distress in the morning, when he had had that strange dream about her. The nightmare had stayed with him, leaving the bitter taste of urgency in his mouth, as if something—something beyond his control—were happening. An invisible and inexorable something.

  Eva. He envisioned her in his mind. Her white hair and her red, forever-feverish eyes. Her silences and sidestepping. Her hidden survivor’s strength. The woman he did not understand, who did not understand him, and whom he could not forget. Two years earlier, when they had been through hell together, he had sworn that he would always be there for her. But what could he do for her if she were in danger now, and she did not want his help? He felt like a helpless and angry idiot.

  He had parked his Harley in the courtyard, next to two bikes belonging to other tenants.

  “Alexandre.” He heard a sharp voice.

  “Virginie? What are you doing here?”

  Virginie stood and shook her massive mane of red hair. She had been waiting for him on the second-floor landing. Now she came down the stairs to greet him. She was wearing a white coat that was belted at the waist. A smile lit up her face.

  “I had to see you.”

  He ignored her, still bothered by what he was experiencing. He heard birds caw. His cop instinct—his sixth sense, always alert and watching—was sending a shiver down his back. He thought for an instant that it was rare to see crows in the city, and his thoughts circled back to Eva. He wondered what she was doing, if she was working today. If she was in danger again. He wanted to call her right away, to hear her voice, to tell her how much he missed her.

  “Alex?” Virginie said, bringing him back to reality.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Your neighbor let me in.”

  “He’s in trouble.”

  His ex-wife sighed, approaching and looking up at him. She may be a tall five-foot seven, but was a midget next to him.

  “What is it?” he asked, grumbling.

  “We need to talk. It’s important.”

  Like him, she was around forty, but she looked ten years younger, thanks to high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that never needed makeup. Her hair flowed around her shoulders like liquid copper. Every time Vauvert saw her, it took him a minute to remember that they were no longer married and that she had torn out his heart by leaving him for his best friend. The habits of ten years of marriage were stubborn.

  Fortunately, he remembered the endless fighting that was also part of their marriage.

  “No time. Sorry.”

  “Alex.”

  “I have barely a half hour for lunch,” he said, passing her, hoping that would stop her.

  How naive he was. She followed him up the stairs, not at all discouraged.

  “It was the only way to see you. You are always working.”

  “Yes. Jesus Christ, that’s what it means to be a cop. That’s why you left me, isn’t it?”

  “You shouldn’t have hung up on me earlier.”

  “I’m not obliged to talk to you anymore. Now all I have to do is sign over a check every month. I’m much better off that way.”

  “I didn’t come to talk to you about money.”

  “No joke,” he said, arriving at his door. “Did some alien take over your body?”

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He opened the door, letting her follow him into the apartment. He turned on all the lights to counter the gray winter lighting. He removed a pile of clothes from the couch and dumped them into an overflowing hamper.

  “When was the last time you cleaned this place?”

  “You want to come do it?” he said, heading to the kitchen.

  “I did it for ten years, if I recall correctly.”

  “Your memory is still bad. We had cleaning women.”

  One thing had not changed. The endless arguments wore him out. He opened the fridge and examined the leftovers in plastic containers. He couldn’t choose, so he opened the vegetable drawer full of beer.

  “Do you want one?”

  “Sure,” Virginie said, accepting a Grimbergen. “I saw on television that you were investigating the disappearance of that guy Loisel.”

  “Not just me. Everyone is looking for him. We wouldn’t do that for anyone else, but Pierre Loisel is a friend of the commissioner.”

  He sighed.

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here now?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  She took an empty whisky bottle off the sofa and set it down on the coffee table next to her beer. Then she sat down and removed her coat, uncovering a beige pantsuit.

  “I’m listening.”

  Her green eyes looked into his.

  “You know that we have always been there for each other, right?”

  “News to me,” he grumbled.

  If she was not here for money, then it really was worrisome.

  “It’s Arnaud.”

  “Arnaud?”

  “You know very well who he is. Arnaud Levy.”

  Oh, he knew, all right. He knew all about Arnaud Levy. He could not believe she was here to talk to him about that piece of trash. Virginie took a sip of the Grimbergen.

  “So what’s your boyfriend’s problem?”

  “He’s in trouble.”

  “No kidding.”

 
Arnaud Levy. Just the sound of his name made Alexandre lose control. He was a corrupt neurosurgeon accused of diagnosing perfectly healthy patients with serious illnesses so he could do costly operations on them. For years, the guy had built a fortune operating on healthy brains, with perfect success, of course. Then one of his patients had died, and the whole scam collapsed. He was sued, and his insurance company paid through the nose.

  For some incomprehensible reason that applies only to those who have too much money to be subject to inconvenient laws, this piece of trash still had a practice and an endless stream of patients. And—Alexandre almost forgot the best part—Virginie and he were in a relationship that appeared to be more official than he had thought.

  And here she was, with the nerve to come ask him for a favor.

  “Who did he kill this time?”

  “Please, Alex. Arnaud never did anything of the sort. That’s just slander and gossip.”

  “And so?”

  “He’s the victim of a conspiracy.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Vauvert downed the rest of his beer. He was surprised at how calm he was managing to stay. Part of him wondered just how Virginie would react if he were to grab her by the lapels of her overpriced suit and throw her out like the shameless beggar she had always been. The more pragmatic part of him was aware that he would never hurt a woman. That was the kind of man he was.

  “Tell me, so I can have a good laugh.”

  “It’s really simple. Some down-and-out woman who used to be his patient is accusing him of misconduct.”

  “Of what?”

  “Attempted rape,” Virginie said. “That little whore is accusing Arnaud of taking advantage of her. Is that clearer now?”

  “Shit,” Vauvert said. “You got a great catch there.”

  “But she really is a screwball, Alex. She takes drugs. Clearly, she’s trying to hit pay dirt, considering Arnaud’s position and all.”

  He stood up. He did not want to hear any more. His ex-wife had always been obsessed with money, as was her new boyfriend.

  “This is none of my business. If that asshole hassled some girl, it’s his problem.”

  “But you could help him. I know she’s going to file charges. Could you get yourself assigned to the case? I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. Just go talk to her.”

  “Why?”

  “With your instinct, you could tell if she’s lying. You have a gift for that.”

  Vauvert paced the room. He felt like a caged animal in his own apartment.

  “I don’t get it, Virginie.”

  “Just go listen to her story, that’s all. After you’ve talked with her, you’ll know what to do.”

  “Will I?”

  “You could refuse to file the charges. What she’s trying to do is criminal.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s out of the question. First of all, it’s not my department that handles cases like this, and even if it were my department, how could you even dare to ask this of me?”

  “He didn’t do anything,” Virginie said with touching sincerity. “She’s a kid with problems who sells drugs to make ends meet. She’s after Arnaud’s money. It’s so obvious.”

  Alexandre Vauvert jeered at her.

  “Unlike you, of course.”

  She looked him in the eye.

  “I am sure that Arnaud is innocent.”

  “Of course you are.”

  He looked out the window. Snow was falling again, blurring the horizon.

  Deep down, he was furious. He had loved Virginie; that was a fact. At the time, he could not have imagined living without her. What he had not known was that he had hooked a depraved siren who would pursue him his entire life with one problem after another

  He did not care at all about that pathetic Levy. There was only one thing on his mind: Eva. His sleepless nights. His dreams, which were more and more obsessional. Eva’s face. Her hair. The feel of her skin.

  His instinct—the one Virginie was talking about—was telling him that something was terribly wrong.

  He grumbled under his breath.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. That’s all.”

  Virginie got up, looking resigned. She put on her white coat and started to leave. He followed her, relieved to get her out of the apartment. Just before reaching the door, she turned around. He almost ran into her.

  “You’re having those dreams again, aren’t you?” she asked, her head next to his chest.

  “What? What makes you say that?”

  “The look in your eyes.”

  “What look?”

  “That look. The look you have when you’re having those dreams. It’s always the same. You have to listen to your dreams. One day, they will save your life. I’m sure of it. I always told you so.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “Yeah, I’ll try to remember that,” he said.

  She smiled as brightly as ever. He realized that he alone knew about the deep sadness that she kept hidden inside like some secret shame.

  “Would you agree to see the girl?

  Vauvert stared at her. A motionless giant.

  “For me?” she whispered.

  “It’s not my department, I told you.”

  “But if the case were passed along to your department, would you?”

  “That could happen, but it’s rare. We’d have to see.”

  “Thank you, Alex.”

  She opened the door and turned back around.

  “I know what you think of me, but you also know what I think of you. You are a good man. A real one.”

  Then she left with a rustling of velvet.

  You’re having those dreams again, aren’t you?

  20

  Paris, Offices of the Criminal Investigation Division

  The bandage around her neck was too tight. She could not concentrate.

  Eva touched it lightly, trying as best she could to focus on her superior officer, Chief Rudy Ô, who was yelling because of her stupid move, of Leroy, of the suicide of their best witness, of the whole team that should have stopped them, and because of the lack of progress on the case. Everyone in the department was getting a licking. The legal pad on the chief’s desk bounced up and down every time he pounded his fist, which happened a lot.

  “Now it’s all over the Internet,” he shouted at the dozen police officers in his office. “There are countless videos of the fire in Les Ruisseaux, but nobody saw anything or knows anything. And now what? A seventy-five-year-old woman commits suicide in the presence of two officers who couldn’t stop her? Do you want Internal Affairs coming down on us? Well, you’re going to get it.”

  Eva looked at the floor. The chief did not calm down.

  “I don’t want any of you doing anything without talking to me first. No arrests, no questioning, no going anywhere without me approving it, and I’ll supervise from start to finish. Is that clear?”

  The detectives and inspectors nodded and looked contrite.

  Eva coughed, feeling uncomfortable. She knew it was all her fault. Their only witness, Amina Constantin, the person who had all the answers, was dead because of her. It was useless to deny it. If only she had not followed her impulse. If only she had listened to Leroy.

  “I want an explanation from the two of you,” Ô demanded. “What exactly happened in that house?”

  Eva cleared her throat, uncertain about what to say. All of her colleagues were staring at her. Some of them were smirking.

  Leroy saved her by speaking up first.

  “We were questioning Amina Constantin by the book, chief. I had informed headquarters that we were going out there. We had no way of knowing that she was so disturbed.”

  Rudy Ô gave him a scornful look.

  “Go on.”

  “She grabbed a pair of scissors and attacked Eva. I swear we didn’t see it coming.”

  “Were you there? Did you see her do it?”

  Leroy was lying to cover hi
s partner.

  “Yes,” he said, looking directly at his superior. “We were both talking to her. Eva did nothing to provoke her. And after the woman attacked Eva, all she did was disarm her.”

  “Then?”

  “Then the witness locked herself in the bedroom and shot herself in the head. We had no way of knowing that she had a gun in there,” Leroy said.

  Ô did not look convinced.

  “Did anything else happen? Something we should know about?”

  Something else? Eva clenched her jaw. Something like a topless woman in the snow? People gathered in the yard, yelling insults at the window? People who hadn’t left a single footprint in the snow? She had heard them shouting. She had heard their insults, just as she had heard the insults that Amina Constantin had hurled at her.

  What had she called her? The devil’s daughter. Those were Amina Constantin’s words. A colorless child, the dirty devil’s daughter.

  Eva thought she might be losing it, but she managed to find the strength to speak.

  “Nothing else happened, chief. Nothing at all.”

  Ô rubbed his temples.

  “Now, had you not rushed off to see her in the first place, the lab could have told you what they discovered, and you would have known that you needed to be cautious,” he said.

  Everyone looked surprised.

  “What did they find?” Leroy said.

  “Prints. On this.”

  The chief picked up a sealed evidence bag that contained a thin rectangle about eight inches long. It was black, blood red and golden. Eva had already seen the object. She had found it next to the child’s body.

  “It was in the freezer,” she said. “With the baby.”

  “It’s a piece of painted wood. As you may have guessed, the cold and frost destroyed much of the evidence in the freezer, but we got lucky with this, because it was wrapped in plastic. The lab found prints on the plastic and the wood. They all belonged to the same person: Amina Constantin.

  A shiver ran down Eva’s spine. So that was it.

  “I watched over him all my life,” Amina Constantin had said. Only now did Eva realize what those words meant.

  The crazy old lady was not talking about her son Ismael, as she had thought, but about the baby instead.

  “The old hag?” Leroy said. “She’s the one who decided to keep the baby?”