“He’s dead because of me. I’m the one who threw him into the lion’s den. He was living here in peace, and today…”
She knelt down and petted the cat, which came to rub against her leg.
“Who’s going to take care of you now?”
Kashmareck stuck some photos in front of her face.
“What’s done is done. We’re not here to get all weepy.”
With regret, Lucie didn’t pick up the cat and instead turned her attention to the crime photos. Dozens of morbid rectangles, enough to make you vomit. Kashmareck was talking to her all the while, pointing to the photos.
“He was tied up, gagged, and hanged, there, from the chandelier hook, using filmstrips. I can’t imagine somebody managing that all by himself. Given the ceiling height, I think there must have been at least two of them. One to lift him up and the other to attach him.”
“Inspector Sharko advanced the hypothesis of two killers for the Gravenchon case. That might confirm that we’re dealing with the same perps.”
The captain pointed his finger toward the armchair.
“We found an empty film can on the cushions. The film they used to hang him with was Good Day for a Hanging, an old western. The victim had collected a hundred westerns in his closets upstairs. Good Day for a Hanging, can you imagine? You have to admit these killers have got some sense of humor.”
Lucie had had only a cup of coffee and felt nauseated. Something the victim had said echoed in her mind: I’ll exit this world with a roll of film in my hands, believe you me. He hadn’t known how true that was. On top of which, her personal problems with her daughter and her mother weren’t making her feel any better. Fortunately, the body had already been removed, which made the crime scene more impersonal, less difficult to stand.
The CSI team had cordoned off the areas of interest. You could walk around the house, but only via the swept paths. On the floor, under the chandelier, spread a pool of blood. Drops had fallen from everywhere like rain, spattering baseboards, tiles, feet of the table.
“Once they’d hanged him, they gutted him like a fish. Then they stuffed him with film, in place of his intestines. The ME was clear on that point: the victim was already dead by then, judging from the petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes. Death by strangulation. We still don’t know if it was from the hanging.”
The cat sidled up to the entry door and meowed to be let out. Lucie opened it for him, then looked at one of the photos. The old man, slit open from neck to pelvis. His entrails spread over the floor, having fallen more than three feet. His eyes were missing. Enucleation, once again. In their place, two little pieces of celluloid stuffed into the sockets, which made him look like he was wearing dark glasses.
“His eyes…”
“Gone.”
Lucie absorbed the blow. One more point in common with Sharko’s case and the bodies in Gravenchon. The importance of the eye, like in the film…It was becoming more and more likely that the same people who had buried the five vics in Normandy had also killed the film restorer. Kashmareck ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and sighed. He grabbed up a sealed bag and held it out to Lucie, who put on latex gloves. Inside the transparent bag were two nearly identical images, cut from the celluloid strip. Lucie knitted her brow and held the rectangles under the light.
“I can’t make out much. It looks like…a close-up at ground level. Have we been able to identify the film these frames came from?”
“Not this time. We’re sending them to our tech guys, who’ll blow them up. We’ll check with film scholars if we have to. They must mean something.”
Lucie stared again at the perforated rectangles.
“Sixteen millimeter. Just like the stolen film.”
With his index finger, the captain pointed to the corpse’s mouth.
“Your business card in his mouth doesn’t bode well. We’ll have to put a team on your building for a few days.”
Lucie shook her head.
“There’s no point. They’re like a pack of wolves. They tracked us, me, Ludovic—they followed in our wake. My lock was sticking yesterday. They probably broke into my place the same way they did at Ludovic’s or here.”
The thought made her shiver. What might have happened if she’d been at home just then?
“Then they finally managed to get their hands on the film, and they wanted us to know. They marked their territory. Now that they’ve got what they wanted, they could just as easily vanish and fall back into oblivion.”
She looked at the CSI technicians bustling about with their tweezers and powders.
“Did they pick up any traces or fingerprints?”
“Just the victim’s. Nothing too definite for the moment. We don’t have much hope for the neighbors; the street’s got too many shops, with ridiculously few residents. Not many people around at night.”
“What’s the estimated time of death?”
“Between midnight and three a.m., from the preliminary findings. The lock was barely forced. The victim wasn’t asleep yet, most likely, because his bed was still made.”
In the living room, everything was still in order, no sign of a struggle. Lucie clearly imagined two beefy giants attacking that defenseless old man. They could easily have taken their film and left. But they’d wanted to “clean up” after themselves, leave no traces, no witnesses. And even grant themselves a little bonus, with their staging like something out of a David Fincher film. Killing someone in cold blood is not easy. You have to control your impulses, fight off everything that society, religion, and conscience forbid. Push away the very foundations of the human spirit. But these two had eliminated, enucleated, and eviscerated a man, even taking time to rummage through his westerns to create an effect. What sort of lunatic was hiding behind this crime? What motive had pushed them to go so far out of bounds?
Lucie went upstairs. The pictures in the stairwell hadn’t moved. The cop avoided looking that woman in the eye, on the photos. Marilyn…
Some cops were poring through the rooms. Lucie glanced into the developing lab. On one shelf were some old cameras, reels, developing chemicals. She then went into the restoration studio, followed by her boss. The chair in front of the Moviola had been knocked over.
“Three in the morning, you said. What could Poignet have discovered to keep him working so late?”
She stood next to the viewer, careful not to penetrate into the area cordoned off by the yellow-and-black police tape. A tech continued to place numbered cards in front of objects and photograph them.
“The time counter on the viewer says zero. They must have rewound the film to take it with them. Poignet must have been studying it carefully.”
Lucie turned to the back of the studio. Ripped-out cables, smashed scanner.
“Shit!”
“What?”
“Claude Poignet was going to digitize the film for me—I was still hoping to find it. But the laptop is gone.”
She snapped her fingers.
“He might have had time to send me the file or a Web link where I could download it. I have to check my e-mail. Do you have Internet access on your phone?”
“It’s the latest iPhone.”
He handed her the device. Lucie sent up a silent prayer that Poignet had sent her the film. She wanted to prolong her journey with the mutilated woman, the girl on the swing; she wanted to go beyond what the images had shown. To dig deeper into the filmmaker’s mind, understand his artistic madness, and maybe his very real madness. She logged in to her account. A few messages from the dating service, but nothing else. The sense of powerlessness washed over her.
“Nothing.” She sighed, and in a pale voice said, “We have to reach out to the Belgians. We have to interrogate the son, make a composite sketch, search Szpilman’s house from top to bottom, and find out where he first came across that film. Trace it to the source. For now, it’s about the only way we’re going to pick up the scent of that goddamn reel.”
“We’ll get o
n it.”
Her eyes fell on the viewer, on the empty take-up reel, on the little basket with the business cards that the team would soon pack away.
“Unless…”
She turned toward the phone in back.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Kashmareck. “We’ve already checked the LUDs for the victim’s incoming and outgoing calls. We’re following procedure. We’ll follow up, contact all those people, but all in good time.”
“Fine. Among them there’s a film historian. We might still catch a break if he was able to identify the actress who gets her eye slit open. And also—” She took a card out of her pocket and handed it to her commanding officer. “This guy, Beckers. He specializes in the effect images have on the brain. Poignet was going to contact him.”
Kashmareck pocketed the card.
“We’ll get on it.”
“This goddamn film. It’s brought harm to everyone who’s come in contact with it. Vlad Szpilman, Ludovic Sénéchal, and now Claude Poignet. We have to get it back.”
“What about your vacation?”
“It’s over. I’m going home to change and then I need to tell Ludovic Sénéchal his friend is dead. After that, I’m all yours. I want to find the pigs who did this to him.”
17
When the front door of the A320 opened onto the tarmac of Cairo’s international airport, Sharko felt a wave of fire slap his face. Suffocating air, laden with smoke and kerosene, gripped his throat. The steward had announced a ground temperature of ninety-seven degrees, which had provoked a huge groan from the passengers, tourists for the most part. From the second he set foot on Egyptian soil, the inspector knew he was going to loathe this country.
As arranged, Michael Lebrun was waiting at the end of the passageway. The man was imposing. Planted in light tan slacks and a colonial-style shirt, his face as square as the base of a pyramid, he meticulously sifted through the colored flux that scattered into all corners of the airport. Swarthy, tanned, and short haired, he could easily have been mistaken for a formidable customs officer. The two men exchanged a solid handshake—Sharko’s thumb on top—then Lebrun pulled slightly back.
“I hope you had a good flight. Let me introduce you to Nahed Sayyed, one of the interpreters from the embassy. She’ll accompany you on your travels around the city and help facilitate your dealings with the police.”
Sharko greeted her. Her hands were soft and delicate, her nails cut short. Her long black hair, fine and buoyant, framed an enchanting pair of eyes. She must have been in her early thirties and didn’t look anything like Sharko’s image of Egyptian women: veiled, obedient, living in their husbands’ shadows.
Along the endless air-conditioned hallways, they talked paperwork before anything else. Lebrun advised him to withdraw Egyptian pounds from the airport cash machines, because in town it would be hard to get small bills—tourism oblige. After a few preliminaries—including a customs officer’s interrogation regarding the presence of a miniature locomotive and a jar of cocktail sauce in his luggage—the inspector could finally claim his belongings. As they talked, he began to understand the role Michael Lebrun played in this country. The French ambassador’s right arm in matters of security in Egypt, he also served as technical adviser for the head of the Cairo police, a starred general. His specialty oriented him mainly toward matters of international terrorism. As for Nahed, she listened, a few paces behind, almost effaced.
The explosion of noise, the hubbub of the crowds, and the heat almost made the French cop fall over. He prayed that Eugenie would stay in her little corner, far in the back of his head. But given the circumstances and her lack of interest in architecture, it seemed obvious that she’d waste little time before coming out to make his life hell.
They climbed into a Mercedes Maybach, the largest model available in the country. Despite Inspector Sharko’s insistence, Nahed had wished to sit in back. The powerful car left Heliopolis and dove into the Salah-Salem highway, which would propel them into the guts of Cairo. Ahead of them, the black mass of the center vibrated beneath a copper-colored sky.
On the way, Lebrun handed Sharko a bottle of water as he regained his strength by absorbing lungsful of air recycled by the car’s cooling system.
“Your superior, Martin Leclerc, evidently doesn’t want you to spend too much time, since your return flight is scheduled for tomorrow evening. He suggested you go to the police station today. Personally, I would have preferred to wait a bit, to give you time to rest up and enjoy the city, but—”
“Martin Leclerc doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘rest.’ So how do we do this?”
“I’ll drop you off at your hotel, on Mohamed Farid Street, not far from headquarters. Nahed can wait in the lobby. She’ll accompany you, in any case, anywhere you want to go. Take some time to freshen up. Then you head over; it’ll be around four, I imagine. Police Chief Hassan Noureddine, the head of the brigade, will be there to receive you.”
“At headquarters, will I have full access to the information?”
Michael Lebrun made a pinched face. Around them, the traffic became heavier. Crowded buses and taxis passed each other on all sides in a deafening cacophony.
“Right now we’re in a delicate situation because of the pig slaughter. With the spread of swine flu, a bunch of deputies in the People’s Assembly won approval to eradicate the animals. Since the end of April, I can’t tell you how many outbreaks of violence there have been between the breeders and law enforcement. You’re not coming at a very good time, and unfortunately my relations with the chief of police aren’t the best in the world. He wields supreme authority over the governorate of Qasr el-Nil, which he rules with an iron fist. Noureddine is ex-Egyptian military, after all. But believe me, Nahed will help you as much as she can. Noureddine knows her extremely well.”
Sharko glanced at the rearview mirror. Nahed sat rigid as a sphinx, framed between the leather headrests. When their eyes met, she turned away toward the window. In an instant, Sharko thought he understood what Lebrun meant by “extremely well.”
Cairo finally revealed its burning heart, that pulsating muscle that Suzanne would so have loved to squeeze in her hands. Sharko ran a sad eye over the minarets with their ornate architecture bordering the universities, the gold-roofed mosques gleaming in the dust raised by the growling tires, the fields reserved for soccer clubs, hidden behind outsized fruit stalls. A fiery urban chaos reigned over it all, making Paris look like a mere village. Twenty million inhabitants who gave the impression of swarming in a pocket handkerchief. Hawkers of automobile parts jutted out into the crowded lanes, people crossed the roads every which way, sometimes assisted by “crossing helpers.” Here, all work was indeed honorable. People pushed wheelbarrows full of bricks; worn-out mules dragged mountains of cloth and rubbed against old black Nasr 1300 taxicabs. On the dangerous sidewalks, veiled creatures ran and spoke on the phone at the same time, their cell phones wedged between their cheeks and their soiled hijabs.
“As you can see, the pedestrian is always right,” said Nahed, smiling. “The pedestrian in the car, that is. You can’t drive in Cairo without a horn. And if you don’t have good ears, you should never cross the street.”
It was the first time Sharko really heard her voice, a lovely blend of French and Eastern savors.
“And how do you live in such an environment day after day?”
“Oh, Cairo has many other faces! In its deepest arteries is where you’ll hear its heart beat.”
“The same arteries where they found the three murdered girls sixteen years ago?”
Sharko had always had a talent for casting a pall on the conversation; diplomacy wasn’t his strong suit. He jerked his chin at Lebrun.
“Can you tell me about that case, since that’s why I’m here?”
“My posting in Egypt only started four years ago. This job requires us to move around a lot. And I haven’t yet seen the file. That’s all I can say.”
Sharko immediately u
nderstood that the other man didn’t want to take sides. A diplomat.
“Will this Noureddine bring me to the crime scenes if need be?” the French cop insisted.
“There’s one thing you have to understand, Chief Inspector. The country is moving forward, and the Egyptian authorities hate looking back. What are you hoping to find after all this time?”
“Would you do it, if it comes to that?”
Inspector Lebrun honked in turn, for no good reason. The guy was stressed out, but how could you help it in this whirlwind of noise and steel?
“It’s out of the question for us to run our show without Noureddine’s consent. For one thing, we don’t like that type of solo op at the embassy, since the organization and the cases handled by the Egyptian police are under the seal of defense secrets. On top of which, you won’t have enough time.”
Sharko gave him a tight smile.
“Hence the reason for my quick round-trip, no doubt. And I suppose Nahed isn’t by my side simply to interpret.” He turned around. “Isn’t that right, Nahed?”
“You have a vivid imagination, Chief Inspector,” Lebrun answered in a dry voice.
“You have no idea.”
Mohamed Farid Street. The Mercedes halted in front of the Happy City, a three-star hotel with a pink-and-black facade.
“Clean and stereotypical,” said Lebrun, “given that most of the other hotels in the city were jammed. July in Cairo isn’t exactly devoid of tourists.”
“As long as there’s a bathtub…”
The embassy inspector held out his business card.
“I’ll expect you this evening at 7:30 at Maxim’s restaurant, across Talaat Harb Square, not very far from here. You can listen to Édith Piaf songs and drink French wine. You can tell me all about your meeting with Noureddine, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Syndrome E Page 11
