Central Park

by Guillaume Musso

  There were four photos attached.

  Alice put her face as close to the screen as possible. At 8:12 p.m., two pictures showed the Audi entering the parking garage. The quality of the images was not as bad as Seymour had claimed. Alice could see her own face through the windshield quite clearly, and it was obvious that she was alone. At 12:17 a.m., two other photographs showed the Audi exiting. This time, Alice was not alone—and she was not driving. She looked as if she had collapsed; she was slumped in the passenger seat. A man was behind the wheel. His face wasn’t visible in the first picture, but in the second he was looking up.

  Alice opened the image on the full screen and used the touchpad to zoom in.

  Her blood froze in her veins.

  There could be no doubt about it.

  The man behind the wheel of the Audi was Seymour.

  21

  The Veil

  THE MUSTANG MOVED through darkness.

  The storm lashed against the mountain with devastating power. The wind buffeted the car, the rain hammering noisily against its windows and the plastic sheet.

  They had reached the summit of the mountain a half hour ago and begun the long descent to the valley. The road, made slippery by the rain, swept vertiginously through endless curves.

  Alice held a printout of the image from the parking garage in one hand and stared at Seymour’s face, illuminated by the pale light of her phone. She had tried calling her friend several times, but each time it had gone straight to voice mail.

  She looked again at the picture, this time at herself sitting next to Seymour in her Audi. She looked drunk, a crumpled figure but not completely unconscious.

  How could she have no memory of this incident that had happened only last night? She tried again to unfreeze this part of her memory, but her way was still barred by the same gauzy veil. Through force of will, however, the clockwork of her brain suddenly seemed to come unblocked. Alice’s heart raced. Yes, the memories were there! Hidden in the misty maze of her subconscious. The truth was there—she could discern its outline, circle it, but whenever she came close to grasping it, it would wither, scatter, dissolve inside the freezing car.

  She felt like Tantalus.

  Suddenly, a flash of crimson diluted the night’s blackness. Alice turned; the red gas warning light was blinking on the dashboard.

  “Shit,” breathed Gabriel. “We might not have enough to get to the hospital. This car is a real gas-guzzler!”

  “How much farther do you think we can get?”

  “Thirty miles, max.”

  Alice shone her phone light on the road map. “Look, it looks like there’s a gas station just here. You think we can make it that far?”

  Gabriel squinted at the map. “It’ll be tight, but we might be able to. We don’t have much choice.”

  The wind tried to infiltrate the Shelby. The rain kept bucketing down. Eyes glued to the road, Gabriel spoke: “I have to admit, with that Seymour guy, I never felt like he—”

  Alice sighed wearily. “You don’t know him.”

  “He just always seemed kinda shifty to me.”

  “You’re talking out of your ass. Let’s hear his version before we judge him.”

  “What difference does it make what his version is?” Gabriel demanded testily. “He’s been lying to you from the beginning. Lying to us! Fuck, maybe everything he told us today is bullshit!”

  Alice thought anxiously about this possibility. Gabriel fumbled in his shirt pocket, found a cigarette, and lit it without taking his eyes off the road. “Same goes for your father!”

  “That’s enough. Leave my father out of this.”

  He exhaled a few smoke rings that drifted and dissolved inside the car.

  “All I’m saying is that you’re surrounded by people who are lying to you and putting you in danger.”

  Now that they were back in the valley, there were other vehicles on the road. A truck was coming in the other lane now, its high beams on.

  “And you keep making excuses for them!” Gabriel went on.

  Exasperated, Alice defended herself angrily. “Without Seymour and without my father, I wouldn’t even be here. How do you think someone can keep living after a madman has stabbed her, killed her child, and left her for dead in a pool of blood?”

  Gabriel tried to argue his point, but Alice talked over him: “I was devastated after Paul died, and they were the only ones who supported me! How can you not understand that?”

  Gabriel let it drop. He continued smoking his cigarette in silence, his face pensive. Alice sighed and turned toward the window. The rain drummed on the glass. Memories bombarded her mind.

  I remember…

  December 2011–July 2013

  I remember.

  I remember being certain that I was going to end it all.

  I couldn’t imagine any other outcome; as soon as I got home, I would take my service pistol and fire a bullet into my head.

  One shot, and at least I wouldn’t slip any closer to hell.

  I had played this movie over and over again in my mind while I was stranded in that hospital bed—the sound of the magazine clicking into place, the taste of cold metal in my mouth, the barrel pointing up so it would explode my brain.

  I used to fix on that image as a way of getting to sleep: My finger on the trigger. My head blown to pieces. Salvation.

  And yet, that was not the trajectory my life took.

  “You’re going to live with us,” my father told me when he came to pick me up from the hospital.

  I looked at him, wide-eyed. “What do you mean, ‘with us’?”

  “With me and your friend, that nice young gay fellow.”

  Without telling me, while I was in the hospital, my father had rented a large house with a garden on Rue du Square-Montsouris—a former painter’s studio surrounded by greenery. Like a little bit of countryside in the middle of the fourteenth arrondissement.

  Seymour had just broken up with his partner, and my father took advantage of this to persuade him to move into the house with us. I knew that my colleague had a complicated romantic life; for professional reasons, his long-time boyfriend—a dancer and choreographer with the Paris Opera—had left France for the United States, and their relationship had not survived the trial by distance.

  And so, for almost two years, the three of us lived together. Our odd arrangement worked surprisingly well. Against all expectations, Seymour and my father put aside their prejudices and became the best of friends, each strangely fascinated by the other. Seymour was impressed by the legendary cop that was Alain Schafer—his flair, his big mouth, his sense of humor, his ability to impose his point of view, and his rebellious streak. As for my father, he realized that he had been too quick to judge my young colleague, who was an unusual character—rich, dandyish, and highly cultured but always ready to use his fists and happy to down glasses of twenty-year-old whiskey.

  Most of all, the two men were united by their fierce determination to protect me from myself. During the weeks that followed my return, my father took me on vacation in Italy and Portugal. In early spring, Seymour took time off work to go with me to Los Angeles and San Francisco. These trips, coupled with a cocoon-like family atmosphere, helped me get through that period without falling to pieces.

  I went back to work as soon as I could, even though, for the first six months, I remained on desk duty. Seymour had taken my place as the head of the Schafer squad, and I made do with the position of paper-pusher, gathering and organizing all the documents that made up the legal file used in court. For a year, I was “closely monitored” by a psychiatrist who specialized in dealing with post-traumatic stress.

  In the Criminal Division, I was in a difficult situation. After the Vaughn fiasco, Taillandier had me in her sights. In other circumstances, the department would simply have fired me, but the media had gotten hold of my story. Paris Match devoted a four-page spread to my tragedy, transforming my bad decision-making into a romantic thriller where
I had the starring role—I was a Parisian Clarice Starling, risking everything to catch a killer. After that, I was even given the Medal of Honor by the minister of the interior for my acts of courage and dedication. This media benediction and the bonus I received had angered my colleagues, of course, but at least it allowed me to keep doing my job.

  Some ordeals you never really get over, but you survive them all the same. Part of me was undone, wounded, destroyed. The past still choked me, but I was lucky enough to have people around me who stopped me from sinking.

  Paul was dead. My baby was dead. Love seemed impossible now. But, deep down, I had the confused feeling that the story was not over. That maybe life still had something to give me.

  So, little by little, I began to live again. A blurry, impressionistic life, fed on scraps: a walk in the woods on a sunny day, an hour spent running on the beach, something sweet my father said to me, a fit of uncontrollable laughter with Seymour, a glass of Saint-Julien out on the terrace, the first buds of spring, weekly outings with my old college friends, an old edition of Wilkie Collins discovered at a used-book stall…

  In September 2012, nearly a year after the attack, I took over as head of the team again. My fascination with police work and my passion for investigation had not gone away, and for a year or so after that, the Schafer squad was on a roll—we quickly solved every case we were assigned. The dream team was back.

  The wheel of fortune turns fast. By early the next summer I had regained my credibility in the Criminal Division. I had also regained my self-respect and the respect of my men. It felt like we were all on the same side again.

  I had the sharp sense that maybe life still had something to give me.

  I never would have guessed that it would take the form of another ordeal.

  22

  Vaughn

  WIND HOWLED ALL around them. The duct tape had finally given way in the powerful gusts, freeing the plastic sheet over the window and creating a gaping hole at the back of the Shelby. The rain beat down in a rage, flooding the sports car’s floor and seats.

  “We’re almost there!” Alice shouted over the din of the storm. The map that lay on her lap was soaked, disintegrating in her hands.

  Slowing down, they carefully crossed an intersection where the traffic lights had stopped working due to the storm, then, just afterward, they sighed with relief as they saw the sign for the Grant General Store and Gas Station shining in the night.

  They stopped next to the two gas pumps in front of the store. Gabriel honked the horn several times to let the owners know they were there. Protected by an umbrella and a windbreaker, a toothless old gas attendant ran up to them and leaned down to their window.

  “My name’s Virgil. How can I help you folks?”

  “Fill her up, please.”

  “Sure. You should get that back window fixed too!”

  “Can you give us a hand with it?” Gabriel said. “Maybe if you have a tarp or a piece of canvas?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Virgil promised. “In the meantime, why don’t you go inside and warm up?”

  They got out of the car and ran to the shelter of the store’s awning. Rain streaming down their faces, they opened the door and found themselves in a large, noisy, lively room. The place was divided in two. On the right was a traditional general store with creaking wooden floorboards and old-fashioned shelves filled with jams, maple syrup, honey, snacks, candy bars, and so on. A small stand displayed homemade pies and brownies. On the other side was a long diner-style counter. A large woman stood behind it serving food and drinks.

  It had a good-natured, family atmosphere, with customers at the counter digging into eggs with bacon, hash browns, or steaks, washed down with pints of home-brewed beer. There were rock-and-roll concert posters from the 1950s on the walls, and the diner seemed such an anachronism that Alice and Gabriel would hardly have been surprised to find out that Chuck Berry, Bill Haley, or Buddy Holly was playing there the next weekend.

  Alice and Gabriel sat on two red leather stools at the back corner of the counter. That way, they were able to face each other.

  “What can I get for you lovebirds?” the waitress asked, handing them two plastic-covered menus.

  They weren’t especially hungry, but they realized they couldn’t sit there without ordering something.

  While they made their choices, she filled two large glasses with water and pushed a metal napkin holder toward them. “Look at you, you’re soaked to the bone! You should dry yourselves off before you catch your death.”

  They thanked her. Gabriel ordered a toasted BLT and Alice a clam chowder. While they waited for their food to arrive, they used the napkins to wipe the water from their faces and necks and to rub their hair dry.

  “Enjoy!” the waitress said, bringing them a sandwich cut in triangles and chowder served in a hollowed-out loaf of bread.

  On the bar in front of them, two glasses of whiskey appeared as if by magic in her large hands.

  “On the house,” she said, “to warm you up. This is from ol’ Virgil’s personal supply.”

  “Thank you so much!” Keyne said warmly, tasting a mouthful of rye. He bit into his sandwich and waited until the woman was out of earshot before looking at Alice.

  “We’re about ten miles from the hospital, Schafer, so we should probably discuss our options now.”

  She sipped her soup. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m serious, Alice. I know how much pain Vaughn put you through, you and your family.”

  “Kind of an understatement.”

  “But let’s be clear about one thing: We’re not here to punish him. Understood? We go to the hospital, we arrest the guy, and we take him straight to Boston to interrogate him legally.”

  Alice looked away. She too tasted the whiskey. It had notes of apricot, plum, and clove.

  “Agreed?” Gabriel insisted.

  “You take care of your responsibilities, I’ll take care of mine,” Alice replied.

  Refusing to be deflected, Gabriel raised his voice. “All right, well, my first responsibility is to take that gun off you. Give it to me right now or you’re not leaving this bar.”

  “Go screw yourself!”

  “This isn’t negotiable, Alice.”

  She hesitated, but then, realizing Gabriel was not going to compromise, she removed the Glock from its holster and handed it to him under the counter.

  “Believe me, it’s better this way,” he said, sliding it into his belt.

  With a shrug, she downed the rest of her whiskey. Just like every time she drank, she seemed to almost physically sense the alcohol flowing through her bloodstream. The first glass always gave her a rare sense of well-being, an adrenaline shot that sharpened her senses. The exhilarating impression of losing control just a little.

  Her gaze flitted around the room from one person to another, one object to another, finally landing on Gabriel’s glass of whiskey. There, she stared in fascination at the variations of light floating on the surface of the liquid, the shifting gleams of gold, copper, bronze, and amber. The world was spinning around her. Right now, she felt the same sensation that had gripped her earlier in the car—the euphoric certainty that she was closer to the truth than ever before. The conviction that she was finally approaching the critical moment when she would be able to tear away the veil of ignorance.

  Her gaze dissolved in the myriad colors of the whiskey. She felt paralyzed, incapable of tearing her eyes away from her partner’s glass. And then, suddenly, she got goose bumps on her arms and felt her throat tighten. And she realized that what she was staring at was not the glass of whiskey but the hand that encircled it—Gabriel’s hand. To be more precise, at his finger tapping nervously, rhythmically, on the side of the glass. She could see it with amazing clarity, as if she were looking through a magnifying glass. Gabriel’s hand—the curved fingers, the little wrinkles on his knuckles, the tiny cross-shaped scar on his right index finger. The type of injury you get in childho
od by carelessly closing the sharpened blade of your first jackknife, the trace of which, left by the doctor’s stitches, will stay with you all your life.

  Without warning, Virgil’s hairy face suddenly appeared between them at the corner of the bar.

  “I fixed something up for your window, folks. You wanna come take a look and see if it’ll do?”

  Gabriel stood up. “Stay here, where it’s warm,” he said to her. “I’ll come and get you when I know for sure we’re all set to go.”

  Her cheeks burning, Alice watched Gabriel walk away. She could feel her heart savagely pounding in her chest, her whole being blazing up, out of control. Her head spinning. The sensation of drowning. The need to know.

  “You okay, darling? Can I get you anything else?”

  Alice picked up her glass of rye and drank it down in one gulp. She wanted to believe that the alcohol would clear her thoughts. Or at least give her courage.

  Do or die!

  She opened her satchel and took out the fingerprint kit. With a paper napkin, she picked up the glass Gabriel had been drinking from and carried out the same procedure she had performed earlier on the syringe: using the magnetic brush to sweep the black powder over it, finding the print of the index finger, trapping it with sticky tape, and affixing it to the bottom of the drinks coaster, next to the print from the syringe. Her movements were precise, mechanical. Time was passing quickly. There was no room for even the slightest error.

  Alice had brought the coaster close to her face and was examining the two fingerprints when the bell above the door jingled.

  She turned around and saw Gabriel coming toward her.

  “We can go now,” he called out over the hubbub of voices.

  Sweat prickled her scalp as Gabriel moved closer with an easy, open smile.

  “That Virgil guy did a great job. The old car’s waterproof again!”

  One last roll of the dice…