Twisting around, Epée quickly surveyed the avenue and the pedestrian bridge that crossed the Seine to the Louvre Museum, which was also dark. There was no one on the bridge that he could see, and very few cars on the avenue. He got up on the curving peak of the roof and followed it toward a giant domed tower that rose fifty feet above the main building.
To his relief, he found the safety line, a three-quarter-inch cable discreetly mounted up the side of the tower, exactly where he’d spotted it the month before. Men cleaning the walls of grime, restoring the pale limestone color, had put the line up, and Epée used it now. Unzipping his jacket, he felt for the mechanical devices known as Jumars that were attached to a harness he wore and favored by rock climbers. The cams of these devices ran only in one direction: up. When pressure was applied downward, they locked.
Epée unclipped one of the ascenders. He attached it and the one still tied to the harness to the safety line, and then frogged up the side of the tower, taking rests at the various articulations in the dome.
The last ledge was underhung, and Epée had to make another contortionist move to get up onto it, right next to the base of the cupola. In daylight or under lights, the mosaics were a deep, cerulean blue. But now they were black as coal, which suited Epée’s purposes perfectly.
He got in position in line with the Louvre and the Pont des Arts bridge, looking straight down on the plaza in front of the building and the Quai de Conti. He paused a moment to reflect on the sheer magnitude of the moment.
Then he got out the spray paint and set to work.
Chapter 45
11th Arrondissement
3:40 a.m.
ACCORDING TO LOUIS, Le Chanticleer Rouge was the greatest of Parisian clubs for les échangistes, the swingers of France. Like most things French when it came to sex, the practice of going to places like the Red Rooster to engage in anonymous physical relations was accepted with a shrug.
Politicians and their wives did it. So did the big bankers and their girlfriends. That infamous chairman of the International Monetary Fund practically lived in one of these clubs. So did well-known painters, musicians, and television personalities, and, of course, writers.
That last category included Lourdes Latrelle, the famous French author, novelist, and television personality, who, ironically enough, was best known for being an expert on the politics of gender and sex. I say ‘ironically’ not only because her corpse was found in a swingers’ club, but because she’d been hung upside down and naked from a sex swing.
Black parachute cord tied to her wrists ran out to the tent supports and held her arms in that upside-down-cross position. As with the other victims, her face was bloated by the blood rushing to her head. A crude version of the AB-16 tag had been drawn on the victim’s belly with lipstick.
“That’s a first,” I said. “Defacement of the corpse.”
Investigateur Hoskins said nothing. For the first time since I’d met her, I saw indecision and uncertainty on her face. Claudia Vans, Private Paris’s chief forensics tech, was on the bed, examining the body.
“I’ve got something,” Vans said, holding up a pair of tweezers. “Pubic hairs. Three of them. And obviously, because of the wax job, not Ms. Latrelle’s.”
“That helps,” Hoskins said. “Nothing like DNA. Let me know if you find anything else organic.”
Vans nodded. Hoskins suggested that we leave the tent.
Out in the hall, the investigateur said, “Louis, I believe you’re right.”
“C’est vrai?” he said, arching his eyebrows in a way that suggested she rarely admitted he was on the right side of anything.
Hoskins nodded uncomfortably. “The position of the body is symbolic. And because the victim is Lourdes Latrelle, it takes AB-16 to a whole other level.”
Louis paused with muted delight before looking to me. “It would be like a high-profile movie or television star being murdered in the States.”
“I thought you said she was an intellectual author,” I said.
“The French idolize the brilliant person,” Hoskins explained. “The person who is above the fray, living the life of the mind while facing none of reality’s consequences. Latrelle is a cultural icon, a member of L’Académie Française, for God’s sake.”
Louis said, “The news of this murder will strike deep. Mark my words.”
Behind us a man said, “I am marking them. And unfortunately I couldn’t agree with you more.”
We all turned to find a short, older, painfully stooped man in a gray suit. He was balanced on a cane and had to twist his head to peer up at us through thick, round, wire-rimmed glasses. “Which is why we are going to keep all information about this crime scene from the press,” he added.
He pointed the cane at Louis, then at me, and said, “You two shouldn’t even be here, but I’ll allow it because of Private’s proven forensics work. That does not, however, excuse you from my gag order. Are we clear?”
“Crystal clear, Juge Fromme,” Louis said.
The older man came closer. Every movement seemed to cause him great discomfort, and he had to will himself beyond it to crane his head up at me.
“I am Guillaume Fromme, le juge,” he said in perfect English, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you and your company, Monsieur Morgan.”
“That’s nice of you to say so, sir,” I replied, taking his hand, which was surprisingly large, leather-palmed, and strong. “What exactly is your role here?”
“In the French legal system, a juge is brought in on all major cases, especially those involving murder,” he said. “I am not a judge in the U.S. sense-more an investigative magistrate. Someone who will oversee the case from a legal perspective until a defendant is brought to court.”
He looked at Hoskins and Louis. “Do I speak correctly?”
They nodded, Hoskins unhappily.
Fromme must have seen it because he lifted his cane toward the detective and said, “It is unusual to see someone like me at a crime scene so early in an investigation, which has made Investigateur Hoskins here nervous. But I am under orders. And based on my review of the case files to date, I agree with them. The position of the bodies and the photographs found in Monsieur Henri Richard’s pied-à-terre suggest that AB-16 poses a clear and present danger to Paris and to France.”
Chapter 46
FROMME MOVED AS if he was walking on nails before stopping in front of the tent where Lourdes Latrelle hung. He stood there several seconds before turning back to us, his face gone grave.
“Who found her?” he asked. “Who’s seen her like this?”
“An employee of the club opened the drapes after someone complained that they had been closed for hours,” Hoskins replied. “She had the good sense not to scream, and got the manager, who called us.”
“So two people besides those present at this moment?” le juge demanded.
“Yes, I think that’s right, sir,” Hoskins said.
“I wish to speak with the manager and the employee,” Fromme said. “Any leads on who was with her in the club before she entered the tent?”
“Yes,” Hoskins said. “Several patrons and the bartender said Madame Latrelle was watching an orgy when she was approached by a large francophone African male with a gold upper front tooth and a pale, brunette Caucasian woman with green catlike eyes.”