Tim stood up.
“Your sister is being interrogated, Mr. Krall,” Becker said. He closed in on the failed photographer. Becker wanted him to think that Lara Krall was telling the police everything. There was no point in trying to weasel out. “Did you know that Jean-Baptiste was cheating on your sister?”
“Yes, Lara confided in me,” he finally said.
“With a man.”
He shrugged.
“You had information that could have hurt Jean-Baptiste, and you used it to get the job of photographing the banquet-performance, didn’t you?”
“It’s true, okay! I threatened to out him to his family. I had him by the short hairs.”
“Jean-Baptiste lost his temper,” Becker said. “He wanted to put an end to your game, even if it meant that his secret was disclosed. That would have been the end for you. Everybody would have known what you were: a dirtbag, scum who’d throw anyone under the bus. So you killed him.”
“No! I didn’t touch the arrogant little faggot! I was in control. He was afraid of me!”
Becker didn’t speak. He was a dirtbag, yes. But that didn’t mean he was a murderer.
“Did Tim threaten Jean-Baptiste? Did he tell Jean-Baptiste that he’d out him if he wasn’t hired to photograph the tableau-piège?”
“Jean-Baptiste would never have lied to his father if he hadn’t been cornered. But why would my brother have killed Jean-Baptiste? There was nothing in it for him.”
Lara Krall had clearly thought things over.
“Maybe things got out of hand. Jean-Baptiste could have told your brother that he wouldn’t be blackmailed any longer, even if it meant coming out. Maybe your brother lost control.”
Nico was no longer talking in terms of a one-night stand, which was what Jean-Baptiste had confessed to Lara. He had used the words “coming out.” Lara didn’t dispute them.
“My brother couldn’t have killed Jean-Baptiste. It’s impossible,” she said.
“Are you sure about that?”
Leaving the interrogation room, Nico walked past Gregory Weissman, who looked exactly as he’d envisioned. Being dragged to police headquarters because of his wife clearly had him fuming. Poor Lara, who had refused to be happy since Jean-Baptiste’s disappearance and had opted for a marriage of convenience—which had become an interminable prison sentence. And all this time, the idea that her brother could have played a role in this drama had been tearing her apart.
He went back to his office and his team members, who were waiting for him. Despite the late hour, they were all gathered around his desk. Nico could see the fatigue on their faces. Becker joined them and took a seat.
“Timothy has the guiltiest face I’ve ever seen and a motive, too,” he said.
“We don’t have any concrete proof,” Nico countered.
“All we have to do is get him to admit when and how he killed his future brother-in-law, and we’ll be done,” Becker said.
“Let’s check his alibis for the nights of the Villette attacks.”
“What if Jean-Baptiste’s murder and the attacks in the park are unrelated, Nico?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. He was also tired, and his voice betrayed his irritation.
Claire Le Marec cleared her throat to diffuse the tension.
“What does Krall do with his free time?” Nico asked more calmly. “I think he has plenty of it.”
“He has been unable to maintain a relationship with a woman for more than a few months,” Becker said. “They all left him. He sounds like a complete homophobe. He called Jean-Baptiste an ‘arrogant little faggot.’ But I still can’t see him all that motivated to attack young men in a park.”
“We’ve got some time left to keep questioning him and get a clearer idea of his involvement.”
“Nico, if we don’t have anything more by tomorrow evening, I’ll have to release him.”
“Give me the benefit of the doubt, Alexandre. Tim might be the attacker and just playing dumb with us.”
“You still think there’s just one perpetrator. Okay.” Becker sighed. “Commander Maurin can examine his alibis carefully. If something turns up, I’ll extend his stay with us.”
“Thank you, Alexandre. What would you say if Rost and Kriven took over the questioning?”
“I won’t decline the offer. You know how to reach me if you need to.”
Nico smiled at his friend, the magistrate.
“Charlotte, are there any other suspects?” he asked.
“The night of the attacks, Nathan Sellière, the antiquarian, was at home. He says he was alone, so we have nobody to confirm this. That said, he doesn’t match up with the murderer’s profile. And he had an exhibition at his gallery on Wednesday night. He closed the gallery at around one in the morning. The room Florian Bonnet was found in was paid for at twelve thirty in the morning. So the timing is off.”
“So we can cross Dufour and Sellière off our list,” Nico said.
“That leaves Laurent Mercier and Daniel Vion. Mercier had a dinner with clients Tuesday night in Paris.”
“Did his wife confirm that?” Becker asked.
“Yes. I contacted those clients and the Hôtel du Louvre, where they met. Specifically Le Defender, the bar there. It’s a cozy place with Second-Empire-style curtains. Lots of cocktails, and it’s open until one thirty in the morning.”
“What time did he get back home?” Nico asked.
“At midnight, according to his wife. But I get the feeling that she’s the type to do what her husband says, and she’d protect him any way she could.”
“What about Vion?”
“Daniel Vion wasn’t able to give us a clear alibi. He’s still in the running.”
“So we have two suspects,” Becker said. “Assuming that Jean-Baptiste’s murderer is the attacker in the park.”
“Two, plus Timothy Krall. Everybody’s going to be questioned again. What do you think of these suspects?” Nico asked Becker and Rost.
“You and David interviewed Daniel Vion first, so you have a handle on him,” Jean-Marie Rost replied. “Despite being close to Jean-Baptiste, he had no suspicions that he was gay.”
“But Sophie Bayle wasn’t surprised, which means Daniel Vion is completely clueless, or he’s lying,” Kriven said.
“And Mercier?”
“Our deputy chief has some candid views on him,” Becker said, giving Rost a wink.
“He’s a pretty boy,” Rost said. “A fifty-two-year-old who’s trying to pass for thirty. It’s pathetic. To his credit, Mercier knew that something was off with Jean-Baptiste. He didn’t play naïve the way Daniel Vion did, although he apparently didn’t know about any problems Jean-Baptiste and Lara were having. He ended up marrying Camille and lives with her and their three children. Happily ever after. He didn’t recognize any of the portraits. And unlike Daniel Vion, Laurent Mercier has an alibi for the attack on Tuesday night. Charlotte will have to verify it. I’ll wrap all this up with a side thought. Dufour told Vion that Jean-Baptiste fled to the United States. Dufour heard it from Mercier. Mercier got it firsthand from Jean-Baptiste’s mother. Quite a game of telephone.”
“What about Plassard and company? Where are they in their interviews?” Nico asked.
“They’re coming to the end of their list,” Kriven replied. “They’re not letting up. They got that one juicy tidbit, and you never know if something else might crop up.”
Nico smiled. Plassard had uncovered the gem about Timothy Krall’s argument with Jean-Baptiste.
“The excavation’s under way,” Becker said. “They’re going slowly to ensure that they don’t disturb the scientific and artistic aspects of the project.”
“It’s going to be a few days before they know whether Cassian’s skeleton has any companions,” Deputy Chief Rost said.
“Well, one thing’s for sure. That lunch in the park was no picnic for Jean-Baptiste Cassian,” Kriven said.
“No, it wasn’t. It’s going to be a long ni
ght if we expect to get to the bottom of this,” the chief said.
“Don’t forget, we can’t hold Timothy Krall forever,” Alexandre Becker warned.
Maurin’s phone rang.
“My crime scene investigator,” she said as she looked at the screen and hit speakerphone.
Authorized by Becker, the investigator had gone to the hospital to examine the still-unconscious Clément Roux—the man attacked in the architectural folly and found alive, by some miracle.
“I’m done here,” the investigator told Maurin. “The shape and depth of the cut were identical to those found on the other victims. But there’s something else. A bit of ultraviolet ink on the back of the victim’s hand. It’s a stamp from a club—invisible except under a black light.”
“And legible?” Charlotte asked.
“He got it last night. I have the name of the place; it’s in the Marais. I’ll text you the location.”
“Good job.”
“Do you think Clément Roux met his attacker there?”
“It’s a definite possibility.”
“His parents haven’t left the hospital, and the men haven’t been able to talk with them at length. Clément Roux is gay, which his mother has known for a long time. His father’s had more trouble accepting it, but he’s there and just as upset as his wife.”
“Is their son going to make it?”
“Not sure yet. All right, I’m coming back to headquarters. I’m guessing we’re spending the night and possibly longer.”
They ended the call.
“We’ll have to go to the club tonight, with a photo of Clément Roux and recent ones of Timothy Krall, Laurent Mercier, and Daniel Vion. Let’s not forget that synthetic hairs were found on the first victim, Mathieu Leroy. The attacker probably altered his looks to avoid being recognized.”
The room went quiet.
“I’ll go,” Nico said, breaking the silence.
As the chief of the Criminal Investigation Division, Nico could participate in an investigation in any way that he wanted. His officers admired Nico for being a fully involved leader instead someone who sat behind his desk and accepted medals without dirtying his hands.
“Women aren’t allowed in that bar,” Maurin said.
“All right, then I’ll take Ayoub Moumen with me.”
Nobody would be sitting around tonight. His mother’s operation was scheduled for the morning, so he had to make the most of the time he had.
28
Two hulking bouncers stood at the entrance. They barely blinked as they waved regulars through and gave newcomers a once-over. Moumen held his badge up, and the man nodded. The captain had led an investigation there recently and knew the place well. Nico let him take the lead.
“You’re new here,” the bouncer told Nico as he eyed him greedily.
“He’s with me,” Moumen interjected.
“Normally I’d have to search him.”
Nico felt like he was being undressed.
“Come on, John!” Moumen said, taking the bouncer by the arm and whispering in his ear. “We’re here on official business. Just let us do our jobs.”
The bouncer stepped aside, and the two officers entered the club. The deafening music pierced Nico’s ears and thudded against his chest. The shadowy vestibule looked like a train platform where anonymous travelers merged. Once again, Nico felt eyes on him.
They paid the cover charge and got an ultraviolet stamp. Nico followed Moumen into a cramped hallway with a lit floor. Patrons hurried through the passageway to the dance floor. The strobe lights blinded Nico for a few moments. Adjusting his eyes, he made out the disco balls and the glittery specks of light they were throwing on the ceiling and walls. Speakers were belching out music: “Fancy Footwork,” an electrofunk hit by Chromeo. The energized crowd yelled out the duo’s suggestive lyrics. The men wriggled and ground against each other, a sweaty sheen on their bare torsos.
Moumen led them to the bar, where they sat down on chrome stools. Nico marveled at how this man could blend in. He certainly had the looks. Seductive deep-brown eyes, long eyelashes, an easy smile, honey-colored skin. He wasn’t above flirting, but everyone at headquarters knew he was devoted to his wife, the mother of his children.
“Can I get you something?” Moumen yelled above the music.
“A soda.”
“What did you say?”
Nico tried again. “A soda!”
“You think they have that here?” Moumen shouted back. “I was toying with the idea of getting you drunk and taking advantage of your athletic body. Just my luck. You know, there are some really nice rooms underground. You’d love them.”
“Maybe another time. But sorry, it wouldn’t be with you.”
“You just broke my heart.”
The bartender appeared, interrupting their banter.
“Can we have two cranberry vodkas, please,” Moumen said.
“Coming right away, my prince,” he responded.
“Vodka, cranberry juice, orange liqueur, and pineapple liqueur,” Moumen warned.
Nico didn’t know if it would agree with him. He had just gotten over a stomach ulcer.
“The bartender’s name is Enzo. He’s a handsome beast. So much the better for customers.”
Moumen set the picture of Clément Roux on the bar.
“Do you recognize this man?” he asked Enzo, who had just returned with their drinks.
“Clément? Sure, he’s a regular. A sweet guy.”
“Did you see him last night?”
“He was dancing with an older guy.” Enzo slipped over to another customer.
Adam Lambert, the glam-rock star, was bawling out “What Do You Want From Me.” On the dance floor, the bodies were melding together.
“Enzo!” Moumen yelled. “Come back here.”
Enzo returned, a phony smile on his face.
“Enzo, Nico. Nico, Enzo. Oh, that rhymes! You’ll get along great.”
“And what can I do for you, Nico?” the bartender asked. He held a finger to his lips as the crowd started singing along with pop vocalist Jenifer.
Nico waited for the song to end. Then he pressed on. “Clément was attacked. We’re looking for the man he left with.”
“What? Attacked? Shit! How is he?”
“It’s still touch and go. I want to show you some pictures. Can you tell me if you recognize the man who was with Clément?”
“Okay, I’ll look at the pictures, but only if you buy me a drink.”
The crowd started singing again.
Nico held the pictures of the three suspects out to Enzo.
“No, not him. Clément wouldn’t have been attracted to this guy.”
He was pointing to Timothy Krall.
“The others are entirely possible, but I’m not sure. Clément and his buddy went downstairs pretty fast. You should talk to the DJ down there. He’s Clément’s friend.”
“Thanks, Enzo.”
“No problem. Come back anytime. You’re always welcome here.”
“You’ve got a magic touch,” Moumen said lightly as they stepped off the stools. “Shall we go downstairs?”
They made their way down a hall packed with vampires ready to sink their teeth into innocent necks. They came to a back room, which seemed gigantic in comparison. A flashy bar spilled bluish light over the room, including the corners, where kissing and fondling couples lay on couches. Nico couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable as he watched the lovers explore their partners’ muscled chests with their hands and their half-open lips with their tongues.
Several eyes locked on Nico. He felt them looking him over. His six-foot-three-inch frame, blond hair, and clear blue eyes seemed to be up for grabs. But surely the men also sensed that he was the kind of guy who took charge.
Gaëtan Roussel came on. Men got off the couches and started dancing. They belted out his lyrics:
“Inside outside
Sinbad is coming back
Don’t leave me, my baby
Don’t, on his way back.”
One of the men winked. Nico smiled politely and turned away.
Moumen led him to the DJ at the end of the room. The go-go dancers were lathering themselves under the ceiling-mounted showers. By the DJ’s corner there were labyrinthine hallways, passageways that plunged into absolute darkness. Men ambled in. Their aim was straightforward: to trade erotic pleasures in anonymity. They aroused themselves and each other in private rooms with porn. Nico was overwhelmed by the smell of semen. But at this late hour, what else could he expect?
“Hey there, Ayoub!” the DJ said. “You’ve got someone with you.”
“He’s my boss.”
“Hi, boss!”
A smooth, feminine voice came on.
“That’s Lilly Wood and the Prick, a French pop group that sings in English,” the DJ told them. “There’s some Johnny Cash and Patti Smith in the lyrics. I think you’ll like it, Mr. Boss. They’re awesome.”
“We came about Clément,” Moumen said directly.
“Is something wrong?”
“Someone made a bloody mess of him last night.”
“Clément? That can’t be.”
“He’s in the hospital. He’s not out of the woods. We think he met his attacker here. Do you remember who he was with?”
“I’d never seen the man before. Average height, sorta skinny, and clean. He looked pretentious. But I’ll tell you this: Clément was hooked, and he was set on spending the night with him.”
Nico handed him the picture of Tim Krall.
“Not our kind of guy. Too sloppy.”
“And what about these guys?”
The DJ shrugged.
“Take another look for my boss,” Moumen said.
“Oh, your boss! He’s not a hard one to look at.” The DJ laughed as he leaned on Moumen’s shoulder. “You like alternative rock? The Train from San Francisco? I like their single from Christmas. Everybody listen up! We’re playing this for Clément, our buddy, so he’ll come back to us.”
He put “Shake Up Christmas” on the turntable and raised the volume. Nico recognized it right away. Coca-Cola had used it in a commercial.
“Clément and his guy were here until late, as usual,” the DJ yelled. “Gianni and Théo over there might know more.” He gestured toward the dance floor. Nico paused. Gianni and Théo were two of the men who had locked eyes on him a few minutes earlier. They were still watching.
The City of Blood Page 15
