Ripples of the Rhône

Lefèvre adjusted his rimless glasses, the floodlights of Place des Terreaux glinting off the lenses like interrogation beams. "Le Juge Sterling a tout vu," he stated, gesturing toward the swarm of PJ officers cordoning off Rue du Bœuf. "Par la fenêtre de son bureau."

Gavin's knuckles whitened around his recovered Cervélo's handlebars. "Je t'ai dit de régler ça discrètement. Pas de transformer le quartier en zone de guerre."

"Désolé," Lefèvre's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Le Procureur était en réunion avec lui quand ton appel est arrivé. Il a insisté pour 'montrer les crocs' aux petits malfrats."

"Pourquoi le Procureur consulterait-il un juge à la retraite?" Gavin's voice dropped to a razor's edge.

Lefèvre leaned in, Chanel No. 5 cutting through the diesel fumes. "Ton grand-père a présidé la commission qui a nommé trois ministres de la Justice. Quand il éternue, le Palais Royal de Justice attrape la pneumonie."

Lydia watched from the shadows of Mémé Louise's noodle workshop, the scene unfolding like a policier film. The PJ's armored vans, Lefèvre's tailored suit, Gavin's effortless command—all underscored a truth she'd avoided: the chasm between her world of flour-dusted aprons and his universe of ministerial whispers.

As Lefèvre retreated, she approached Gavin, her voice brittle. "C'est qui, cet homme? Son costume coûte plus cher que le loyer annuel de la cour."

"Le secrétaire de mon grand-père," Gavin admitted, running a hand through rain-damp hair. "J'ai demandé une faveur simple. Il a déclenché une opération anti-terroriste."

"Ton grand-père a un secrétaire… à la retraite?" Her laugh held no humor. "Il était quoi? Le président de la République?" 

Gavin's gaze slid toward the Saône. "Juste un vieux juge." 

"Vraiment?" She stepped into his sightline, forcing accountability. "Parce que ça ressemble à un mensonge de gosse de riche."

Within the hour, the PJ cornered their suspect: Serge Moreau, a haggard mechanic whose garage reeked of stale wine and regret. Gavin's Cervélo lay dissected on a grease-stained workbench, carbon forks pried from the frame like bones from a carcass. 

"Pourquoi?" Lydia whispered as officers dragged Serge past her. His knuckles bore the telltale scars of bar fights and domestic violence. 

"J'ai vu le vélo…" Serge's voice cracked. "…et j'ai pensé à l'argent. Assez pour quitter cette putain de ville." 

The revelation spread through Croix-Rousse like sewage through a gutter. By dawn, the Moreau family's belongings sat piled on the sidewalk—ostracized by neighbors who'd tolerated Serge's drunken rages but drew the line at attracting elite police attention. Madame Gagnon spat on their mattress as removal men loaded it. "Dehors, les voleurs!" 

Lydia traced the Sterling family crest etched into Gavin's bike frame—a lion rampant clutching scales. The symbol screamed generational privilege. She remembered Serge's wife sobbing over a chipped teacup, their autistic son clutching a threadbare teddy bear. 

"Tu vois maintenant?" Mémé Louise murmured, kneading dough with violent thrusts. "Les Sterling nettoient leurs problèmes avec l'argent des autres."

That night, Lydia burned the sketch she'd made of Gavin's profile. The fragile bud of affection withered beneath the weight of reality: he inhabited a world where justice came with sirens and social cleansing, hers demanded counting centimes for coal. 

The Sterling residence loomed over Quai Saint-Antoine—a Haussmannian fortress where the scent of beeswax and power clung to velvet drapes. Judge Auguste Sterling sat beneath a two-century-old linden tree, chess pieces deployed like juridical battalions.

"Enfin!" The judge's voice boomed, scattering sparrows. "Viens te faire humilier aux échecs, petit." 

Gavin dragged a wrought-iron chair across the gravel. At eight, he'd learned to lose deliberately to this man whose strategic brilliance shone in courtrooms but evaporated over chessboards.

"Tu as soif?" Grandmother Éloïse emerged—a vision in Saint Laurent silk despite the humidity. Former étoile of the Opéra de Lyon, she moved as if still trailing stage lights.

"Un citron pressé?" Gavin requested, innocence perfected over years of manipulation. 

"Tout de suite, mon trésor!" She vanished inside. 

The judge chuckled, stroking his military beard. "Très subtil. L'éloigner pour parler."

Gavin sacrificed a pawn. "Pourquoi le Procureur est-il venu hier?"

"Demander conseil sur l'affaire Dubois." The judge captured the pawn with relish. "Il pensait que la retraite m'avait ramolli." 

"Et?" 

"Je lui ai rappelé l'affaire Benoît-1972." The judge's eyes turned glacial. "Comment j'ai fait tomber un ministre avec trois lignes de comptabilité. Il est reparti plus pâle qu'un fantôme." 

He slid a dossier across the chessboard. Inside: 

Marcel's arrest report

Photos of Danielle meeting Thibault at a Zürich bank

Lab results proving the Mali bullet matched Dubois Textiles' defective vests 

"Ta petite amie a du cran," the judge conceded. "Mais courage sans protection est un suicide." 

Éloïse returned with lemonade. "Pour mon prince." She kissed Gavin's forehead, her perfume a shield against gravity. "Et pour toi, Auguste, du thé." 

The judge waved her away. "Laisse-nous, ma colombe. Ton prince réclame du saucisson de chez Abel." 

"Tout de suite!" Éloïse beamed, already reaching for her Hermès clutch. "Le meilleur pour mon Gavin!"

As her heels clicked toward the gate, the judge's levity vanished. "Maintenant, parle. Pourquoi as-tu risqué une tempête médiatique pour un vélo?" 

Gavin met his grandfather's hawkish gaze. "C'était un message. Voler mon Cervélo sous les fenêtres de Lydia? Trop précis pour être un hasard."

"Danielle?"

"Ou Thibault." Gavin tapped the Mali bullet photo. "Ils savaient que j'avais les preuves. Le vol devait soit me faire fuir… soit me forcer à révéler mes sources."

The judge grunted approval. "Tu as bien joué. En appelant Lefèvre, tu as montré que les Sterling ripostent—sans dévoiler tes véritables armes." 

He slid a velvet box across the board. Inside: a signet ring bearing the Sterling crest—a lion crushing a serpent.

"Porte ça. Ça appartient à ton père." At Gavin's questioning look, he added, "Il l'a enlevé le jour où il a choisi les profits sur les principes. À toi de décider quel Sterling tu seras." 

As Gavin cycled back toward Croix-Rousse, Élodie Marchand's call shattered the twilight: "Prépare Lydia! On tourne demain à l'aube! Des scènes 'authentiques'—sa grand-mère faisant des nouilles, le métier à tisser…" 

Gavin froze. "Pas de plans sur la cour." 

"Bien sûr que non!" Élodie's laugh was shattering glass. "On veut son âme, pas ses pierres." 

The line died. Gavin pedaled faster, the ring burning in his pocket. Élodie's crew would arrive with lenses sharper than scalpels—and Danielle's money funding every frame. 

Lydia waited at her loom, moonlight silvering a half-finished tapestry: a lion wrestling a serpent over a bicycle. 

"Ils viennent demain," Gavin warned. 

"Je sais." Her shuttle flew, threads tightening. "J'ai une idée." 

She lifted the loom's cover. Beneath lay:

Mémé Louise's spare microphone sewn into her apron

The Mali bullet embedded in wax—ready for its close-up

Captain Shaw's journal opened to a damning entry about Thibault

"Tu veux les provoquer?" Gavin gripped her shoulders.

"Non." Her smile held winter. "Je veux qu'ils se filment en train de s'autodétruire."

As midnight bells tolled, Danielle Dubois stood on her balcony overlooking their courtyard. She raised a champagne flute in mocking salute—unaware of the PJ surveillance van parked in the shadows, Lefèvre's lens capturing every move.