Lames soeurs
Robert Malacci
(Excerpt: p. 1-7)
Chapter 1
I hate the cold. I was born that way, I can't do anything about it. I'm not a penguin and it has to be at least twenty degrees above freezing for me to cheer up. If not, I just bide my time. So when Sahara called me, yesterday, I won't ever forget it: it was minus thirty-two (Celsius, not Fahrenheit!) and I didn't feel like going out, even if I was all out of coffee. Groaning, I picked up the phone.
"Whoever you are, you've got the wrong number!"
"Robert?"
"Yeah!"
"Sahara... You remember me, I hope?"
"Well, hey, this is a surprise!"
"I'd like to see you rather soon, is it possible?"
"Depends. With the cold spell we're having, you would need to come up with a bitching program to get me out of the house!"
She laughed.
"Still as sensitive as ever to cold, aren't you?"
"Well, yes. And you, still a cop?"
"Of course! You're still working for Échos-Matin?"
"Alas!"
"Could I come by around nine tomorrow morning?"
"Sure. Take down my new address."
"I've already got it."
"How so?"
"I'm not in the police for nothing, you know."
"Oh, I'm so reassured. Do you think I should have a lawyer with me at our meeting?"
"He wouldn't be of any use to you. Okay, bye, see you tomorrow!"
And she hung up, leaving me to ponder her call. Elsa Castillo, a.k.a Sahara. She'd gotten the nickname when, coming back from a trip to Algeria, she'd praised the Maghreb with so much enthusiasm to everyone in sight that she'd acquired the nickname "Sahara." It must be said that with her family name, her dusky complexion, her dark eyes and dark hair, it was easy to ascribe a Mediterranean origin to her. As it happened, her parents were Spanish and the nickname suited her perfectly, all things considered.
The last time we'd met, it hadn't been very nice. We'd had a row, and I regret it immensely, for Sahara was really something. But her voice on the phone left me puzzled. It didn't sound like a wench overrun by hormones and wanting some relief from some Good Samaritan like me. For a turn in the sack with her, I would have said yes without hesitating, but well, I'm not as obsessed as some may think. Besides I'd called Pouliot at the paper, with the usual excuse of the minus twenty degrees.
"My Renault won't start, Alfred. I hope there's nothing planned for today!"
"Tabarouette, Malacci, when are you going to buy a real car?"
"When hens surf!"
After that, I just screw around, reading a Chandler novel, The Lady of the Lake, watching TV. I called for a pizza and some coffee, or rather that warm, coloured water they call coffee here.The following day is cold again and after popping in quickly at the newspaper, where nothing special forces me to stay, I go shopping for a few items and I go back home. I haven't stopped thinking about Sahara's phone call. At nine o'clock sharp she's at my door with a briefcase, gratifying me with a lukewarm smile and the slightest kiss on the cheek.
"Hello, Robert, how are you? Good?"
"Well... yes, I guess."
As I expected she's still as beautiful as ever. The opposite would have surprised me, it's only been a year since I saw her last.
"May I offer you anything?"
"Tea would be nice."
"Never have any. But I have coffee."
"No, thanks. A cup of hot water will do."
She sits down, lighting a cigarette.
"Didn't you quit?"
"Yes, but I fell off the wagon again."
"Ah."
When I bring her her cup of water, she looks at me ironically.
"Thanks. Did you put on some weight?"
"Could be. Since you dumped me, it's not the exercise that..."
"Oh, come off it," she says, sniggering.
"Okay. Why did you want to see me so soon?"
"You're aware of the awful murders of women that have been happening in Montreal for two years?"
"I've got nothing to do with it, I swear."
"That's why I came."
She opens her briefcase and pulls out some sickening pictures. It's the kind I've always refused to take, atrociously mutilated women's bodies, breasts cut, eyes gouged out, severed ears. On their bellies something has been written with red ink or blood, I don't know which.
"Fuck, why are you showing me these!"
"I'm interested in those murders."
"Then hurry up and find the motherfucker who did this, but get those pics away from me!"
"I'm not the only one on the case."
"But what the fuck does it have to do with me, Sahara?"
"Calm down and let me explain. I came here for a reason, Robert: we may need you."
"Me?"
"Yep."
"Who's 'we'?"
"Léo Lortie and me."
"Your boyfriend?"
"No, Léo is a patrolman at Station 33. We went to the Nicolet police academy together. After that, we went our separate ways. As you know, I was a bodyguard for government ministers for several years."
"I remember, you practiced your judo on me when we were together."
She smiles slightly, nodding her head.
"Yes, and now I'm a detective for the provincial police."
"Congratulations! That's what you hoped for, isn't it?"
"Indeed. These kinds of crimes are normally turned over to MUC's Criminal Intelligence Services, in Place Versailles."
"Not some place you walk into shouting: Hello, I'm here for Échos-Matin!"
"Exactly. But their investigation has been going nowhere. The MUC contacted my department once or twice, to cross-reference some info, but it didn't translate into anything important. The killer keeps on killing. The other night, it was his fourth victim: a topless dancer at The Baby-Sitter."
"So?"
"Soon I'm going to teach a course on 'Investigative techniques applied to serious crime"' at the Canadian Police Academy in Ottawa."
"Lucky you, such a pretty town!"
"Don't joke, I'm being serious."
"Okay."
"Right. While preparing my course, I wanted to use as an example of an investigation the current one on this serial killer. But I learned that one of the murders, Viviane Pinchaud's, took place in District 33, the one where Léo has been posted, and that he's the one who found the body. It gave me a good reason to see Léo again but I didn't suspect what I was going to discover as a result."
"And what might that be?"
"Since the murder of that Pinchaud woman, Léo was working on a personal investigation, with the authorization of his superior, Di Sario. Léo wanted to become a detective, when he was at the police academy, but he failed the exam."
Sahara rummages through the pictures, shows one of them to me.
"The recent murder of the dancer, Renée Lahaie, is proof that the killer is going on a macabre rampage. The name of one of Snow White's seven dwarves was marked on her belly, her pubis was shaven... not to mention the other stuff."
In the photo, I can see that the woman's body is in the same horrible condition as the others. I read what is marked on her belly: "SLEEPY."
"The shaved pubis is nothing out of the ordinary for a topless dancer," I observed.
"Yes, but the previous victims had their pubic hair shaven on site. The hair was still near the body."
"All right, but I still don't see what I have to do with this!"
"I'm coming to that. I met with Léo a first time, and he was happy to see me, even though I reminded him of the detective's position he never managed to get. About his finding Pinchaud's body, I learned no more than what the MUC's report showed me. But the other day, Léo called me and asked to see me. It was urgent, he told me..."
© 1997 Éditions Alire & Robert Malacci
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