Tworkowski was forced to acknowledge that he had little to go on besides his gut feelings and his impressions of the man.
“In a case like this without hard evidence,” said Colemont, “you’ll only get yourself in trouble by taking sides, and there’s nothing to gain from it. Frankly, aren’t you too old to be getting yourself in this kind of mess?”
Tworkowski readily admitted that his friend was right. As they concluded the lunch, the captain talked about the vacation he was planning to go on in mid-September. He returned to his office reassured and less inclined to go after Perdiou, and began preparing the statement for the judge.
Meanwhile in Saint-Cloud, Elisabeth Plesse had gathered the three employees of Job-Inter in the office of her late husband. At first glance, she looked nothing like a grieving widow: she was dressed in a linen blouse that had been left subtly unbuttoned to draw eyes to her chest, and her tight jeans emphasized her sporty figure. Her skin tanned by her recent vacation, her short brown hair gently bleached by the sun, she looked much younger than thirty-two. She perched on the corner of the desk and looked down over the three employees seated in chairs opposite her.
“I understand your questions, your concerns, but it is impossible for me to answer them at this time.”
The young Marina Spoturno, the most recent employee to be hired by the agency, who had the annoying habit of talking a lot without saying much, interrupted: “Excuse me, but when can you—”
“I don’t know,” Elisabeth quickly replied, visibly annoyed.
She had been living on edge for the last four days, and she felt like she was ready to burst into tears at any moment.
Fortunately, Raïssa came to her rescue: “We fully understand, Madame Plesse. You need a bit of time to take a step back and consider the situation of the company. But I believe I speak for my colleagues when I”—Marina glared at her as she continued, though Raïssa didn’t see— “ask you not to take too long in making a decision about the future of Job-Inter. The three of us have to work for a living.”
“It’s true,” confirmed Cyril Achery. He was in his late twenties and the company’s lone male employee. He’d managed to turn his unattractive qualities into professional assets: with his short, squat physique, premature baldness, and his big thick glasses, he made the agency’s clients feel better about their own appearance and spend confidently. And with his constant smile and impressive calm under any circumstance, he had, in less than two years, become indispensable at the agency. “Raïssa is right. We are with you wholeheartedly during this terrible ordeal. But please don’t forget, Madame Plesse, that you can count on three dedicated employees to run the agency, and also further improve its performance.”
Marina made a face: obviously, she couldn’t give a damn about whatever Cyril and Raïssa were saying.
Head down, staring at her shoes, looking exhausted, Elisabeth Plesse replied, “I understand your concern, and I promise to do everything possible to continue Job-Inter’s activities without any disruption. Give me to the end of the month to see things more clearly.”
“And the burglary?” Marina then asked. “Is there any news?”
Elisabeth Plesse looked up and, this time addressing the girl directly, said, “I don’t think so. In any case, the investigation is ongoing.”
“You don’t think there’s any connection with—”
“With the death of my husband? Is it that what you mean? I know of absolutely nothing that connects the two. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going home to get some rest. Have a good weekend despite everything.”
Raïssa, who was paying close attention to her boss, had the impression that she wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Chapter 14
“So, Monsieur Boizot, your vacation’s already over? How was it?”
Boizot smiled politely to the old lady who was carefully coming down the stairs, her shopping cart under her arm.
“Hello, Madame Lopez. All good things must come to an end, as they say! And what about here, did I miss anything exciting?”
He had precariously balanced his suitcase on one of the steps. With Madame Lopez, he knew that he would be there for a while. That was the price to pay for having good relations with his neighbors. He had moved in three years ago following his divorce. The building was located between Père Lachaise and Porte de Bagnolet, on a narrow street rarely penetrated by the sun. The neighborhood wasn’t the most attractive. But the rent was all that he could afford. So he was always careful to avoid any problems.
“You could say so. I had to call the police twice because of those pesky kids who come riding their mopeds at all hours of the night! I mean, as the police said to me, what else is new, but—”
Once she got started, it was impossible for the old lady Lopez, who lived on the second floor, in the apartment just below Boizot’s, to stop. A widow for at least ten years, she had an irrepressible need to talk. About everything and nothing, and preferably nothing.
He waited patiently until she had finished. The stairwell was suffused with an indefinable smell, a mixture of floor polish and cookery, which was somehow characteristic of the building.
Finally pushing open his apartment door, he was back in familiar surroundings. Through the windows, he could see that it was raining hard, as if to signify to him that his vacation was really, truly over.
Putting his bag on the bed, he suddenly thought about Sandrine. When she’d lived here, she’d managed to make this sad apartment an almost happy place. And what if he were to start seeing her again, what if he asked her to risk a second chance at living together?
He opened his suitcase, made a pile of the dirty clothes, and went into the kitchen to stuff it all in the washing machine. A maid! She hadn’t understood anything: he didn’t need a maid. He could manage on his own just fine. What he needed was someone by his side. But it was also true that he wasn’t very easy to live with. He started the washing machine and closed the kitchen door.
He turned on the television—he hated silence—sat on the couch, and pulled out a cigarette.
Above the TV, there was a large framed photograph of Claude and Mireille smiling at the camera—paradise lost. He had taken the photo four years earlier, during one of those walks in the Tuileries they took regularly on Sundays, all four of them, one big family.
It’s crazy how the children had changed in four years, and Boizot knew he would never again know the carefree joy of those early days.
He took off his shoes, lay down on the couch, and closed his eyes.
When these fits of melancholy came over him, it was as if the weight of the entire world had suddenly fallen on his shoulders.
On TV, a guy was discussing his passion for flying in an ultralight aircraft. Boizot listened distractedly for a few seconds, then turned his thoughts back to the Perdiou case.
On the way back from Batz, he had devised a plan of action.
First he would get in touch with Paul Vendroux, a friend who, Boizot had learned, was part of the crime squad investigating the fatal robbery at Charles Plesse’s home. Then he would take a trip to Senlis, to the Flaneau bakery. He wanted to find out more about this guy.
By a stroke of luck, which he interpreted as another sign of fate, he reached Paul Vendroux directly on the phone. The two got along well, and after some small talk about his vacation, he pounced. “Hey, where are you on the Plesse case?”
“Officially, nowhere.”
“And unofficially?”
“Also nowhere!” said Vendroux, laughing. “Obviously, the guys who did it were very determined. They didn’t give Plesse the slightest chance.”
“He lived alone?”
“No. He was married with two children, but his wife and kids were on vacation in Saint-Géry.”
“And him?”
“He ran a temp agency in Saint-Cloud. A vacation was out of th
e question for him.”
“Was the guy clean?”
“As far as we know, yes.”
“Mistress?”
“We haven’t discovered any. But why are you interested in this case?”
Boizot dodged the question. “Just because . . . I read the article when I was at the beach, and I don’t know why, but I thought that this burglary might be hiding something else, a settling of scores. I don’t know.”
“To be honest, I think you’re imagining things: for me, the case couldn’t be clearer. Two guys walk into the Plesse home with the obvious intention of stealing everything they can find. It’s vacation time, and it’s not surprising that a nice place on Avenue Foch would attract unwelcome visitors. Inside, they didn’t hesitate: three bullets, one in the head, two in the chest. Plesse died immediately. The guys left, taking the contents of the safe. According to his wife, he always kept at least fifty thousand euros just in case, and a lot of jewelry. The guys also took two paintings worth at least a hundred thousand euros.”
“How’d they get into the Plesse home?”
“Without force. Our best guess is that they had Plesse open the door himself, under some sort of pretext.”
“At one o’clock in the morning?”
“You wouldn’t believe the naiveté of people. They’ll open their doors to anyone.”
“Yeah, true. And inside, they got him to open the safe at gunpoint?”
“Most likely. And then they offed him so that they wouldn’t be recognized.”
“What pros!”
“In any case, these guys were determined. Reminds me of the radical methods used by the guys from Eastern Europe. They don’t hesitate to kill someone in order to steal a car, so you’ve got to wonder, when it comes to money and paintings.”
“Who discovered the crime?”
“The police were alerted by Plesse’s secretary. He had two appointments in the morning, and he was not the type to play hooky. Out of desperation, she called the police station in the sixteenth. They sent a car and found Plesse lying on the rug in the living room.”
“The neighbors didn’t hear anything?”
“Nobody cares about anyone else in those apartment buildings, plus half of the occupants were on vacation, and also, the killers used a silencer.”
“They still use those?”
“Evidently. That’s also one of the reasons why we think they were Romanians or Russians.”
Boizot, who had just lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Outside, the rain pounded against the pavement, as if the fall was already making its presence known, even though it was still early August.
At the other end of the line, Vendroux continued his monologue.
“. . . That’s why we’re up a creek. It’s an ever-changing case.”
“And what about the wife?”
“We checked her out, but there’s really nothing to make us think that she could have been involved. On the contrary, with the death of her husband, she herself is in quite a mess: she doesn’t work, the apartment is not fully paid for, and she will have to find a buyer for her husband’s company. Sure, she won’t end up on the street, but to be honest, she won’t be coming out of this a winner.”
“OK, I hear you. I won’t bother you for much longer. Let’s get a drink one of these days. In the meantime, if you have something new on this case, don’t forget about me.”
“No problem. Ciao!”
Boizot hung up, feeling pensive. He moved to the window and looked at the pouring rain, trying to convince himself that the link between the two cases was completely tenuous. Corneau must have been imagining things. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee and never noticed the green Fiat Punto parked in front of the building. Nor did he see the two men inside the car, waiting patiently.
Boizot felt a bit listless as he walked to Porte de Bagnolet and got on the metro in the direction of Saint-Germain. He changed at Réaumur-Sébastopol, as usual. He could have done it with his eyes closed. At the newspaper stand, he bought L’Actualité and leafed through it absentmindedly.
He looked at his watch: 7:40 p.m.
Earlier, he had taken a reinvigorating shower, then changed clothes with one idea in mind: to spend the evening at Simon’s and get himself invited to dinner. As usual, his finances were at their lowest, and a free meal would be a lifesaver.
As he left the station, which was mobbed with Japanese tourists, he flipped up the collar of his jacket. The hard rain had turned into a depressing drizzle.
With great strides, he easily covered the distance that separated him from the small street where his brother had his restaurant. Ten tables, fake rustic decor, and regular customers: in the twelve years since he had bought Le Gueuleton, after having cooked for others, Simon had found a balance Boizot envied.
He pushed open the door. At that hour, the room was still empty. Anne-Catherine was busy setting the tables. She turned and grinned. “Dimoche! Vacation over?”
She walked over to him and hugged him with a warmth and spontaneity that always made him feel good. She had only one fault: she persisted in calling him Dimoche. She had adopted the ridiculous nickname from his brother, who had saddled Dimitri with it when they were kids, and it remained a sort of final nod to his childhood.
Simon came out of his kitchen. In his white T-shirt, he seemed to have gained even more weight. “So was Brittany as rainy as Paris?”
Hugging his brother, Dimitri closed his eyes for a split second. He felt good here. Simon and Anne-Catherine always greeted him as if they had not seen him in years—even though he came to dinner at least once a week—and they never, ever lectured him.
“We’re about to go on vacation, you know,” said Anne-Catherine as she finished her work. “We’ll be open tomorrow, but early Sunday morning, we’re off to Tuscany!”
“Again?” said Boizot, smiling.
“Why change a good thing?” said Simon. “There are always new things to discover, and secret restaurants serving food only the Italians know how to make.”
As he spoke, Simon went behind the counter. “You have nothing against a Veuve Clicquot from a good year, do you?”
“If you’re twisting my arm—”
“We’ll toast your return and our departure—two good reasons to pop some corks!” said Anne-Catherine, putting her arms around Boizot again. She also seemed to have gained some weight. Put together on a scale, they’d be pushing four hundred and fifty pounds, but they seemed unconcerned.
Given that their primary interest was eating and drinking well, perhaps it was good they’d remained childless. “We’re fine enough on our own,” Anne-Catherine had spontaneously said one evening when Boizot had ventured to ask about their plans for parenthood. She was right. They lived in tastefully decorated lodgings above the restaurant, bought whatever they wanted in the neighborhood, knew all their neighbors as if they lived in a village, and treated themselves to a trip to Tuscany every year in August.
Boizot envied their tranquil happiness, but without bitterness. Besides, dining at Le Gueuleton was worth more than any session with a psychiatrist. He came here to cheer up, and the guest room in his brother’s apartment was always ready on evenings when he overdid it.
That evening, he savored his favorite coq au vin, and Anne-Catherine insisted that he stay after closing. “Nonsense! You can tell us about your vacation!”
At two o’clock, they were still picturing Brittany and the vineyards of Rufina while emptying a bottle of Armagnac.
“Ah yes! You don’t know what happened to me, do you?” Boizot said suddenly. Until then, he had carefully avoided mention of the Perdiou case. But, with the alcohol loosening his tongue, he wanted to confide in his brother and sister-in-law. He trusted their judgment.
After he had finished, without omitting anything, Simon made a face that he�
��d been making since they were kids, one that expressed disbelief mixed with amusement: lips pursed, eyebrows raised, accompanied by a “pfff” that usually preceded an exclamation like, “Well, I never!”
But this time, he was beaten to it by Anne-Catherine. “That is no everyday story,” she said.
“Are you sure that Corneau doesn’t have any bats in the belfry?” Simon added.
Boizot shrugged. “I’ve thought about that question over and over again, but I don’t think he’s a nut job. At least, I’m convinced he’s not pulling a prank.”
“Maybe he’s a weird pervert,” said Anne-Catherine, emptying her glass in one gulp.
Boizot rolled his eyes. “I know, I meet them every day in my job. But this guy seems serious . . . And don’t forget the two gunshots fired ten minutes apart!”
“That is strange,” Simon admitted. “But why haven’t you talked to the police?”
Boizot looked at his brother and sister-in-law, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Well, first because the local investigators didn’t come back and see me. Second because I sense something not so ordinary is going on behind the whole case, and stupidly, I’ll admit it, I like the idea of carrying on my own little investigation.”
“But how are you going to do that?” asked Anne-Catherine. “You’re not going to start working on Mondays again, are you?”
“I am, but I’ll ask my beloved editor to assign me to the investigation. Will he agree to it? I don’t know. But if he refuses, I could always go see my buddy Delalande, who’d hook me up with two weeks of sick leave due to overwork. What do you say?”
“I think it’s completely ridiculous!” replied Simon, raising his voice. “You’ve been telling us all year that you’re afraid you’ll lose your job at L’Actualité, and now, the first chance you have, you play with fire . . . And for some half-baked idea, if you ask me.”
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 7
