PRAISE FOR OTHER WORKS BY FRÉDÉRIQUE MOLAY
“Frédérique Molay exhibits high standards of writing. Art and the meaning of life mix perfectly here, in a story that expresses a desire to love and believe in people.”
—Le Bien Public
“The 7th Woman blends suspense and authentic police procedure with a parallel tale of redemption. Well-drawn characters and ratcheting tension won’t let you put the book down. I read this in one sitting.”
—Paris mystery writer Cara Black
“Frédérique Molay is the French Michael Connelly.”
—Jean Miot, Agence France-Presse (AFP)
“The 7th Woman is a taut and terror-filled thriller. Frédérique Molay navigates French police procedure with a deft touch, creating a lightning-quick, sinister plot with twists and turns that kept me reading late and guessing to the very end. Inspector Nico Sirsky is every bit as engaging and dogged as Arkady Renko in Gorky Park and is sure to become a favorite with readers in the United States and around the world.”
—New York Times bestselling author Robert Dugoni
“It’s the kind of suspense that makes you miss your subway stop or turn off your phone.”
—RTL
“A slick, highly realistic, and impeccably crafted thriller. Likeable characters, outstanding pacing, and unexpected plot twists that keep readers guessing throughout . . . an extraordinary, hard-hitting novel.”
—Foreword Reviews
“Author Frédérique Molay does a superb job of building the suspense in overt and subtle ways . . . Don’t pick this book up unless you’re planning to read for a while because, I assure you, you won’t be able to put it down.”
—Criminal Element
“Procedural fans will appreciate the fresh take.”
—Booklist
“It is a handsomely written and wonderfully translated Parisian police procedural that also will prowl your mind . . . The ugly parts are appalling, but Molay has the prowess to touch lightly upon them before exploring the horror seeping into the hardened police ranks.”
—Durango Herald
“More chilling suspense from Frédérique Molay.”
—Metro
“A sophisticated murder mystery . . . that twists, turns, and is stitched together by a gossamer thread.”
—Durango Herald
“From the Paris setting to the autopsy scenes, Molay’s descriptions add believable imagery to this page-turner mystery.”
—Foreword Reviews
“Molay is just the ticket.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is a fine procedural, with a vividly evoked Paris setting, compelling characters, and plenty of suspense.”
—Booklist
“With a little bit about art, and the history of Paris thrown in, this was an intelligent read that I particularly enjoyed.”
—Eurocrime
“A story that the fans of quality crime fiction will surely enjoy.”
—Crime Factory
“Molay can give CSI writers a run for their money . . . The book transported me to Paris.”
—Marienela blog
OTHER PARIS HOMICIDE MYSTERIES
The 7th Woman
Crossing the Line
The City of Blood
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Frédérique Molay
Translation copyright © 2017 Anne Trager & Le French Book
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Copier n’est pas jouer by Amazon Publishing in France in 2016. Translated from French by Anne Trager and Le French Book with the collaboration of Amy Richards, translation editor. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503941625
ISBN-10: 1503941620
Cover design by Jeroen ten Berge
CONTENTS
Start Reading
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3
4
5
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7
8
9
10
11
12
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31
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
However well you feed the wolf,
he still looks to the woods.
—Russian proverb
1
He tied up the body with great care, closed the suitcase, and pulled out the handle. His breathing was calm now.
With the warm, husky voice of Norah Jones traveling through his earbuds, he had stared at his prey. Sweat trickled down his back. All his senses were aroused. He quivered and felt dizzy.
Terrified, she had tried to fight back. But what could she have done? He was six feet tall, with the broad shoulders of an athlete. He covered her mouth and crushed her with all his weight. Then he grabbed the knife. He read the fear in her eyes, followed by capitulation. She knew she was going to die. There was no other outcome.
How could he possibly go on living without this kind of thrill?
Killing was so simple in the end. Child’s play.
2
Sunday, May 5
Nico pulled Caroline closer, savoring the moment of bliss under the disheveled sheet. Even now, his desire for her remained as powerful as the first time they made love.
Caroline tucked her body into his. He felt himself growing aroused, but before he could act on it, she giggled and slapped him lightly on the thigh.
“That’s enough, Inspector. Time to get up and get dressed. We have things to do today—a nice long walk and a picnic ahead of us.”
“Just a few more minutes,” he pleaded. As he began nuzzling her neck, his phone rang.
Nico and Caroline groaned in unison.
“No . . .” she said.
Nico gave her an apologetic look. “You know I have to take it.”
“I know.”
Five minutes later, he was in his car, his siren wailing and the blue gumdrop on the roof flashing like a dance-floor strobe. The traffic parted for him, and chief of police Nico Sirsky floored the gas pedal while Seal’s “Crazy” blared from the speakers.
Nico knew he had to be crazy to be able to turn away from his loved ones—their laughter and joie de vivre—to do his job day in and day out. He had pried himself from Caroline’s arms for yet another rotting body. Why? Why did he continue to subject himself to this? When he was younger, he thought he could save the world. But today? People killed for no reason at all. They killed as if it were a game.
Seal’s rich, honest voice, the slamming of the bass guitar, and the throbbing of the keyboard served to focus his energy.
“We’ve got a body,” Commander David Kriven had said on the phone. “She’s being prepped for autopsy right now. Professor Vilars won’t start without you.”
Professor Arm
elle Vilars was the coroner and head of the Paris Medical Examiner’s Office.
“Is Vidal there?”
Captain Pierre Vidal was the crime scene investigator on Kriven’s team. The famed Paris Criminal Investigation Division at 36 Quai des Orfèvres had twelve teams, with six elite investigators on each, each one of whom had a specific skill set and role.
“He’s still at the scene on the Square du Temple, where they found the girl. Plassard’s running the show there.”
Captain Franck Plassard was Kriven’s right-hand man.
“Did the local precinct officers make a fuss?”
“Nope, they’re cool in the third arrondissement. Handed the case right over.”
Kriven was silent for a moment.
“Kriven? Are you okay?”
“Chief, prepare yourself. It’s sick.”
Nico strode through the lobby, with its polished wood floors, white walls, and busts of past medical examiners. French doors led to a small patio with flowers and a fountain. Nico knew how Armelle Vilars treasured this garden oasis. He often saw her watering the plants, which were as silent as her patients.
“Hello, Chief. Professor Vilars is expecting you in autopsy.”
The receptionist was a new addition. She had two primary functions: greeting visitors and providing support to the families of homicide and accident victims. For years, Vilars had done the job of supporting the families herself, but she had finally gotten the usually callous administration to budget enough money for the receptionist.
“Thanks,” he said, nodding to the woman and continuing down the hallway. He felt her eyes on him. Although he didn’t pay a great deal of attention to his looks, he knew he had an effect on women. Caroline had once described him as “six feet three inches of muscle, blond hair, and clear blue eyes.” He grinned at the memory. As long as he was attractive to her, that was all he cared about.
Inside the locker room, he washed his hands and put on a gown, the ritual required to enter the devil’s lair.
“Nico,” Vilars said, not even looking up.
He glanced at the stainless-steel table and the coroner’s instruments before giving David Kriven a nod. The commander’s face spoke volumes, and Nico understood right away. The little girl’s body looked like a rag doll. And worse, her organs were piled on a nearby tray.
“We took pictures already,” Vilars said. “I’m ready to start the external exam.”
Her assistant snipped off a lock of hair and scraped under the girl’s fingernails. Vilars swabbed her mouth. Nico listened to the medical examiner as she enumerated her observations. He focused on the words, trying to keep the sight from getting to him.
“The head, thorax, and abdomen all show damage from a sharp object. The assault was brutal.”
Nico noted that Vilars wasn’t using any personal pronouns. It was the head, the assault, as if Vilars, too, was trying to contain her emotions. He saw her blink several times.
“The force of the blows dislocated the cervical vertebrae. The eye sockets are empty, and traces of the blade are clearly visible.”
Vilars grabbed a thermometer with a flexible probe and stuck it in the girl’s ear, forcing it to reach the brain.
Kriven took a step back and looked away.
“The body temperature is unusually low, less than seven degrees Celsius.”
After a moment of silence, Vilars looked up, as if to make sure the others understood what she was getting at. “She was frozen.”
Her waterproof green smock rustled as she leaned against the table and looked Nico in the eye. “The autopsy is going to be tough and complicated. We’re going to have to wait for the body to thaw. I imagine you have better things to do.”
“Yep,” Kriven said. His forehead had a sheen of perspiration, despite the glacial air-conditioning in the room.
“You’ll have my report as soon as possible.”
That was their signal to leave. Had Nico been a rookie cop, he might have figured an autopsy couldn’t get any worse. But he knew better. He had seen his fair share of worse. He led Kriven out of the room.
“Give me the rundown,” he said when they were back outside. He took in the overhead metro line, the honking cars on the street, and the acrid smell of exhaust fumes while he waited for Kriven to collect himself.
“Three students who’d had too much to drink were on their way home from a party,” Kriven finally said. “They needed to take a leak and decided to climb over the locked gates at the Square du Temple to piss behind a tree. That’s where they found the body. It sobered them right up.”
“No surprise there.”
“I’m thinking the body got to the park in a suitcase. The team found footprints and the tracks of two small wheels. The rain we had yesterday evening will help us. The ground’s still wet. Vidal’s getting casts.”
“The neighbors see anything?”
“We’re canvassing now.”
“Keep me posted.”
Kriven nodded and hurried to his car. Nico looked at his watch—it was only nine o’clock. He’d swing home to shower and change. His clothes smelled like death.
On the way to his car, images of the girl’s mutilated body filled his mind. Who was she? Had she been reported missing? Were her parents searching the streets of Paris for her or waiting by the phone, terrified that their child had been harmed?
Nico shivered. He couldn’t dwell on the victim. He needed to focus on the killer. What serious behavioral disorder could cause someone to inflict such violence upon a child? Had a pedophile done this? A twisted father, or a brother, or an uncle? He couldn’t bear the thought. Ideas flashed in his mind, one after the other, like a slide projector, each supposition darker than the previous one. For now, he had no way to sift through them all. They piled up in his head until he felt like his brain would explode.
As Commander David Kriven approached the Square du Temple, he could see uniformed officers crisscrossing the green space, their vehicles parked all around.
The park, with its winding paths and colorful flowerbeds, dated back to Georges-Eugène Haussmann’s renovation of Paris. A fortress built by the Templars once stood there, and during the French Revolution, it was the site of a prison where Louis XVI and Louis XVII were held while awaiting their executions.
These days, the Square du Temple, with its English landscaping, ornamental pool and waterfall, ping-pong tables, sandbox, slide, and merry-go-round, drew people from all walks of life, an apt reflection of the culturally diverse and trendy third arrondissement.
That morning, however, yellow crime-scene tape was keeping everyone out. As the police conducted their investigation, residents gawked from their windows and balconies.
“I don’t suppose anybody staring down at us saw anything last night,” Kriven said, a hint of despair in his voice. “They would have had front-row seats.”
“We’re still canvassing,” Plassard said. “Nothing so far.”
“Anything else turn up here?”
“We found tracks on the Rue Perrée side. The team is taking photos.”
“He could have parked there and waited till nobody was around to remove the suitcase. He didn’t have far to go to reach the fence.”
“The park is locked up at night. He climbed over the gate.”
“Once inside, it wouldn’t have been hard to stay hidden.”
Plassard nodded. They started walking toward Vidal and Lieutenant Paco Almeida, who was assisting him. They made quite a pair: Vidal was a grump, while Almeida was a cheerful, optimistic type. Kriven had been paired with Plassard for similar reasons of compatibility—while the captain was laid-back, the commander was a worrier.
“Are you okay?” Plassard asked.
In fact, nothing was okay for Kriven. Although he was still mourning the loss of his newborn—crib death—he was feeling the need to move on. His wife, Clara, however, wasn’t ready to do so. She had refused to get counseling, and every attempt he made to renew their intimacy was met w
ith similar resistance. Instead of responding with warmth, she’d search for the pain in his eyes, as though she held his desire to end his grieving against him. He was tired of it. If she didn’t want to help herself, he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life that way.
“It’s Clara. I think we’re done,” Kriven said softly.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know it’s been a bitch for a while now. You deserve better.”
They reached the tree the students had chosen to pee on, where Vidal was examining the grass.
“Apparently one of the kids had time to pull it out,” Plassard said. “Needless to say, it got stuck in his hand.”
Vidal chuckled. “He’s not going to be urinating in public again anytime soon.”
“Got anything?” Kriven asked.
“The body was stiff and cold as ice. The killer didn’t bleed her here.”
“We searched the park, the playground, and tutti quanti,” Almeida said.
“Damn, now you’re speaking Italian,” Vidal said.
“The most notable thing we’ve got on the weapon is that it’s missing.”
“So,” Vidal said, “our man just came here to get rid of the package.”
“In a place we would find it,” Kriven said, finishing his thought.
3
Monday, May 6
As Nico reached the fourth floor of police headquarters, he felt himself catapulted into darkness. One look at Commander Charlotte Maurin, standing as still as a statue, her face stone cold, and he knew what awaited him.
Is language the adequate expression of all realities? Nico instantly recalled Friedrich Nietzsche’s question, a remnant from his studies at the elite Paris Institute of Political Studies, a.k.a. Sciences Po. The expression on Maurin’s face provided the answer: no. But what other reality lay hidden behind her bleak silence?
“It’s bad,” she said.
They had gotten another new case during her squad’s shift.
“A kid found dead in a middle school. Tenth arrondissement. You coming?”
“Tell me more.”
“Kevin Longin, twelve, seventh grade. Had a record for graffiti and fighting. A teacher found him in a classroom at eight this morning. A few kids saw the body before anyone had time to react. I’ve called in a support unit for them—both the children and the teacher.”
Looking to the Woods Page 1
