Poliveau. Franck. Lieutenant. Just hearing the name makes the skin on the back of my neck tighten. Ass. Pain. In The.
Thing is, I brought this headache on myself when I brought Poliveau on my team. He was with the first-responders who arrived at the Seine murder scene. I saw he was sharp, and I needed an extra pair of hands, so I took him on—in spite of his being smug and uptight. I figured it was just inexperience that made him self-righteous, so, to take him down a peg, I gave him the nickname "Fifi" then set out to school him.
I thought it would amuse me. I was wrong.
Turns out, Fifi's the offspring of a man from Internal Affairs, which explains his sense of entitlement, and that he's a by-the-book fusspot. I can feel his eyes on me while I work—scrutinizing, judging, questioning. Taking notes. I have a feeling I've just inherited my own personal Internal Affairs. I better be a good boy.
Moudie's not at all happy about Fifi coming on board. I have to keep an extra firm grip on his leash these days. He's very protective of his number-two status, and Fifi's ambition is obvious—always the first to run to the lab or volunteer ideas, especially when the chief is around. But Moudie shouldn't feel threatened. It's me Fifi seems to be gunning for.
I should hate the kid, but strangely, I don't. That's the real reason for my headache. He has qualities I like—he's unflinching, sure of himself; he speaks his mind. And even though he's an uptight prig, he's unapologetic about it. It's hard to dislike someone that forthright. At least he declares himself openly; I can deal with that. Fifi is just young. A few more years on the job and he'll learn how much of life falls outside his little rule book. He's got the stuff to be a great detective—shrewd, thorough, relentless. He just needs to get out of his way. And mine.