Free The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page A

had been planning to use the last morning of the week to go over initial findings in the murder of Christine Autran.
    Capitaine Anne Moracchini opened the office door, put her head inside and gestured at him.
    â€œHi, Michel.”
    â€œGood morning, Anne. You haven’t seen Maxime, by any chance?”
    â€œHe’s at criminal records.”
    â€œTell him there’s no hurry. I’ve got someone else to deal with.”
    Anne Moracchini glared at the blond, who was staring at the floor, then looked quizzically at De Palma.
    â€œIt’s nothing.”
    â€œSee you later, Michel.”
    Anne Moracchini slammed the door, leaving behind a strong scent of musk perfume and apple shampoo.
    De Palma gave a huge yawn. No amount of black coffee would ever drive away that biting fatigue which no longer left him. The young blond was getting impatient. De Palma pretended to tidy up the paperwork piled up on his desk and gave her a long blank look.
    â€œAnd you are Madame …?”
    â€œBérengère Luccioni.”
    The name Luccioni chimed in Michel’s weary memory.
    â€œSo you’re Franck’s sister, Jo Luccioni’s daughter?”
    â€œYes,” she said shyly, pouting her fleshy lips which were faintly colored with brown lipstick.
    Jo Luccioni had been a serious hood. He ran a smack factory at the back of a bakery, and used the shop to launder his earnings. De Palma had not known his son Franck; only that he had been found dead in Sugiton creek.
    â€œSo what do you do for a living, Bérengère Luccioni?”
    â€œI work for my father, at the bakery on boulevard Piot, in Pointe-Rouge. I sell the bread and the cakes.”
    Bérengère was pretty, but vulgar: too made-up, too blond, her skirt was too short and her accent too pronounced. Too everything! She kept fiddling with her caramel fingers, sliding a silver ring up and down the middle finger of her left hand. This kid looked every inch the wife, sister and daughter of a gangland boss; her particular physique was shaped by a life with the mob, which de Palma knew only too well. She was a real doll.
    â€œDo you still make cream buns?”
    â€œOnly on Sunday mornings … why?”
    â€œI love cream buns, that’s why. Especially your father’s ones. I’ll come and buy some one of these days. How old are you?”
    â€œI’ll be thirty in ten days.”
    â€œSo, you’re twenty-nine …” he said, attempting a gallant smile.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    De Palma pretended to flick through a bulky file, lingered over some unimportant reports, went back a few pages, then opened another folder. Bérengère watched him, chewing her gum, making small, wet sucking noises and clicking her teeth together. He let the silence drag on. Bérengère slowly uncrossed her legs. The gentle rustle of Lycra woke him from his torpor.
    â€œWhy have you come to see me? I thought my colleague, Lieutenant Vidal, had already interviewed you. Do you have anything new?”
    â€œYes. It’s just that … well, in July, before my brother was killed, I kept seeing this motorbike outside of the shop. Then I went on holiday to my grandparents’ place in Corsica, and that’s where I heard about my brother … When your colleague questioned me, I’d forgotten about it, but then the other day I remembered that a man came into the shop once to buy bread and croissants. He parked his motorbike on the pavement. Then he asked me about my brother … where he was, what he was doing. That’s all.”
    â€œMademoiselle Luccioni, there are thousands of men around here who could go and buy croissants on their motorbikes.”
    â€œSure, but this one wasn’t like the others.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause his motorbike looked like one in this picture in the papers …”
    â€œA Kawasaki Zephyr 1100! Do you know how many Kawasaki Zephyr 1100s there