Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [6]
And
I
Fall
Into
The
Black
Room.
The Others
At the sudden noise, Keller quickly raises his head. Fourth floor. Vania. He grabs his Beretta from the glove compartment and, with his heart drumming, reaches the building in a few strides. He swallows up the steps, hammers on Coleman’s door. Noise of running feet inside. Keller steps back and with three kicks of his heel, knocks the latch free and rips open the right panel. Everything is dark, but in the main room he trips on a motionless pile of rags. He puts his gun away, leans above Vania, and turns her over. Her face is nothing but a puddle of blood. Keller, his heart violently pounding, leans lower. Listens to the young woman’s heart. Then he turns away, his fists clenched. A draft coming from the kitchen. The chauffeur rushes there in a state of fury. The backstairs door is open. He bends forward over the railing. Nobody. Now he goes back to the street side, turns off the light, looks down through the window, and sees Diamantis heading toward Saint Georges in his nouveau-riche car. Keller comes back to Vania. Pulls his cell out.
“Diego, it’s me, Keller. You’re still working at that clinic in Poissy? … Okay, get a room ready and call the medics. I’m on my way.”
Then the man leans over Vania again. His eyes red, his voice shaking. No one can hear him so he whispers against her hair: My angel, my love, my little girl. He kneels down on the acrylic carpeting, picks up the battered body, and after some hesitation, leaves through the backstairs.
In a dingy room down in the basement of his precinct house, Nico Diamantis throws a last slap in the face of a local dealer.
“Dealing drugs is bad, Rachid.”
“Fuck you.”
The Greek raises his eyes to the sky, sweeps the legs of the chair from under the teenager’s feet, and kicks him repeatedly. The kid folds himself into a fetal position. Nico gets tired of him, turns away, and leaves, locking the door behind him.
Office. A thousand pounds of files. Lhostis, breathing heavily, walks toward him. Cholesterol and Marlboros. Tubular armchair.
“I checked the three neighborhood police stations like you told me. Nobody.”
“The apartment?’
“I went in through the back door; she’s gone.”
“The morgue?”
“I called, they haven’t seen a black woman in five days. You sure she was dead?”
“I’m not sure, no. I don’t know. She wasn’t moving and I left when I heard someone banging on the door.”
“You’re in deep shit.”
“Thanks. You’re a real help.”
“What about the chauffeur, Keller?”
Now Nico is thinking. It’s a painful task, he’s not used to it.
“Yeah, I see. He’s waiting in the car, she’s not back, he knocks on the door, he knocks harder, and …”
“And what?”
“A hospital.”
“No way. You think he’s an idiot?”
“Sort of.”
“A private clinic, Nico. We’re gonna have to go through the whole phone book to find that stupid bitch. All this crap so you can show off in front of Noémie. I can’t believe it.”
“No one touches my family. Go on the Internet, it’ll be faster.”
While Lhostis is settling down behind his computer, Nico looks distractedly at his files. Then thinks. Vania. The apartment. I’m so stupid.
He takes his jacket, goes down to the garage where the Picasso is dozing off. Two lines of coke on the dashboard. Wow, what a boost.
He rips the car out of the garage and steers for rue des Lombards. He doesn’t see the Mercedes pulling out behind him.
Rue Saint Martin, Turbigo, then the underground parking garage of the Forum des Halles. He finally decided to rent a spot there year round to avoid getting depressed over the hunt for a space on the street. Third level, underground.
He makes a face.
Three
Homeless guys
Sharing
One
Muddy
Big Mac.
At the end of the second underground level, a hole between two Clios. He rushes in. Cell phone. A little kiss to Noémie then Nico thinks again: I’ve got to find me a whore. Okay. He gets out of the car, heads for the elevator. Keller, squatting behind the car to the left, dives into the cop and stabs him three times near his heart. For good measure he sticks