Free Killer Critique by Alexander Campion

acquired the taste of duck but had retained their fruity unctuousness. Capucine told herself that she didn’t come close to doing Alexandre’s cooking justice when she thought of it as a mere palliative.
    When the meal was over, Alexandre looked at her with liquid eyes. “You didn’t seem your usual bubbly self when you came in. Case getting you down?”
    â€œNot anymore. It’s history. Toast. Gone. Finito. ”
    â€œThat might require a word or two more of explanation.”
    â€œI went to see Tallon this morning. The main point of the meeting was that he hates his view of Notre Dame. He’d much rather be at the back of the building, where he could watch officers unload detainees. But he also explained that the juges d’instruction have been around since the Revolution to protect the downtrodden citizenry from the ruthlessness of the police.”
    Alexandre refilled his wife’s glass. “And so?”
    â€œAnd so Martinière is well within his legal rights to refuse to let the police conduct their inquiry. That’s all there is to it. He was very philosophical. We’ll just wait until the function is discontinued and solve the case then.”
    â€œYou’re just going to drop it?”
    â€œNo, we’ll finish all the background checking. Of course, there won’t be anything that even remotely looks like a motive. We’ll write it up and send it to the most excellent juge. He’ll parade around for a few weeks and get absolutely nowhere. And that will be that. Yet another unsolved case.”
    â€œHow frustrating, my love.” Alexandre put his lips on her neck, kissed her gently, and muttered something that might, or might not, have been, “The heartbreak of coitus interruptus ...”
    â€œDid I really hear what I think you just said?”
    Rather than answer, Alexandre moved from her neck to her lips and slipped off her T-shirt.
    Capucine’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID on the screen, then at her watch, and flipped the phone open. Alexandre well knew what ten-thiry calls meant and moved off to collect the dishes and put them in the sink.
    â€œCapu, it’s Bruno Lacombe. You know, your pal who runs the PJ brigade in the Fourth Arrondissement East, your best buddy at the commissaires’ school—”
    â€œBruno, it’s nearly eleven at night.” The detested nickname made her sharp.
    â€œSo it is. So it is. I’m calling from a restaurant called Dans le Noir, on the rue Quincampoix. You know, the little street right next to the Beaubourg. It’s a creepy place, and it’s even creepier right now because there’s a dead guy lying in the middle of it. So I figure this is a case that’s gotta be yours. A guy gets bumped off in a restaurant, and I’m already thinking you. When the stiff turns out to be a restaurant critic, I know it’s yours. Come on down and join the fun. Don’t bother to change. Just come as you are.”
    For once, Capucine decided that, given the hour and her mood, she might as well look like every other female detective on the force and show up in grunge. She pulled her T-shirt back on and decided it was just the ticket, even though it was a Jean Paul Gaultier original and cost far more than she would ever dare confess to Alexandre. The low-heeled Zanottis were probably all wrong, too. But so what? She was never going to be a typical female flic no matter how hard she tried.
    â€œKnow anything about a restaurant called Dans le Noir on the rue Quincampoix?” she asked Alexandre.
    â€œDans Le Noir? In the Black? It’s that blind restaurant. A supposedly sightless maître d’ leads you into a completely dark room, and you get to spill mediocre food all over your shirtfront, or down your décolleté, as the case may be. The only appeal seems to be that they seat you at a long table and you chat away with people you don’t know.