“What happened?”
Praying that she would not ask him for an official badge, he casually shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing serious. A simple fender bender. There was no damage to your moped, but since it was a hit and run, we have to carry out an investigation.”
The woman nodded, looking somewhat reassured. Boizot handed her a piece of paper on which he had noted the scooter’s six-digit identification number.
She got up and pulled a file from a shelf. She quickly found the form: “Here we go. Name is Marcel Orphelin, lives in Nantes, Rue Gaston-Turpin.”
Boizot wrote the information carefully in his notebook. “Do you have a copy of his identity card?”
“Yes.”
She pulled a piece of paper from the folder and handed it to him. The photo matched the description Tworkowski had given of the thief: it showed a man in his thirties—with thick, curly blond hair hanging over his forehead, a rough-looking face, and a pointy nose. The card included all the pertinent information about the man. He’d been born in Nantes on May 31, 1978.
Boizot could hardly hide his satisfaction.
“Do you have a photocopier?”
“Of course. Would you like a copy of the form and the ID?”
“If you would be so kind,” he said. “Thank you.”
After she handed him the copies, he asked, “When was the moped rented?”
“The day before yesterday, July twenty-sixth. Monsieur Orphelin came by shortly before noon.”
“The day before yesterday? Did you notice if he arrived in a car? Did he walk?”
The owner shook her head. “I don’t have the slightest clue,” she said.
“And what was he wearing?”
“Same thing as everyone else here, I guess: T-shirt, shorts. But why does it matter?”
Boizot did not answer.
“How long did he rent the moped for?”
“One week . . . Paid in cash.”
When he got back into his car, Boizot did everything he could not to shout for joy. He could feel the beady eyes of the shop owner following him, however, and didn’t want to reveal his sense of triumph.
In one morning, he’d succeeded in getting a jump on the investigators and finding out the identity of the burglar. All he had to do now was visit Nantes, find the address on the guy’s ID card, and he’d have complete access to an exclusive story that would make Etienne Drichon’s mouth water. In fact, this was big enough that all his colleagues were going to be jealous.
He turned the key in the ignition and suddenly remembered that Lionel Perdiou had explained to police that he had had dinner the night before in La Baule at a restaurant called Saint-André. Perhaps it was time to sample some of that restaurant’s specialties.
On the road to Nantes, he savored his progress. He felt like he was in the shoes of a great reporter and began to dream that this was the scandal of the century.
At the restaurant, he claimed to have come on the recommendation of his “friend” Lionel. This led to a conversation with the owner, who confirmed that Perdiou had in fact dined alone last night.
Apparently, he’d arrived in his Jaguar and left around eleven o’clock, exactly as he had told the judge.
Boizot discreetly jotted down a few notes in his notebook. Getting back into his car, he felt a sense of unease: something about the restaurateur’s statements bothered him. Before leaving, he reread what he had just written down on his pad. At issue was the Jaguar. It was strange: there hadn’t been a Jaguar parked in front of Perdiou’s villa the night before. He’d seen it for the first time earlier this morning. Maybe Perdiou had parked it in a garage?
Boizot wasn’t sure what to think, but he felt pretty certain that it was no small detail: the Jaguar must have been driven on the night of the crime. But where?
He noted that he should resolve this question, put away his notepad, and started the car.
I already have enough for a good scoop, he thought, making a mental note to expense his meal at the restaurant.
Rue Gaston-Turpin managed to look sad even in the sun. Situated steps away from the Jardin des Plantes, it was bordered on one side by a huge construction site and on the other side by four-story gray apartment buildings. Walking from one to the next, Boizot carefully examined all the buzzers. But just as he’d expected, there was no Orphelin.
It didn’t surprise him to discover that Marcel Orphelin was a false name. While en route, he had taken stock of everything he knew. The more he thought about it, the more he got hung up by this question of why he’d heard the two gunshots ten minutes apart. Even if the shootout had played out in slow motion, that was very strange. Perdiou couldn’t have been telling the truth, and the lack of an Orphelin at the address listed on his ID merely confirmed the unusual nature of the case.
Just to make sure, Boizot randomly pushed the buzzer of one of the tenants.
“Yes?” said a voice that clearly belonged to an old person.
“Excuse me, madame. I’m looking for someone by the name of Marcel Orphelin.”
Ear glued to the intercom, he heard the old lady cough loudly before answering: “What was the name you just said?”
“Marcel Orphelin.”
“Orphelin?”
“That’s right.”
“Sorry, monsieur. But that doesn’t ring a bell. Are you sure you’re at the right address?”
“Yes . . . But it doesn’t matter. Good-bye, madame!”
Before returning to his car, he took some photographs of the building and the street. Then he returned to Batz: it was time to write his article.
Chapter 7
Boizot woke up at seven after a restless night. But he felt a sense of triumph. When the Dictator saw his article the day before, he’d been forced to admit that it was definitely front-page worthy and packed with exclusive elements.
Boizot made himself some strong coffee and sat out on the patio to smoke his first cigarette of the day.
The sky was laden with heavy rain clouds, but he knew that in Brittany the weather could change very quickly. He took a few greedy puffs and looked forward to buying the paper. He was anxious to discover what was on the front page of L’Actualité, not to mention the paper’s competitors, Ouest-France and Presse-Océan.
In any case, he was certain that he was the only one capable of revealing the identity of the burglar and, what’s more, of providing a photo, even if it was of bad quality. Who knew if he was on the right track, but it made a good story.
The day before, after returning from Nantes, but before writing his article, he had tried to dig up more information on this Marcel Orphelin. He’d called all the hotels in La Baule and Batz-sur-Mer. The way France Telecom charged for local calls, Dédé was going to be getting a handsome bill. Too bad the calls had been in vain. No hotel had a record of Orphelin. Perhaps the man had lived in the area.
At eight o’clock, Boizot got dressed quickly and ran out to the nearest newspaper kiosk. He was not disappointed.
A huge headline ran across the front page of L’Actualité, at once simple and efficient: DEPUTY KILLS BURGLAR. Beneath the headline was a photo of Lionel Perdiou leaving the National Assembly building. In the photo, he bore a serious look that was well suited to the circumstances.
But in Boizot’s eyes, the best photo was the one next to it: the small image from Marcel Orphelin’s ID card with the intriguing title: WHO IS THIS MAN REALLY?
He had to admit that Etienne had done a good job. With a front page like that, sales of L’Actualité were sure to get a boost.
Inside, the newspaper kept its promises: a full page with a headline touting an exclusive interview with Perdiou, a photo of the house, and a biographical sidebar listing the highlights of Perdiou’s life: he’d been born in Saint-Germain-en-Laye on March 25, 1959, studied at the National School of Geology in Nancy, and wor
ked with the mining company Palonnier until June 1997, when he’d been elected for the first time to the National Assembly. He’d been regularly re-elected since, of course. Boizot continued reading. What came next was his account of the investigation he had conducted the day before on Orphelin; he smiled, knowing the details would be news to the investigators since he hadn’t shared the information.
No doubt he would soon be receiving a visit from the cops. The prosecutor was probably reading the riot act at this very moment. Late the day before, he had contacted the judge in Saint-Nazaire, Brigitte Le Guen, who had told him that the identity of the burglar was not yet known. She’d suggested it was premature to publish any details in the press.
Boizot chuckled as he pictured the face she would make when she read the newspaper.
He folded up L’Actualité and went to go see if Orphelin’s moped was still there. It had not moved. Satisfied, Boizot turned around and walked home, eager to discover how the local press had handled the case.
He leafed through Presse-Océan and Ouest-France at least twice, incredulous that there was not a single mention of the subject.
As he had predicted, the authorities seemed all too willing to cover up the story.
Their loss, he thought, satisfied, as he settled into a chair on the patio.
He had barely sat down when his cell phone rang. It was Drichon. “Great scoop!” he said. “All the radio stations were talking about it this morning, and I think the coverage has only just begun! Bravo! Excellent work.”
“Thank you!” Boizot replied, in a tone that was meant to be as modest as possible. Inside, he was gloating.
“Can you work on the case today? We’ll compensate the extra hours with vacation time, you have my word.”
Boizot thought before answering: “No problem. What would you like? A follow-up on Orphelin?”
“Yes, and anything else on the investigation. It would be great if you could ask some questions around the neighborhood. Check with Perdiou’s neighbors. ‘Did you know that the deputy had a house in Batz? Is he quiet?’ That sort of thing. Ask local shopkeepers the same thing. I want you to write another piece for tomorrow’s issue because all our competitors, furious at being one-upped, are going to have a field day. Especially now, since the news is kind of slow. What do you say?”
“That’s fine,” Boizot said, smirking. “Especially since the weather is pretty gloomy today. I won’t be able to build sand castles on the beach anyway.”
He hung up without waiting for Drichon’s reply, eminently satisfied.
Chapter 8
Lionel Perdiou hadn’t slept well, either. Even Claudio’s arrival the day before had not been enough to reassure him. The events of the previous night had made a much stronger impression on him than he had wanted to admit. He tossed and turned, wondering what would be in the papers. When he got up around eight o’clock and turned on the radio, he found out: RTL had opened with the “scandal,” citing an article in L’Actualité written by that journalist with the beer belly.
He turned on his cell phone, and the instant it came to life, it rang. No doubt it was some newshound eager for a statement.
He nevertheless picked up and was startled to hear a familiar voice screaming in his ears. “What is this all about? In just a couple of hours, a reporter from L’Actualité was able to find out the name of your burglar and get the man’s photograph published on the front page of the paper?”
Perdiou felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He was used to easily impressing others—but was also capable of losing confidence in himself easily. Especially when Ernest Lullier was yelling at him like this.
Perdiou cast a panic-stricken glance at his lover, who was standing next to him wearing only a flattering pair of boxers. This usually gave him ideas, but at the moment his thoughts were elsewhere. Claudio was content to smile at him, half in jest, half in earnest.
“Look, I don’t know how this guy did it, but—”
Lullier cut him off. “Look, what’s done is done. Nevertheless, you can’t afford to make the slightest misstep. I don’t want some nosy journalist screwing everything up. I don’t need to remind you that’s not in your interest either, right?”
Perdiou felt the color drain from his face and cleared his throat before answering: “What do you propose we do?”
“As usual in these sorts of situations, I’m going to tail him. I want to find out everything I can about this Boizot. Oh, and another thing: I hate it, really hate it, when people keep secrets from me. You could have at least told me that you had given an interview to that hack!”
“Lullier,” said Perdiou. “I wouldn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter,” the man snapped. “Perhaps it’s for the best. It reinforces the credibility of our story, right?”
“Yes. I think so, too.”
“That said, no more surprises. Now you need to do exactly what we talked about. Keep a low profile.”
Perdiou was still sweating profusely. Claudio looked worried.
“Yes, it’s all arranged,” said Perdiou. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be on a plane to Mauritius. Ten days away from it all will be perfect.”
“Yeah. And the judge?”
Perdiou immediately bounced back: “Oh, no problem there. I saw her again yesterday to give a proper statement. She bought everything, the police too. It’s as if the case were already closed.”
“That’s wishful thinking. Go, have a nice vacation, and come back in shape; we still need you here. That’s all for now.”
The line went dead. Perdiou turned to Claudio, who had gotten imperceptibly closer. “I hope I haven’t made the biggest mistake of my life.”
The handsome Italian, without a word, leaned forward and kissed his lover with a tenderness he alone possessed.
The phone rang again. This was it: the onslaught of reporters had begun.
Perdiou whispered to Claudio, “Pack our suitcases. We’re leaving immediately. This day will be hellish otherwise.” And with a quick gesture, he refused the call.
Claudio, as usual, retreated without making a sound, like a well-trained servant. But he was seething on the inside. What was Lionel up to with this Lullier, whom he hardly knew but had never really liked? The man had hillbilly manners and a testy boorishness. He did not believe for a second the story Lionel had told him earlier: that he’d worked the prior evening with Lullier, then lent him the Jaguar in order to get to the station.
He tried to calm himself down. In his position, he was better off believing all the stories his lover made up. And besides, he would have ten whole days to work on him during their vacation.
Chapter 9
Etienne Drichon had asked for local color, and he would get some. Boizot left Dédé’s villa around ten o’clock, just as a few drops of rain were starting to fall. When he passed Perdiou’s place, he noticed the Jaguar was gone—he thought he’d heard it leave a good half hour before.
So the birds had flown the coop. Wasn’t surprising, especially considering that he spotted two journalists staking out the house as he left, probably from Ouest-France and Presse-Océan. Both cars contained an overweight older man in the driver’s seat wearing an old suede jacket, and beside him the inevitable photographer. Boizot perked up at the sight of them. His poor colleagues were going to be waiting a long time for nothing.
His cell phone rang. It was Andrée.
When she said hello, he was reminded how much he had always loved her voice. It permanently oscillated between hoarseness and clarity, and was somehow beautiful, intelligent, and sensual all at once. Even when it shouted the nastiest things.
“Is this a bad time?” she asked.
“No, not at all. I’m in Batz, taking a walk under a cloudy sky, so typical of Brittany.”
“Sounds nice. I’m calling to ask you a favor.”
He s
ighed softly.
“Well, I was wondering if you could take the kids this weekend rather than next. Jean-Christophe has been invited to a conference in Rome. And I wanted to go with him. Then I’d take the kids when you’d originally planned to have them, on August ninth and tenth.”
For that, you call, he thought. Will you ever call to see how I’m doing? I won’t hold my breath.
“No problem,” he said after a pause. “I get back to Paris on Friday afternoon. I can pick up the kids Saturday morning.”
“Thanks,” she said. “They’ll be at my mother’s. Oh, and one more thing: don’t forget that Claude and Mireille are coming with me to the Dominican Republic from August twelfth to the twenty-seventh, OK?”
“No, no, don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
As he hung up, he told himself that he was much too nice. Thanks to him, she’d be able to go away for the weekend to Rome with her dentist.
It was funny, because things with Andrée seemed almost easier since they had gotten divorced.
He crossed the street. The shopkeepers in Batz would have to wait another fifteen minutes for his visit. He went and sat on the rocks overlooking the sea, lit a cigarette, and watched families pass by him. The rain had stopped, but the day wouldn’t end without a few more showers.
Everyone he saw seemed to be smiling, and this image of happiness made him wonder how and why life had managed to double-cross him. His cigarette suddenly tasted as bitter as it had three months before, when he had returned home in the middle of the night to discover another woman had decided to leave him. Yes, he’d been drunk. But he had sobered up immediately when he read the note taped to the big mirror in the hallway: I’ve had enough. I can’t stand you anymore. Find yourself another maid!
Before she’d walked out on him, Boizot and Sandrine had lived together for almost three years. He had met her shoe shopping in this small boutique in Saint-Germain that she owned with her sister, just steps away from his brother Simon’s restaurant. He’d been a bit of a mess after Andrée’s departure. The sudden breakup of his family had sapped his strength. He’d been wallowing in despair for ages, periodically treating it with shots of bad wine and rounds of various antidepressants. Sandrine was the first stranger to smile at him and take an interest in him. “I thought your sad, puppy-dog nature was touching,” she had later admitted to him. He’d returned to the store a week later in search of shoes he had no need for.
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 4
