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“A new case for you. A homicide.”
Shit, not a homicide, Descartes groaned inwardly. Homicides are such a pain in the ass. “Me?” he said, feigning surprise. “Isn’t Pierre next in the rotation?”
“Pierre is sick. Jean-Paul leaves tomorrow for antiterrorist training. And Etienne is still on paternity leave. Besides, you have the best English, and the case involves two Americans. One…”—a pause, and Descartes heard papers rattling—“named William Brockton. The other, probably his girlfriend, Miranda Lovelady.”
Hmm, Descartes thought, a homicide involving foreign lovebirds. That might be interesting after all. “Okay,” he said, as if he actually had a choice. To guilt the boss, he added, “But you owe me. Don’t forget, I put in a shitload of overtime on the Dubois case. A weird one, eh?”
“Ha,” the chief inspector scoffed. “This one is much more bizarre.”
“Bullshit. What could be more bizarre?”
There was a silence — Descartes thought he’d lost the call, but it was just his boss letting him twist in the wind briefly. Then, with a mixture of smugness and horror, the chief inspector uttered a single word before hanging up: “Crucifixion.”
