Free Dance of the Angels by Robert Morcet

know?”
    “There’s some funny stuff happening in Marne-la-Vallée these days, don’t you think?”
    Malet felt like he’d just been given an electric shock. The fat madam must have squealed before giving up the ghost. He couldn’t see any other possible explanation. Tavernier’s right-hand man, the one they called the Celt, was bound to be involved. Perhaps he was the one responsible for the bloodbath. Malet went pale.
    In silence, the commissioner stopped his vehicle in the darkest corner of the quay and said, “Don’t be stupid, Robert.”
    The hand of the vice-squad man froze a couple inches from the ribbed grip of his .38 Special. The commissioner was quicker, and his own weapon was already in his hand: a superb long-barrel Mauser with a silencer.
    “Give me your gun. Slowly.”
    Malet handed it over.
    “Get out,” ordered Tavernier, releasing the car’s central locking system. “No funny business.”
    Malet did as he was told. The cold stung his face. Thinking fast, he decided to try to talk his way out of this.
    “Tell me, Tavernier, how much do you earn a month?”
    “Much less than you, but I sleep like a baby,” he said, sticking the muzzle of the Mauser into Malet’s belly.
    “I’ll cut you in, and you’ll have a rich man’s pension. Your wife will be able to shop at Cartier.”
    “Tell me everything, Malet! You’ve got no choice. I can off you right here, right now, no sweat. It’s a perfect spot—no witnesses.”
    Malet knew the commissioner wasn’t one to make idle threats. He decided to spill the beans, hoping he’d have a chance to get out of there. “What do you want to know?”
    “How does the racket work? Who supplies the kids?”
    “I have my contacts, out in the boondock suburbs. Word gets around. But mainly it’s a handful of parents who regularly hire out their kids. I know it’s disgusting, but it’s the dough they’re after.”
    “Where do you take them?”
    “To a community center. We provide activities for them, dancing and so on, to keep them occupied. It’s a front in case there’s a snag.”
    A wave of nausea washed over Tavernier.
    “Where’s this center located?”
    “In the suburbs—Le Vésinet. We even put on shows. The kids’ pictures are in the program, and the clients can choose the ones they want. That’s all I know, I promise.”
    “You got a contact there?”
    “Martin Boudon, he’s the director. He’s also the ballet teacher.”
    Silence again. What was Tavernier going to do? He couldn’t let this scumbag cop get away.
    “I’d think about this if I were you,” said Malet. “The department has never done you any favors. Face the facts, Bulldozer.”
    “Come on,” said Tavernier, unlocking the doors and stepping out, his gun still pointing at Malet. “And keep your hands where I can see them.” The bent vice cop did as he was told, and a shiver ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the chill wind that swept the quayside. The commissioner joined Malet on the other side of the car, then glanced around to check they were truly alone. Fast as a viper, Malet whipped out a razor-sharp boot knife and lunged. His hand moved like lightning, slashing open the commissioner’s overcoat. Tavernier managed to leap back just in time, but his foot slipped on a wet cobble and the Mauser flew from his hand as he tried to regain his balance. Malet had now adopted a combat stance, the tip of the knife pointing forward. Suddenly, the knife whipped down. Tavernier dodged the thrust at his groin and, with all his force, dealt Malet a blow to the back of the neck with the edge of his hand. Malet collapsed, and as he fell, his head struck a mooring bollard with a thud, and his skull split open. The cop’s body jerked a few times before going limp forever.
    Tavernier bent over the corpse, reached into the inside pocket of the raincoat, and pulled out a chic-looking wallet, from which he extracted Malet’s police ID card. He tore it up and placed