To start at the beginning of the story go here.
At finding that the policeman I was speaking with was the very same one Mitnick had pointed me at, an odd kind of bitter irony made its way into my smile. “Of course you are.”
Rotella was understandably confused by this reply. He put his sunglasses back and asked, “Excusez-moi? Do I know you?”
“No, no,” I assured him. “But you’re the lead investigator on this?” I indicated the blackened shell of the station as another piece of it fell inward.
Rotella’s face sharpened as his instincts told him something wasn’t right. “How do you know this?”
I smiled again, blithely as only a willfully ignorant American can. “I spoke with a gendarme yesterday. He mentioned an Inspector Rotella was heading up the investigation into the fire.” I let my smile drop, pushed away as if something had crowded into my tiny mind. “If there wasn’t a murder, why would the National Police be involved?”
Rotella’s suspicion continued as a question. “Who was this gendarme that you spoke with?”
I shrugged, pretending to be as senseless as when the Russian had beaten me. “I don’t remember.”
Rotella’s face stayed pinched as he held onto his suspicion. He turned back to the fire brigadier for a few quick words, than came walking towards me. “What is it that you wish to know?”
I brought up the notepad and pencil, mimicking something I had seen in Superman comics. “How did the fire start?”
Rotella fished in his breast pocket for his own cigarette. “It was arson.”
“So it was intentional?” I asked, as if I didn’t know what arson meant.
Rotella paused, the blackness of his sunglasses contemplating if I was stupid, a liar, or a stupid liar. He put the cigarette into his mouth with a, “Oui.”
“Any idea as to motive?”
“Non.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
That inquiry paused Rotella, perhaps causing the question of my honesty and intelligence to become unbearable. “I thought you knew the answer to that? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Sure. But I’ve only heard rumors. I was hoping for an official statement.”
“An official statement is ready for you down at the commissariat.” He moved to return to the Renault, ending the conversation.
Despite my attempts to appear as a clueless, well-intended American, the dismissal caused enough of my dander to stand up that I moved to block Rotella’s path. He raised his chin to say something sharp to me, but in craning his head he seemed to become aware of how much larger I was. “Can you talk unofficially? Off the record?” Even behind the sunglasses I could see Rotella’s face work, trying to resolve whatever contradictory impulses his impatience and my size were causing. I used that indecision to continue, “I heard a rumor there was more than one victim.” I tried to clarify this through a question, “That there was more than one body recovered from the fire? But they weren’t station employees?”
Whatever temporary intimidation my imposing buly might have caused, Rotella’s professionalism and curiosity overrode it. He stared at me for a long, evaluating moment, then said, “You are well-informed. For an American.”
I realized that Rotella was tacitly telling me that my statement was correct. Instead of taking this small consolation and moving on I rapidly asked, “If they weren’t employees, who were they? Why were they in the station? How did they get trapped in the fire?”
Rotella lit his cigarette, any dismay my size might have caused securely stowed. Rather than answering any of my questions, though, he inhaled smoke and replied, “You do not look well.” Feeling all of the bruises crawl over me, I could hardly disagree with him. He slowly exhaled, giving me a moment to respond. When I didn’t he continued, “You should get away from this place. It can’t be good for you.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the station or the city. Either way, I’m not sure he was wrong.
He stepped around me, moving quicker than I would have thought his fatigue would allow, and moved toward the Renault. The fire brigadier was already waiting by the car.
Pushing my luck, I asked him, “Is there a way I could get in touch with you later if I have more questions?”
I could see his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed in his cigarette smoke slowly, gathering patience and whatever else he might need. He reached into another pocket and produced a small white rectangle, no bigger than a business card. He handed it to me, face up, showing the swooping insignia for the National Police above its motto (‘Pro patria vigilant’), his name, phone number, and email. I took it and thanked him, reading over it as he hovered. After a few moments of this, I looked back up at him, wondering what he was waiting for having been eager to escape just a moment ago. When I didn’t do or say anything, Rotella asked, “Do you have a card?”
“I, uh…” I dragged out the last syllable, unaware that this exchange was a part of the French journalist/police subculture. I went with a lie that hadn’t been original since parochial school. I made a show of searching my person, then, “Oh, sorry, I must have forgotten them.”
I could almost feel Rotella’s urge to snatch back his own card, but that only vibrated out of his utter immobility, eyes piercing through his sunglasses. His next words were ever so slightly seasoned with a cold, cop skepticism. “You do not have a card?”
I apologized again, which did nothing to dismiss his incredulity. After an interminable moment, Rotella dryly said, “There’s an official incident report at commissariat. Perhaps you should come by some time and read it.” He tapped his card, which I was still holding between us. “Let me know if you do. We can talk more there.” I smiled and said, “Sure,” certain there was no way I was going to let Rotella get ahold of my anywhere near a police station.
Perhaps sensing that my response was yet another lie, Rotella spun and headed back to the Renault. I walked up to the cordon surrounding the shell of the gas station and pretended to take notes until it drove off.
Dodging traffic I jogged back to Alon. Hopping in the back of the taxi, I told him, “Let’s get you that breakfast.”
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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