by Agnès Ruiz
“You knew the couple well?”
“The wife no. An ordinary woman, I’d say even insipid,” Johnson spat. The husband was something else. Let me be sincere, I never trusted him.”
“And why this?” Rachel shouted.
That was the first testimony to that. She was particularly attentive. Sometimes quarrels between neighbors peddled his share of truth and allowed him to flush out a piece of track.
“Too much money down there. Then his business, the Rambouillet kind, it was fishy.”
“You were close, perhaps?”
“Then what else! No way. I do not like that kind of fellow. He was always well-dressed, with impeccable and waxed shoes as well as custom clothing. There are others who do that too in the district. But Rambouillet was outstanding. You would have seen him with enormous cigars between the teeth. I must say he thought he was a great man, like Churchill!
The detective had felt cigar smells all over the house, especially in Lucien Rambouillet’s office. There were also ashtrays in each room. All empty. There was a cigar box. A beautiful wooden box placed on a desk, like a trophy.
“And what makes you say his business was fishy, to use your words?”
The old man leaned over to Rachel’s desk. With his elbows placed on the surface, he plunged into her green eyes and thundered, like a confidence:
“You should investigate his past. I would have done it well... I always wanted to be an investigative journalist. Not like those junkies, eh, who do not check their sources like the aut’ newspaper which says young Caron is Rambouillet son! Pfff... I could tell you by profession. My parents could not afford it, so I went to the factory at 14 and then I would have died if I had not won the lottery. Do you believe in that chance? I bought the house in the attractive districts, and made investments, safely, of course at low rates... and here I am...”
The man spoke frankly and could prove interesting. This was to be taken into consideration and further investigated in any case, the detective thought.
“Might you have other facts that have aroused you, I do not know, about Mr. Rambouillet’s conduct, for example?”
The man took time to weigh the police officer’s words. Finally, he nodded vigorously.
“Since you say so! Last week he went out, almost every night. It was quite late, 11 pm. I followed him, Jeremiah Johnson faith; I wanted to know what he was up to.”
“What did you discover?”
Rachel had decided to play the game. She did not give up on this non-regulatory spinning. Her mind was in effervescence. Did Lucien Rambouillet have a mistress? Could a jealous husband have avenged himself?
She refused to believe it. There was too much savagery in these crimes. Ms. Rambouillet would not have been tortured in this case...
“The first night, I missed him by an inch. He took his car and mine was in the garage. No sooner did I get it than Rambouillet had flewn away.”
“You had more chances later. Am I mistaken?”
The old man gave her a broad smile.
“I know you were shrewd. That’s why I wanted to deal only with you. You made a good impression on me the night the crimes were discovered. You had an ear to your interlocutors, paying more attention to details.”
Rachel merely nodded. What more could she add?
“After that, I left my car outside. Well, in the street, that’s nothing. Not to mention that it’s an old Chevrolet almost as old as me, so ... “
“And you managed to follow Lucien Rambouillet,” Rachel redirected him.
“Yeah, Ma’am! He stopped in front of a small cafe. Two blocks away.”
“Frankly, why take his car for such a short distance? In addition, he made turns and detours, as if he wanted to blur the tracks. They can’t succeed with me. An old fox, that I am,” he chuckled.
Rachel nodded, with her face open to Johnson. He continued his confidences.
“At first, I thought he was going out with a girl. Because as for his wife, she was not that much attractive at her age... I crashed completely. He was going out with a man. They stood close together. Shoulder to shoulder.”
The old man grimaced in disgust, let his last sentence penetrate Rachel’s mind, then finally let go:
“Never would I have believed that! Rambouillet was a homosexual.”
“And could you describe this individual to me?”
Jeremiah Johnson was visibly pleased with the turn of events. He agreed to give details and approved when Rachel directed him to a portraitist.
Chapter 16
Annabelle had awakened in the morning in full internal conflict. What was she going to say to Grégoire? And what would his friend imagine? These questions were looping in his mind.
Curiously, she did not mind complications with her boyfriend. He was unaware of her misconduct and it was very well according to her. She had turned all that in her head in the taxi that brought her back to the hotel to conclude that in the end it did not matter. The death of her parents took precedence over anything.
While she had gone to bed late, she was still the first to get up. There was nothing extraordinary about that. Jonathan was of a late riser nature, the very opposite of her.
She got out of bed and went out in the shower, with her mind still confused. Her sleep had been interspersed with awakening scenes. Nightmares haunted her nights more often than not. She had recently been visited by floating dead people on the surface of a nauseous lake and hooked hands were trying to pull her to the bottom.
The shower had no effect on her sullen mood. She took more time than usual to put on makeup, masking her dark circles as best she could with great foundation. The result was far from satisfactory. She should be satisfied and face the new day as she could.
How long should she stay there? She wondered for the umpteenth time. She could not go on indefinitely and yet she knew that steps should be taken. There was the funeral to prepare. People to meet. As she thought of this aspect, she realized that she had no idea who to inform about her parents’ death.
They had no family left. Friends, that was certain, but she did not know them. Her parents seemed to see them when she was not there.
She scribbled a note to Jonathan and placed it on the night table. Overwhelmed by guilt that would not let her alone she laid her lips on paper and was satisfied with the result. Her lipstick fuchsia had left a beautiful imprint.
Annabelle thought it would be enough to make Jonathan’s awakening less painful despite her absence and left the room and then the hotel. She checked a cafe on the same street and ordered a carrot muffin and a coffee.
The regulars there, she could hardly see them. What was she going to do that day? Her first idea had been to go back to her parents’ home to do an inventory, and think about what she would do with it within a month. That was the time she had set for herself, hoping that everything could be settled by then, including the investigation.
As she paid her order, her fingers slipped into her bag and met her mother’s necklace. She remained motionless, as if the presence of the jewel could bring her back Ségolène Rambouillet. Why was she suddenly missing someone she only saw sporadically?
“Mademoiselle, are you okay?” the waitress asked.
Annabelle recovered herself. She gave a fake smile and handed a note.
Her mother’s necklace had reminded her of the superb box she had promised herself to recover. She called a taxi, conscious that Jonathan would willingly have offered to take her home. But what time? He still had to sleep, she thought.
When the taxi parked in front of her parents’ home, she discovered the officer who had been posted here. She only remembered at that moment that the detective had mentioned it to her.
Undecided, she glared at Grégoire’s home. She did not want to see him. Not then. They would have to talk about what they’d done ... that wasn’t important. It was a mistake!
Annabelle turned resolutely towards the officer.
“Hello, I am Annabelle... I
... I am the daughter of...”
She realized that she did not know how to introduce herself. She no longer lived there... And it was a venue not of one, but of two murders! Fortunately, the officer came to her rescue.
“Detective Toury informed me that you could come. You do not have to move anything in the living-room,” he said.
Annabelle thought he was going to add something. He did not do it. She climbed the stone steps.
“Annabelle!” she heard behind her.
She hesitated to turn round and face Grégoire’s gaze. What would she read in his eyes?
She knew it was useless to pretend she had not heard him. He would not believe it for a second. Slowly, she faced him. He had his usual face, delighted to see her.
“I... can we talk, maybe?” he tried, adding an inviting smile.
That smile had always made Annabelle crack. It had not changed over the years, she discovered.
“Can he come in with me, officer?” Annabelle asked, conscious that he had been given orders.
The man seemed annoyed, but consented, insisting on the instructions not to touch anything.
“I can leave the door open if you prefer,” Annabelle suggested, as a conciliatory gesture.
“That will not be necessary.”
Chapter 17
Jacques intercepted the detective on his return from lunch.
“I did some research on the neighbor.”
“Jeremiah Jonson?”
“Yes. I first came across links that referred to the man of the mountains rather than the neighbor of the Rambouillets. You saw the movie, I guess, with Robert Redford. I almost gave up when I found a press article. It was about twenty years old.”
“Is it the same Jeremiah Johnson?”
“Difficult to say, but the parallel is amazing. It was about a fight in a bar. The man is homophobic. He took action on a gay couple. One of them ended up in the hospital.”
The detective remembered her discussion with Jeremiah Johnson. His comment when he said he did not suspect his neighbor was homosexual.
She thanked her colleague and took the card to her desk.
This report reminded her of the robot portrait. She had not received any news yet. Had that track not led to any information?
She must have had a clear heart. She called Matthieu Lorieux. She hung up a few moments later, more confused than ever. He had a facial recognition on the robot portrait. He also said she must have powers. He was just going to call him. This part of the discussion, the detective eluded. She knew enough of Matthieu and his particular tendencies to embellish his work even more.
He had sent her the file by e-mail and she walked around her office to check it out. The photograph appeared, next to the robot-portrait. A Caucasian in his sixties.
“The resemblance is troubling indeed,” Rachel Toury commented.
She contacted Jeff. They would go together to meet the witness who had reported the pick-up with two guys on board, and then Jeremiah Johnson and finally they would go to the cafe where one of the victims had met that man. These were testimonies that could lead them to a track.
At the cafe, Rachel showed the picture on her tablet. The bartender confirmed that he knew this guy; and because he did not really speak like someone from here.
“He was very neat, with manicured hands and a ring on his little finger. He had an impeccable hair-style. His personal looks were too much for him to be honest, I thought. It looked like he was playing the mafia, especially as there was a big guy who stood not very far. Like a bodyguard. I felt relieved when they left.”
“And the other, Rambouillet, often came here?”
“No. Just seen with the other guy. They came twice three times. Late and they sat at the back table. As if they did not want to be disturbed.”
He pointed to the place, aside of course.
“You would have something else to say about the discussion, perhaps?”
“I do not listen to my clients,” the bartender remarked.
“Sometimes we get more than we need, just by bringing an order,” the detective conceded with a friendly smile.
“Yeah, maybe. They did not seem to be in such good terms. The guy in a suit was angry. Rambouillet was more calm. I had the impression... no, it’s nothing but gossip.
“Go ahead; all information is good to hear.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
“It will be a false trail, and that’s all. If not, you could help the police to solve a hideous crime, in your neighborhood, for that matter. I‘m sure you would not want the investigation to go on for too long.”
“Sure! The clientele has already diminished since this horror.”
“Well, we’re listening to you, then,” Jeff continued.
“Well, it’s good because it’s you. I repeat, it‘s just an impression. As if Rambouillet was trying to reel the guy. With honeyed words.”
He gave details and then confirmed that he was not there all the time. That there were other guests to take care of. That he was not a gossip.
“There’s no doubt about that,” the detective confirmed to calm him down.
“Another thing, too, the great guy, he was not from here either. He had an English accent, England, I mean. Hard to hide. But he did not say much, so I could not tell you more than that.”
The police officers thanked him and left. At Jeremiah Johnson’s, it was the same kind of questioning. Again, the neighbor confirmed that it was the same person.
“We learned that you had some trouble a few years ago,” Rachel said suddenly.
“It does not concern you.”
The voice became unpleasant, the eye pleated, rebellious.
“On the contrary. With two murders on our hands, it concerns us. Might it not have occurred to you to settle scores?”
“To hurt Rambouillet?”
“Why not? You do not like homosexuals. As proof, this brawl that we have unearthed from your past.”
“Bullshit, all that. I had drunk too much.”
He remained silent and spurted out that he had come of his own free will to say what he had seen. That he now regretted.
“You’ve done your duty,” Mr. Johnson, Rachel insisted, softened a little.
“I do not know. You treat me like a messy person. It is Rambouillet, the fool!”
Rachel felt nauseous in the face of such behavior. The man did not even hide his anger at what he thought of Rambouillet and the other man he thought was his heart-felt friend.
“Why should I have touched his wife? Your accusations are baseless.”
“I hope you have nothing to do with the whole story, Mr. Johnson. I sincerely hope so. ”
“If I had known, I would not have come to see you,” he repeated. Always the same thing. You want to help, and then you get into trouble.
“Stay in touch, Mr. Johnson. That’s all,” Jeff concluded.
They left his home with a mixed opinion.
“He is right. Why would he go after his wife? A homophobe does not react that way,” Rachel conceded.
“He‘s a dirty guy,” the investigator said.
Chapter 18
Grégoire followed his friend’s steps to return to the home of the Rambouillets. They stopped exactly at the door.
“I suspected you would come,” Grégoire began. “Not to see me. But, for here...”
“Why couldn’t I come to see you?” she argued, as if to make him uncomfortable.
“Because... yesterday. You know, what!”
“We had sex, that’s all!”
She had said what she thought, hard and raw... Grégoire’s face turned dull. He rebelled.
“It was good, you know. I do not regret anything,” he added quickly.
He now searched her eyes, as if to get confirmation of what he was saying. She contented herself with shrugging nonchalantly.
“It doesn’t matter but it’s true. It was good. Even better than that,” she conceded.
“Jonathan, you t
old him?”
“Why would I have done that? Of course not, and I trust you won’t tell him anything,” Annabelle warned bluntly.
Grégoire did not have time to reply, the front door opened abruptly and hit against the wall.
“But what is...”
Annabelle’s words died on her lips. A hooded man pushed her violently and she lost her balance. When she tried to recover it, she dragged the table and the green plant on it. The ceramic broke against the floor, knocking down the earth pot at the same time. The table angle hit Annabelle’s cheek and cut her cheekbone seriously and it immediately bled. “Hey!” Grégoire protested, ready to intervene.
“You follow me,” the massive man ordered, pointing a gun under Grégoire’s nose without losing sight of Annabelle who was in shock.
He grabbed Grégoire’s arm vigorously and dragged him outside. A gray pick-up was parked, with the engine on. The rear door opened and Grégoire was thrown over the vehicle floor. The man climbed on and the pick-up started off without any waste of time.
Inside the Rambouillets’ home, Annabelle sat up, with one hand on her painful cheek. She arrived on the steps to discover the officer on the floor. He did not move.
She did not linger on him and instead looked away. A gray pick-up drove away too fast for her liking. It was obviously in this vehicle that Grégoire had been taken away, she thought.
She did not think anymore and ran to her friend’s car parked in the street. It was a one-way street. She would not have to maneuver.
With some luck, Grégoire would have kept the habit of not closing his doors. This was the case. Of course, the keys were not on contact, and so it was not good to exaggerate her friend’s negligence. Whatever. It was not the first time Annabelle had gone off with a car that did not belong to her.
It was a fact she had considered unnecessary to mention to the detective investigating into her parents’ death. This could mess up the brilliant student’s history and discredit her. She did not feel like it so much that if they wanted to search, they would find things not necessarily pleasant about her.
