“No. And we don’t have anyone getting out of the river, at least not in the light. The cameras aren’t infrared. The river is cold as hell, so either he got out of the water at night or he’s dead.”
“So what did you get? The camera’s too far away to see anything, and light would be hours later. We should be looking more at the Métro cameras. The stations are always lit.”
“Maybe. But look at this.” They went to Duvalier’s screen. He ran the video, fast forwarding from the time of the crime until light.”
“You can’t see anything, Duvalier. The river is completely dark except for the barges that come through. Not even the bateaux mouches. It was late and cold. Only barges.”
“That’s right. You can see the running lights of the barges high above the water.”
“Not that high.”
“Higher than a rowing shell, the kind in the Olympics.”
“Your point?”
“This building,” Duvalier said, gesturing toward the screen, “is a boathouse. In the day, they take out that kind of boat. The weather was bad, so only a few. Later, at dusk, two boats were out. They put lights on them. It must be a rule.”
“Yes …?”
“And the night of the crime, all night, no lights low on the water, and, then, no boats out at dawn. Then, in the morning, when you can see, no one goes into the boathouse. But someone goes out. And before he goes out, he emerges and does something on the dock.”
“Who is he?”
“How can I know? Here’s him on the dock. Then, a little later, he leaves. You can see if you go to maximum zoom.” He did.
Arnaud said, “It’s a man. I can see that. What’s he wearing?”
“I think it’s a blazer.”
“Just like every other man in Paris. You’d think this was London. But our guy was wearing a rain jacket.”
“Still, did this guy sleep there? If he didn’t, he came out of the river. A little before he left, he comes out and goes back in.”
“Maybe he’s the caretaker, and lives there.”
“Possibly,” said Duvalier. “Let’s find out. Let’s say the killer rows from this place. He would know the river, the currents, and that he would be swept to somewhere where he could get out and find shelter.”
“How likely is that?”
“I would say, not at all. But if he rows he’s got to be strong, like someone who can kill two young men with his hands. We have his DNA. All we have to do ….”
“How many people might have access there? To go through them could take forever. Is it worth it?”
“Of course it is. There can’t be that many, and what else have we got?”
THE NEXT DAY was cold, but at noon several boats were out. Arnaud and Duvalier could see them up-and downriver. There were other boat clubs, too, but these were near La Défense. The likelihood was that the shells they saw had come from and would return to this boathouse, so the two policemen scaled the gate that was supposed to keep people out, and went down the ramp to the barge. The door was unlocked. They went in, calling out, but no one answered.
Narrow boats were stacked five high on wooden racks that filled three bays. Near the garage door of one of the bays was a counter strewn with lights for the boats, batteries, abandoned personal items, and logbooks. A board on the wall recorded that three boats were out, the time they would return, whether they went east or west, and if they would return in a single loop or would continue past the dock and make a second loop. Looking at trophies displayed on a shelf above the board, the policemen observed that no one had won anything for ten years.
“Hey,” Duvalier said, holding up a thin loose-leaf notebook. “The members, their addresses, and contact information.” He took a moment to count down the page. “Forty-six.”
“That would take forever.”
“Not at all. There are eleven women, which narrows it to thirty-five.”
“Almost forever.”
“But there are two of us. Three a day apiece, six days, maybe less if we go faster. It’s only some questioning and a sample of DNA.”
“The OPJ won’t go that far. It’d be too broad. And no judge would. The theory is too tenuous to get us such an order in regard to thirty-five no doubt upstanding citizens. And what if some of them live outside Paris? There are a lot of places where you can’t row. They might come from all over. We’d need clearance.”
“We’ll go through the OPJ, and if we have to interview someone beyond our jurisdiction we’ll get it cleared. I’ll call the judge and tell him we have people to question, that we’ll just ask them for DNA. If three or four refuse to cooperate, we’ll have narrowed it down so we can stick on them until we find something. If we narrow it down enough we’ll be able to get whatever permission we need from above. But before we do this, because admittedly it’s an outside chance, we’ll be good boys, and look into everyone, shall we say, informally?”
“Are we going to steal this list?” Arnaud asked. “Or abide by the law and get a warrant?”
“You see that?” Duvalier pointed to the corner, where a copy machine was partially hidden in the shadows. “Maybe at one time, before email, they had seventy or a hundred members. Clubs always have meetings, notes, notices, fund-raising, dinners, whatever. Let’s hope the machine still works.”
It did, and by the time Duvalier had turned it off, folded the copies, and replaced the originals, a shell glided to the dock and an old man with a ring of white hair around his head such that he looked like a soft-boiled egg in a cup, struggled to debark and take care of his boat and oars. He neither saw them nor heard the click of the gate as they left.
“I like it when it’s like this,” Duvalier said. “No warrants, no questioning, all the information we need on a list, and none of these guys even knows we’re coming. It gives you a sense of accomplishment.”
“Yes,” Arnaud said archly, “like building the Panama Canal.”
“I’ll bet he’s on the list. Millions of people in Paris, and maybe the name of the man who committed the crime is on a piece of paper folded in my pocket. Sometimes being a flic is not bad.”
Cathérine and David, Fran?ois
FOR A DAY OR two, Jules had little feeling for home. Though far more splendid than the hotels, in comparison the house still seemed worn and improperly decorated even if he would have had it no other way. When he awoke he thought he was in Los Angeles or New York, and for some minutes he wanted to be, in the kind of retrospective yearning that, though it quickly fades, may last a lifetime in dreams.