Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand
“The city was as mournful as an old duchess, in the ruins of her estate, still wearing the ragged remains of her robes. Dirt and poverty had replaced the former wealth of old Detroit.‘Here’s the block,’ said Adamsberg, consulting his street plan.He looked up at the building, which was soot-blackened but otherwise in good condition, with a cafe on the ground floor, as if he were examining a historic monument. And in a sense he was, since behind these walls Raphaël lived, moved and slept.‘The Moun...ties are parking twenty metres behind us,’ Retancourt remarked. ‘Very clever. What can they be thinking of? Do they really imagine we haven’t noticed they’ve been behind us all the way from Gatineau?’Adamsberg was leaning forward, his arms folded tightly against his stomach.‘You go in on your own, commissaire,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and sit in the cafe.’‘I can’t,’ said Adamsberg in a whisper. ‘And what’s the use anyway? I’m on the run like he is.’‘Exactly, so you’re quits.MoreLess
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