The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  “And the group pictures?” Nico asked.

  Phase three of questioning was now under way. They were pressing the witness to draw out more information or bring additional memories to the fore.

  “A friend, probably.”

  “But who?”

  “I have no idea!”

  His Romanian accent was becoming more pronounced as the tension rose.

  Mrs. Cassian came back with a plate of petits-fours.

  “Dear, can you bring me the invitation to Jean-Baptiste’s exhibition in New York? I want to show it to our guests.” It seemed that Samuel Cassian was used to telling his wife what to do.

  “Oh yes! You should have seen it. His canvases were wonderful. That’s what the critics said. Such a young boy and already a great artist,” she said as she left the room once again.

  “Could you give us his friends’ names?” Kriven said. “You must remember at least a few of them, especially now that you’re seeing their faces.”

  “Give me your notebook,” the artist said to Kriven. “These young men in particular and my son were inseparable. I’ll write down their names while you open that bottle of Burgundy. It’s an excellent vintage from the Chalon coast.”

  Kriven poured three glasses as their host moved the pen over the paper.

  “Have a taste, Chief.”

  Nico brought the glass to his lips, breathed in the aromas, and took a sip. It was fresh and fruity. Cassian handed him the notebook and picked up his own glass.

  “Excellent,” Cassian said, with a refined smack of the lips. “Life has its little pleasures. They don’t chase away our troubles, but they help us keep going. I presume you’ll take up a fresh investigation of Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance. When we reported him missing, your colleagues came up blank, although I’m sure they put in a good-faith effort. I kept hounding them but finally gave up, realizing it wouldn’t change anything.”

  Yes, Nico thought, they had given up, and at that moment, the clock on the statute of limitations had started ticking, making it highly unlikely that they could prosecute the murderer, even if they found out who did it.

  “There’s something else,” Nico said quietly. “We’ll be questioning everyone who was at the banquet and examining more of the site. We don’t want to miss something crucial to the investigation.”

  Samuel Cassian froze.

  “We can solve this mystery while seeing to it that your work progresses in a systematic and controlled way. The Society for the Disinterment of the Tableau-Piège and the police will work hand in hand. What do you think?” Nico was asking out of respect for the artist. The man’s approval or disapproval would not change the investigation.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to be involved. It’s your choice. But the organization probably will reach out to you.”

  Mrs. Cassian came in again, excited and happy, waving the invitation to the opening of their son’s exhibition, New York, New York.

  “‘Start spreading the news.’” Cassian’s voice cracked when he got to the next line. “‘I’m leaving today.’”

  On their way back to headquarters, Kriven was quieter than usual. He was shifting in his seat.

  “What is it, David? Spit it out.”

  “Um, well, it must be hard for you, boss, with your mom and all. You know you can count on me if you need some time off with your family.”

  Nico looked over at Kriven. “We have a job to do, and I have a promise to keep.”

  “About that,” Kriven said. “You see, you made a promise to Cassian, Chief, and, um, we never do that.”

  Nico kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t have a response.

  “I’m just worried, boss, that it’s becoming personal for you.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Nico pulled into his parking spot and turned to Kriven. “David, fighting crime is always personal.”

  12

  The apartment where Nico’s mother lived was decorated tastefully in a contemporary style. But it also highlighted her heritage. Psankas, the renowned Ukrainian Easter eggs, gleamed in an elegant showcase. What irony, Nico thought, as he picked one up: a pagan symbol that had become a central part of the Christian rite of Easter, a springtime celebration invented by worshippers of the sun god, Dazhboh. They believed that birds were Dazhboh’s chosen species, because they could get close to him. Eggs, a magical source of life, had become a symbol for the resurrection of Christ.

  Anya had turned Nico’s bedroom into a library, where she spent her winter evenings reading and rereading her favorite authors. That way, she said, she would always feel her son’s presence, as when she had told him the stories of Kiev and Russia and recited lines from novels and poems to help him sleep. She still kept a copy of the Stories of Times Past, a book of legends, in this room. “Here are the stories of times past, from the land of Russia, whose kings first ruled in Kiev, where the Russian lands started.” And Nico would never forget. Vladimir, grand prince of Kiev, was converted to Byzantine-Rite Christianity in 988, subordinating the entire Russian Church to the patriarchate in Constantinople, bringing orthodoxy forevermore to the Slavic lands, and banishing the old pagan beliefs to darkness. It was the history of his ancestors engraved in his soul.

  In the kitchen, Nico found the oversized matryoshka nesting doll inherited from his great-grandmother. Everything was in its place. An entire tsar-cut smoked salmon and a container of caviar, both from Petrossian, were on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Anya liked to nibble salmon and caviar while sipping vodka from a champagne flute. He tried to imagine her back in this apartment soon, with her books and caviar.

  Nico walked out on the balcony on the building’s sixth floor. Before him lay the grandest view of the capital, or so his mother claimed: the Alexandre Nevsky Cathedral on the Rue Daru. Each of its five spires was topped with a gilded onion dome and the Russian Orthodox cross with three horizontal crossbeams. The pediment’s face bore a Murano-mosaic representation of Christ, a halo around his head. The Savior was sitting on a throne, blessing the world with his right hand and holding the Gospel open on his left knee. Nico recited his mother’s favorite verse. “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.” As his voice rose, he felt close to tears. That was his entire childhood right there.

  Back inside, he ran his fingers over the blooms on the snowball tree. The white flowers were already bursting in large umbels. The tree was a national symbol of Ukraine, symbolizing both love and marriage. It had inspired the famous song “Kalinka.” Anya hummed it whenever the family gathered for dinner. Even Dimitri knew the naughty words by heart.

  Memories and images were flooding back. Nico closed his eyes for a few seconds and saw his son sitting on his tricycle, watching as colorful balloons, which had escaped his grasp, began floating away. He saw Dimitri urging him to catch them before they rose any higher. He heard Dimitri laugh, and when he looked back, he saw Anya, who had been with them that day, with tears running down her cheeks. She had been crying and laughing at the same time. That scene had occurred just a few weeks after his father had died, and she had still been grieving for him.

  Anya, with her warmth, good cheer, and generosity, had always been the matriarch in the best sense of the word. His father had called her something else, a tarpan: the storied wild horse that roamed the Ukrainian steppes by the Black Sea. It was said that a similar horse roamed Poland’s forests. And so these two indomitable personalities—Anya and his father—seemed fated to join forces. The story always made Nico and his sister smile.

  Nico’s thoughts turned to Tanya; they’d both been in a fug since the day before. Their text messages were their link to one another as they waited until six o’clock, when they could be back at Anya’s bedside. They wanted to be there when she woke up. Nico was furious that he couldn’t do anyth
ing more than wait.

  Nico ruminated as he watched the play of light on the cathedral’s domes. Anya had her faith. Maybe she was right. He looked at the cross and called out, “I’ll find Cassian’s murderer. You save Anya.”

  His phone vibrated. He hoped it was Caroline.

  It was Commander Maurin.

  “I’ve just left the medical examiner’s office,” she said. “We’ve got a cause of death for Mathieu Leroy: the penetrating wound resulted in a hemopneumothorax. Both air and blood rushed into the pleural cavity. The pain would have been unbearable. Cardiac and respiratory failure was inevitable. The wound was inflicted by a knife. It was a characteristic stab wound with clean edges. Given the appearance of the wound, the blade probably had only one sharp edge.”

  “An ordinary knife,” Nico said, irritated that there wasn’t more to distinguish it.

  “Okay, that won’t help us find the murderer. The victim didn’t have any cuts on his hands or arms; all evidence suggests that he didn’t try to defend himself.”

  “The aggressor was dominating his prey.”

  “A man? The knife was thrust in the torso with quite a bit of force.”

  “The crime itself would suggest as much. What did Professor Vilars make of the shoulder?”

  “The criminal hacked away the trapezius muscle after death and took a piece about two and a half inches square. It wasn’t a pretty sight. And it wasn’t a professional who did the cutting. It was done in a haphazard way. We can’t even tell if he was left-handed or right.”

  “Did Professor Vilars notice anything unusual about the body?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “And anything from the forensics lab?”

  “Not just yet. The hairs we found at the crime scene are synthetic. They came from a wig.”

  Nico frowned. “A disguise,” he said. “What do we know about Mathieu Leroy?”

  “Not much about his past. His friends at school liked him. He was a bachelor. We’ll keep looking.”

  “He was found in the middle of the night in the Parc de la Villette, the victim of someone—probably a man—who was wearing a hairpiece. We’ve got plenty to do. Keep looking.”

  Nico and Tanya stopped at the nurses’ desk before going into his mother’s room.

  “How’s she doing?” Nico asked.

  The nurse looked at her computer screen and read off her vitals.

  “Her heart rate is still high, and her blood pressure’s low. We’ll have to get her stabilized a bit more before we can take her off the ventilator.”

  Nico thanked the nurse and slipped his hand into Tanya’s. She was really more than a sister. She was as good as his twin. She had been with him through thick and thin. And she was with him now, in this small corner of Bichat Hospital, where Death eagerly watched its prey.

  13

  The morning was sunny and surprisingly warm for early spring. Gaetan Roussel’s lyrics flowed through Nico’s car. Roussel’s “Inside Outside,” a catchy acoustic-pop tune with a contemporary refrain, seemed to suit his mood.

  In front of headquarters, two security officers in bulletproof vests stood guard as the red-and-white gate rose. Nico pulled into his parking spot. He walked through the interior courtyard and up Stairwell A to the fourth floor. He nodded to his secretary, Rachel.

  “Professor Queneau wants to talk to you, Chief,” she said.

  “Put a call through to him right away.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She was able to squeeze my hand last night. She’s doing better.”

  He walked down the narrow corridor to his office. His phone was ringing before he even sat down.

  “Professor Queneau? Chief Sirsky here.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice. How is your mother?”

  “I think we’re past the worst part. That’s my hope.”

  “Good, Nico. I have the DNA analyses here. The skeleton is Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s.”

  “Now we can close the preliminary report. While I have you on the phone, I suspect you’ll be asked to supervise the rest of the excavation.”

  “You mean the rest of the tableau-piège is going to be dug up?”

  “I don’t see how else this investigation can play out. I think Samuel Cassian is willing to work with us.”

  “Okay, I’ll come up with a plan. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Michel Cohen came in without knocking. His cigar preceded him, and the white smoke, along with its unpleasant odor, filled the room. As usual, Nico refrained from saying anything. His superior’s authority, established by a legendary career, absolved him.

  “I’ll be in touch with you later, Professor,” Nico said as he hung up.

  Cohen was a short man whose dense features seemed to compensate for his lack of stature. He had bushy black hair and thick brows above penetrating eyes. His nose was large. Cohen was a man who made his presence known. He walked over to Nico’s desk and tossed a pile of newspapers on it.

  “Check out the morning’s headlines,” he said.

  “Security at the Parc de la Villette: fact or folly?” one of the tabloid headlines read. “Weeping in the City of Blood,” declared another headline. “The Butcher of Paris rises again,” read a third.

  “The reporters are going to town with this,” Cohen said. “You know what I always say in these cases.”

  Nico did know. “When the shit hits the fan, everyone gets splashed.”

  “Wrap this Leroy thing up quickly.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “As for the Cassian banquet, it looks like a long list of VIP guests and potential suspects. The chance one of them will cry foul is huge. So be careful going through everything. You know the deal: too many people at a party, not enough Champagne to go around, and then everyone’s on edge,” Cohen said. “Oh, and Nicole asked me if you needed to take a few days off.”

  Police Commissioner Nicole Monthalet was looking out for him. Some people thought she was a bit cold, but it was hard to find a better cop and leader.

  “She also said you could do the impossible, which right now means dealing with two murders, the excavation in the Parc de la Villette, and a mother in the hospital.”

  “The impossible? That’s my middle name,” Nico said.

  Cohen, his spiritual father and his protector, stared at him for a second. Then he winked—his typical gesture of encouragement.

  “Perfect. Keep me updated.”

  Nico nodded. Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murderer and the Butcher of Paris for Anya’s life. Amen.

  Commander Kriven handed Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost a coffee, and they walked down the hall to Nico’s office, greeting Michel Cohen, who was heading in the other direction. They were quieter than usual. Kriven wasn’t in the mood for bantering.

  “Chief,” he said to Nico as they entered the office. The boss looked both of them over.

  “Your hair’s all messed up,” he told Kriven with a smile.

  “Didn’t sleep well,” Kriven said.

  “Oh, really? I saw you taking pizza into Dominique’s office last night,” Rost said.

  “We just talked.”

  His late-night pizza dinner with Dominique Kreiss had lasted until four in the morning. It was more than conversation. Kreiss, the shrink, had hit him with some hard truths. Losing a child could tear a couple apart. He and his wife had failed to conceive another child after losing their first, and Kriven had quit trying. But Kreiss brought him around to his real feelings: he still loved Clara.

  “You were up talking all night?” Rost asked.

  “Yep,” Kriven said, focusing on Nico. “Lara Krall Weissman just came in. How should we deal with her?”

  “I’m still catching up,” Nico said. “Take her up to the interview room. Jean-Marie? You can finish the preliminary report. Professor Queneau sent over the DNA results. It’s a match.”

  “I’ll have it on your desk by the time the interview’s over.”

  “Is Plassard stil
l dealing with the VIPs involved with the tableau-piège?”

  “Slaving away at it,” Kriven said.

  The photos they had picked up at the Cassian apartment were spread on Nico’s desk.

  “Have you looked over the names of Jean-Baptiste’s friends that Samuel Cassian added to your notebook?” Nico asked Kriven.

  “I’m on it. I’ll have an update for you by the end of the morning.”

  Nico held up a photo of Jean-Baptiste Cassian and Lara Krall, surrounded by their happy friends.

  “That hammer might have been swung by a woman,” he said.

  Climbing the stairs to the interview room, Nico skimmed over Kriven’s notes on Lara Krall. She lived on the Rue Dumont d’Urville in the sixteenth arrondissement, in a corner apartment by the Place des États-Unis. It probably had a view of the Square Thomas-Jefferson. She was married to Gregory Weissman and had taken his last name. He owned one of the largest recruiting firms in Paris, with branches in Lyon, Bordeaux, and Marseilles. She was a stay-at-home mother of two teenagers. She had come a long way since the École des Beaux-Arts.

  The officer on duty ushered Nico in. He took care to look relaxed, as he didn’t want to unnerve the middle-aged woman who was a smiling girl in the photos he had just looked at.

  “Mrs. Weissman, have you been followed the news? Have you read about the excavation of Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège in the Parc de la Villette?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the stories,” she said, sounding wary.

  “And you were engaged to his son, Jean-Baptiste?”

  “Thirty years ago, yes.”

  “Did you meet at the École des Beaux-Arts?”

  “Yes, he was absolutely charming. I admired his talent.”

  “What were you studying? Photography?”

  “Sculpture,” she said, looking at her hands.

  Nico sensed resignation.

  “I stopped doing all that a long time ago,” she said. “I’m too busy with my family. There’s just no time.”

  She was lying. Managing the lives of her husband and children couldn’t fill the void in her heart. Why had she stopped sculpting? Because Jean-Baptiste had disappeared? Or because she couldn’t stand doing it after she killed him and buried him in his father’s most acclaimed creation?