They had stopped their march without realizing it. Everyone on his side trying to identify the tortuous procedure. Norec, look as usual dragging the ground. FG, far away, seeking in the crowd of Parisians who roamed the streets, an inspiration, an embryo link to understand the perverse cruelty of one human being among those lost almost normal. One detail the Extra bothering. She noted the single sock foot on the body carefully dépoilé. Absurd vision, which had made him smile despite herself.
- Good! Exclaimed she snorted, as if to drive the knot that formed in the flow of his thoughts.
She exchanged a look of complicity with his assistant, sighed again, and asked him.
- I think it will further examine our restaurant. I held this evening, when will the office and must also verify that it has really no relationship to the victim, and probe the network, whether Voltaire was in a bad patch lately. Thou canst load please? That
. It was exactly this trait, he liked her. She told you, thank you, please, hello and I pray you, as soon as she spoke to someone from his entourage. Basic politeness, completely disappeared in the building for decades, due to reports of virile and effective, even among colleagues. He blamed its sensitivity. She responded with ways more affable, and landed the next day with shoes with heels higher than yesterday. During interrogation, she could be of infinite patience. Flexible and pugnacious. She kept her calm, indifferent to long periods of silence. Questioned, with a sense of politeness and respect that his colleagues made him nervous, and softened the suspect. Suddenly, on a trivial pretext, she left the room, and left the field open to the colleague that triggers its questionnaire, closed doors: Threat, yell, punch on the table, creaking of chairs. Then nothing. Silence. Rule Generally, it reminded FG after half an hour, at the request of the suspect, and the guy unpacked everything, without being asked nicely and well. Well, yes, it did not. Be many exceptions. But generally, his tactic had proven, and forced over the years, the respect, if not the admiration, the other cops of the building.
- OK, I'll do it. I'll let you regain the office?
- Yes. See you later. From my side, I'll walk a little longer. Gaëtan
planting there, and rushed into the first subway visible on the main boulevard. France continued to not quiet This time, his walk thoughtful, and engaged in a street that joined after a long walk, the Rue de Rivoli.
*** Meanwhile, Tristan, resigned, had just finished closing the gates on the scene of the drama. A drastic cleaning was done by specialists under the following afternoon. He then planned a timeout - the pun does cheered point - in order to ventilate and allow the stench of dead and disinfectant, to disappear. He especially wanted to return to the furnaces as soon as possible, to work a full day and part of the night if necessary, to make roast studded with garlic, simmered dishes, saturated with wine and spices, kneading and brown buns impregnated with orange blossoms, with golden, very sweet to fire, pounds of butter, to obtain this beautiful steam hazelnut, chopping knife whole bunches of basil, tarragon and mint, and thus coat the walls and beams of invisible scented syrup and smear tablecloths and curtains, aromatic constellations. Tristan wanted to paint, at once pots, wire whip, and a generous ladle of movement, its restaurant and soothing fragrance of abundant, to eradicate this terrible discovery in the sweet fragrance.
He hoped at best for the reopening this weekend. But he doubted it. Meanwhile, he did not know what to do with this empty, suddenly appeared in his daily routine artfully arranged. Rooted from dawn until evening, around the creation and implementation of two recipes: search and selection of ingredients, preparation and just cooked. Instinctively, he reached into his jacket pocket his phone, and reminded Anthony that he had joined shortly after his phone call to police, saying he had changed his mind, he would appreciate finally his presence. "We gotta talk. I'm at the pub, join me as soon as you can. " It
putting up his laptop and staring into space, led by the following observation: in the end, he had time to reflect on this strange morning. He walked with rapid steps to the porch of the Rue des Petites Stables that opened on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis and, deaf to the crowd standing in this long and narrow artery, indifferent to the many signs of recognition that these Nearby shops were sending him, he traced his trail and tried to regain his train of thought, where his nose left off.
He tried to remember when he had crossed this particular smell. This fine balance, he managed to isolate the most complex and extensive blend of jam and bread that welled lost body, which was at the end of the legs of the victim. He had crossed that signature to a period of his life, daily. It was the rendezvous of what time? At that time, any young child, he spent part of his afternoon of Wednesday, and his days on Saturday, in a cupboard at the bottom of the large houses where they lived, his mother and himself. A small two-room, placed near the Sacred Heart, balance on a very steep street. The building was heeling squarely to the left, and it amused the visitors who were at Mom's place, an air roller coaster. The stairs were really twisted, while the door frame leading into the entrance of the apartment no longer coincided with the long line. It sometimes happened that some visitors a little too big brush against their hair, the ceiling lower and lower to the bathroom. Cramped cubbyhole, smell musty permanent sinking slowly but surely toward a trench dug underground as a Swiss cheese, the hill of Montmartre. A Housing, which had become over the years, a vast field of curiosity. In this piece, which took the place of living to do everything and bedroom, there stood, leaning against the wall near the entrance and away from the bed, through a judicious arrangement of three screens on which his mom forgot deliberately visits to withdraw some lace stockings and a huge wardrobe, a legacy of great aunt who had lived in the colonies, and whose wooden doors, a beautiful dark red, were carefully perforated to allow free movement air. Locked indoors He distinguished nothing and remained hidden from the eyes of others. A soft shadows enabled him to play or read quietly away in this tiny cabin fitted snugly, while the men talked of passage with her mom. Tristan and had developed a secret game. Unable to see the visitors, but curious to differentiate them, he had learned to recognize each in their fragrance. And over the years, he had memorized as a succession of details, features seductive, strange or ridiculous, which he then translated into a school exercise book, a transcript very personal: a sequence of words, phrase, or drawings, to evoke the smell of the unknown. Opposite each description matched a lover, called the time of his appointment. Sometimes, but that was rare, the schedule was moved. The smell persisted. Although the scent of soap or aftershave changed the character of the epidermis and hair remained more or less constant. The nose of the little boy had sharpened up power cut in tiny slices fragrant anyone passing within range. Because obviously, the game had crossed the borders of the closet, and the street had become an area of choice.
Tristan opened the door of Cafe on Mauri7 "and failed to upset the waitress who greeted him with a cheerful hello and a smile. He did not notice and went to his usual table at the back of the bar, in the dark corner, where a bay window opening into the passage Brady. He asked for two coffees and a glass of water, and resumed the course of his thoughts. The pretty waitress tried to catch the eye of Tristan, in vain, as usual. So, resigned to remain today as yesterday, transparent, she turned and bellowed the command to his colleague, stuck behind the counter.
- Good! Exclaimed she snorted, as if to drive the knot that formed in the flow of his thoughts.
She exchanged a look of complicity with his assistant, sighed again, and asked him.
- I think it will further examine our restaurant. I held this evening, when will the office and must also verify that it has really no relationship to the victim, and probe the network, whether Voltaire was in a bad patch lately. Thou canst load please? That
. It was exactly this trait, he liked her. She told you, thank you, please, hello and I pray you, as soon as she spoke to someone from his entourage. Basic politeness, completely disappeared in the building for decades, due to reports of virile and effective, even among colleagues. He blamed its sensitivity. She responded with ways more affable, and landed the next day with shoes with heels higher than yesterday. During interrogation, she could be of infinite patience. Flexible and pugnacious. She kept her calm, indifferent to long periods of silence. Questioned, with a sense of politeness and respect that his colleagues made him nervous, and softened the suspect. Suddenly, on a trivial pretext, she left the room, and left the field open to the colleague that triggers its questionnaire, closed doors: Threat, yell, punch on the table, creaking of chairs. Then nothing. Silence. Rule Generally, it reminded FG after half an hour, at the request of the suspect, and the guy unpacked everything, without being asked nicely and well. Well, yes, it did not. Be many exceptions. But generally, his tactic had proven, and forced over the years, the respect, if not the admiration, the other cops of the building.
- OK, I'll do it. I'll let you regain the office?
- Yes. See you later. From my side, I'll walk a little longer. Gaëtan
planting there, and rushed into the first subway visible on the main boulevard. France continued to not quiet This time, his walk thoughtful, and engaged in a street that joined after a long walk, the Rue de Rivoli.
*** Meanwhile, Tristan, resigned, had just finished closing the gates on the scene of the drama. A drastic cleaning was done by specialists under the following afternoon. He then planned a timeout - the pun does cheered point - in order to ventilate and allow the stench of dead and disinfectant, to disappear. He especially wanted to return to the furnaces as soon as possible, to work a full day and part of the night if necessary, to make roast studded with garlic, simmered dishes, saturated with wine and spices, kneading and brown buns impregnated with orange blossoms, with golden, very sweet to fire, pounds of butter, to obtain this beautiful steam hazelnut, chopping knife whole bunches of basil, tarragon and mint, and thus coat the walls and beams of invisible scented syrup and smear tablecloths and curtains, aromatic constellations. Tristan wanted to paint, at once pots, wire whip, and a generous ladle of movement, its restaurant and soothing fragrance of abundant, to eradicate this terrible discovery in the sweet fragrance.
He hoped at best for the reopening this weekend. But he doubted it. Meanwhile, he did not know what to do with this empty, suddenly appeared in his daily routine artfully arranged. Rooted from dawn until evening, around the creation and implementation of two recipes: search and selection of ingredients, preparation and just cooked. Instinctively, he reached into his jacket pocket his phone, and reminded Anthony that he had joined shortly after his phone call to police, saying he had changed his mind, he would appreciate finally his presence. "We gotta talk. I'm at the pub, join me as soon as you can. " It
putting up his laptop and staring into space, led by the following observation: in the end, he had time to reflect on this strange morning. He walked with rapid steps to the porch of the Rue des Petites Stables that opened on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis and, deaf to the crowd standing in this long and narrow artery, indifferent to the many signs of recognition that these Nearby shops were sending him, he traced his trail and tried to regain his train of thought, where his nose left off.
He tried to remember when he had crossed this particular smell. This fine balance, he managed to isolate the most complex and extensive blend of jam and bread that welled lost body, which was at the end of the legs of the victim. He had crossed that signature to a period of his life, daily. It was the rendezvous of what time? At that time, any young child, he spent part of his afternoon of Wednesday, and his days on Saturday, in a cupboard at the bottom of the large houses where they lived, his mother and himself. A small two-room, placed near the Sacred Heart, balance on a very steep street. The building was heeling squarely to the left, and it amused the visitors who were at Mom's place, an air roller coaster. The stairs were really twisted, while the door frame leading into the entrance of the apartment no longer coincided with the long line. It sometimes happened that some visitors a little too big brush against their hair, the ceiling lower and lower to the bathroom. Cramped cubbyhole, smell musty permanent sinking slowly but surely toward a trench dug underground as a Swiss cheese, the hill of Montmartre. A Housing, which had become over the years, a vast field of curiosity. In this piece, which took the place of living to do everything and bedroom, there stood, leaning against the wall near the entrance and away from the bed, through a judicious arrangement of three screens on which his mom forgot deliberately visits to withdraw some lace stockings and a huge wardrobe, a legacy of great aunt who had lived in the colonies, and whose wooden doors, a beautiful dark red, were carefully perforated to allow free movement air. Locked indoors He distinguished nothing and remained hidden from the eyes of others. A soft shadows enabled him to play or read quietly away in this tiny cabin fitted snugly, while the men talked of passage with her mom. Tristan and had developed a secret game. Unable to see the visitors, but curious to differentiate them, he had learned to recognize each in their fragrance. And over the years, he had memorized as a succession of details, features seductive, strange or ridiculous, which he then translated into a school exercise book, a transcript very personal: a sequence of words, phrase, or drawings, to evoke the smell of the unknown. Opposite each description matched a lover, called the time of his appointment. Sometimes, but that was rare, the schedule was moved. The smell persisted. Although the scent of soap or aftershave changed the character of the epidermis and hair remained more or less constant. The nose of the little boy had sharpened up power cut in tiny slices fragrant anyone passing within range. Because obviously, the game had crossed the borders of the closet, and the street had become an area of choice.
Tristan opened the door of Cafe on Mauri7 "and failed to upset the waitress who greeted him with a cheerful hello and a smile. He did not notice and went to his usual table at the back of the bar, in the dark corner, where a bay window opening into the passage Brady. He asked for two coffees and a glass of water, and resumed the course of his thoughts. The pretty waitress tried to catch the eye of Tristan, in vain, as usual. So, resigned to remain today as yesterday, transparent, she turned and bellowed the command to his colleague, stuck behind the counter.
to follow ...
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