Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1)

by Patrick Philippart

  Boizot turned to Anne-Catherine, who smiled sweetly. “In any case, you won’t listen to what anyone tells you. But like Simon, I think that pursuing this much further might not be the best idea.”

  How did she always manage to find the right words in every situation?

  “You should have become a lawyer; I’m sure you would have won all your trials,” Boizot said, grinning. “You’re obviously right. I’ll go back to my old job, even if it bores the shit out of me. But I’ll still do my best to convince Magnin to give me the Perdiou case.”

  And he downed his glass of Armagnac. He liked the feeling of whiplash it gave him.

  Chapter 15

  “Well?” said the voice on the phone.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” replied the man, his ear glued to his cell phone as he sat in the front passenger seat of a green Fiat Punto. He looked up and signaled to the driver to start the car.

  “What does that mean, ‘nothing out of the ordinary’?”

  “It’s an Average Joe one-bedroom apartment, kind of shabby. Boizot lives alone. It reeks of stale tobacco in his place. And in the kitchen, all we saw were three cartons of Camels. The ashtray in the living room held at least a dozen cigarette butts. His only luxury, it seems, is his bar. It’s very kitsch, very . . . sixties, stocked with all sorts of liquor. He must love booze.”

  “OK, OK. But what about as far as we’re concerned?” said the voice impatiently.

  Before answering, the man signaled for the driver to turn right.

  “So far, absolutely nothing. I’ve searched everything, but haven’t found even the smallest slip of paper.”

  “That’s not possible. This Boizot must have a calendar and an address book, not to mention a notepad.”

  “Of course,” said the man, keeping his voice low and measured as if to emphasize his self-control.

  “There’s nothing on the calendar after June thirtieth. July is crossed out, and he wrote ‘VACATION’ across the page in big red letters. After that, nothing. As for the address book, I photographed everything, but at first glance, it contains nothing extraordinary. I mean, that will be up to you to decide, Monsieur Lullier. And as for a notepad, I haven’t found one. Let me just add that there isn’t a computer or an answering machine.”

  He distinctly heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

  “I think this is a good sign. It means that we are dealing with some amateur dirt-digger. If you want my opinion, there’s really—”

  “Your opinion?” Lullier said. “I don’t give a shit about your opinion! You searched his car?”

  “Obviously,” said the man, his low, self-controlled tone suddenly becoming irritated and curt. “Nothing there either, except the fact that it’s disgusting.”

  “I want a full report tomorrow morning. Including everything you can dig up on his family.”

  The man ended the call and turned to the driver. “So, did you get your bearings? This neighborhood is full of one-way streets! Drop me off at the office. I have an urgent report to prepare for our beloved client.”

  Chapter 16

  Boizot had never set foot in Senlis. But this morning, he felt a thrilling sense of freedom. After arriving at the newspaper, he immediately went to go see Magnin, who, like him, was just returning from vacation.

  After a quick exchange of niceties, he brought up the Perdiou case. “Yeah, I saw that. Good work!” the editor-in-chief tossed out. Boizot quickly pressed his case, and within minutes had what he wanted: carte blanche to conduct an investigation as he pleased, and permission to take a temporary leave of absence from the paper for a few days. “But be careful, keep me updated, and most importantly, go easy on Perdiou. The guy’s got a lot of connections, and he is very touchy, even borderline paranoid, if you know what I mean.”

  Boizot nodded, agreeing to be careful, and then headed straight to Senlis to meet the parents of Jean-Michel Flaneau.

  While driving, he thought about how quickly time had flown over the weekend, his last before returning to work. So quickly, in fact, that he had completely forgotten to pick up Claude and Mireille at his ex-mother-in-law’s house on Friday.

  He had been about to take the metro home after having breakfast with Simon and Anne-Catherine at their place when his cell phone had rung. On the other end, he had heard his mother-in-law snarl, “We’re still waiting for you, Boizot. The children are getting impatient . . . and so am I.”

  He had completely forgotten about the kids and the fact that he had agreed to switch weekends so that Andrée could go to Rome with her dentist. Coming up with a lame excuse, he’d rushed home to pick up his car, which he’d left in front of his building. Then he’d driven off like a bat out of hell, and fifteen minutes later—ah, Paris in August!—he’d arrived to get his kids. Of course, Claude, moody kid that he was, had simply sulked. Mireille, who was by nature the nicer of the two, had simply stated, “Granny thought you had forgotten about us.”

  They had taken advantage of the scarce rays of sun to visit Versailles on Saturday afternoon, before the usual meal at the Chinese restaurant on Rue Pelleport. In the evening, after having sat through a dud of a movie at the theater on the Champs-Élysées, they had returned to the Renault and driven home. It was at that point that Mireille had noticed the piece of paper lying under the passenger seat. Curious, she had picked it up. “Who’d you have a sandwich with yesterday?” she had asked.

  Without turning around, Boizot, who was driving, replied, “Yesterday, I had dinner at Uncle Simon’s place, and I can tell you that it was much better than any ordinary sandwich! Why do you ask?”

  “Because I just found this receipt from Brasserie Maurice on Rue Belgrand. It’s not far from that place that you’ve taken us to. It’s dated yesterday at 2:22 p.m. and lists a sandwich and two beers . . . Thirteen euros in total.”

  Boizot, who had no idea what Mireille was talking about, drove the rest of the way home in silence, his mind elsewhere.

  It was only after they had gotten back to the apartment and had dropped their bags off in their room that he had asked his daughter, “What was that receipt you were telling me about in the car?”

  Mireille handed him the piece of paper, saying, “I found it under the seat.”

  He looked at the receipt carefully. It was dated the day before. But at 2:22 p.m., he had been in his apartment. He would have been talking to Vendroux around that time.

  “It’s not mine. Someone must have tossed it in the street. It probably got stuck to my shoe and ended up in the car.”

  “Under the passenger seat?” said Claude snidely, suddenly interested in the conversation.

  Boizot shrugged. “I don’t know. In any case, if it was mine, I don’t see how I wouldn’t recognize it.”

  “Maybe early onset Alzheimer’s?” suggested Claude sarcastically.

  “Funny,” said Boizot dryly, as he shoved the receipt into his pocket.

  The next day, the nonstop rain deterred them from going for a walk, so the kids, delighted, vegged out in front of the TV all day. Or at least until six, when he drove them back to Granny’s place.

  The Flaneau bakery was on a small side street not far from the cathedral in Senlis. The security gate was lowered, and on it was a sign: ON VACATION. WILL REOPEN TUESDAY, AUGUST 12.

  Boizot sighed. Why hadn’t he thought to call?

  He nevertheless got out of his car and stood on the sidewalk. The street was deserted. But just above the shop, one of the front windows was ajar.

  By the door to the right of the shop, he saw two buzzers, one of which was marked private. He gave the buzzer two quick pushes.

  A few seconds later, a blond head appeared at the window on the second floor. “Yes, what is it?”

  He put on his most engaging smile. “Hello. I am a journalist with L’Actualité, and I would like to speak to Monsieur or Madame Flanea
u.”

  As he spoke, he noted her unique angular features. They gave her a stern, rigid appearance that was fortunately softened by a mass of curly blond hair.

  “What do you want from them?”

  Her tone was curt and unaccommodating.

  That didn’t work, thought Dimitri. “Well,” he said, “I am investigating the accident their son Jean-Michel was in.”

  You’re going to get yourself kicked out, Boizot, he scolded himself.

  The girl scowled and appeared even more sullen.

  “What accident are you talking about?”

  This time, it was Boizot who felt caught off guard. He had expected everything except that question. Play nice, he told himself.

  “The accident last year that cost Monsieur Flaneau his life.”

  “What? I can’t understand what you’re saying. Wait a second, I’ll come down.”

  A moped backfired as it passed by. Then the street quickly returned to its slumber. Boizot looked at his watch: eleven thirty.

  He wondered what exactly he was doing there. He could have simply gone back to work that morning and without much enthusiasm returned to his regular routine. Instead, he had set out like a phony Don Quixote on the hunt for windmills. All because some guy he didn’t know from Adam had managed to convince him to stick his nose into bizarre connections that were probably unrelated.

  The door opened and Boizot found himself face-to-face with a short, scrawny young woman who seemed to be nothing but skin and bones. Jean shorts revealed her bony but tanned legs, and she was swamped by a red T-shirt that was far too big for her. She looked him up and down without saying a word.

  “Hello,” said Boizot once more with a smile. “I am very sorry to bother you.”

  Without a smile, her face still expressionless, her right hand firmly gripping the doorknob of the door she had barely opened, she said, “What exactly do you want? Why would a journalist be interested in an accident from a year ago?”

  “It’s complicated. Are you a family member?”

  “Yes, I am Jean-Michel’s sister . . .” she trailed off. “Why is it complicated?”

  Boizot felt uncomfortable with the girl’s brown eyes fixed on his own. He got a feeling of strength and resilience from her, in stark contrast to her physical frailty.

  “Well, how should I put this? A recent event, one that I had a chance to get involved with for my newspaper, brought the accident to my attention. I had never heard of it until a few days ago, to tell the truth.”

  As he spoke, he unfolded the newspaper he had brought with him and showed the girl its front page. She barely glanced at it before returning her gaze to him.

  “So?”

  “Look at the man in the small photo.”

  He carefully studied her reaction as she looked it over. Her face showed only sincere bewilderment. She looked up. “Yeah, and what about it?”

  He felt himself turn foolishly red. “Don’t you see a certain resemblance to your brother?”

  This time, she let out an odd noise. She looked at the photo again, studying it for a while, nervously chewing the inside of her cheek. Then she slowly shrugged and said, “It’s possible.”

  “So, after seeing this picture and reading the article, a certain Ludovic Corneau contacted me to tell me that, according to him, this man and your brother could only be one and the same.”

  At this point, two passersby shouted, “Hello Sylvie, having a nice vacation?”

  She gave them a quick smile, nodded, and then opened the door wider. “Come in. We can talk inside without being disturbed.”

  The room was small, typically provincial, with its bulky armchairs covered in worn leather, the inevitable cherrywood china cabinet, the shiny floors, and the smell of polish.

  Yet despite the suburban trappings, Boizot felt almost as disoriented as if he had sneaked into some yurt in the middle of the Gobi Desert.

  Sitting in a deep armchair, the massive size of which made her look even more slender, Sylvie Flaneau listened very carefully to the whole story without interrupting him.

  In the end, she shook her head. “No, it doesn’t make sense. If Jean-Michel had survived this accident, he definitely would have contacted me and my parents. And do not forget that his body was found in the car.”

  “Yes, but—forgive me—I was told he was in such a state that any positive identification of the body was impossible.”

  “That’s true, but there really is no reason to assume that someone else died in his place. It all sounds too ridiculous. This is like a soap opera!”

  She looked up to the ceiling, as if searching for what to say. Boizot sensed that she was nevertheless shaken. There was an imperceptible tremor in her voice.

  “If my brother was capable of making his family believe that he was dead, that would make him a total monster. No, it’s completely crazy. I think Ludovic is imagining things.”

  “Do you know the story of Marcel Orphelin?”

  “No, I’ve never heard anything about it before. That said, it was pretty clever of them,” she added, smiling.

  Her face immediately seemed to soften, to become less square thanks to her smile, which revealed perfect white teeth that stood out against her tan skin.

  “Did you see your brother’s friends after high school?”

  “No. But, you know, I am three years younger than Jean-Michel. At that age, it made a huge difference. For him, I was the kid sister. I had my friends, he had his. I knew who they were because Jean-Mi would sometimes spend the night at their houses, or they would sometimes come over to our place. But I can barely even remember what they looked like.”

  Boizot realized the absurdity of his approach. He sighed and, as if he wanted to give himself time to reflect, asked, “May I smoke?”

  Sylvie Flaneau said with another smile, “Of course. Let me get you an ashtray.”

  He watched her get up and quickly leave the room. It was clear that he had hit a dead end, and yet he still believed that there was perhaps a kernel of truth in what Ludovic Corneau had said.

  “I apologize for insisting,” he said when she reappeared. “But do you have any relatively recent photographs of your brother?”

  “The most recent ones are two years old. They were taken at a cousin’s wedding.”

  She knelt before the TV stand, opened a drawer, and pulled out a large gilded burgundy album.

  Planting herself on the arm of Boizot’s chair, she quickly flipped through the album.

  “Look, here’s the whole family: my mother, my father, Jean-Michel, and myself.”

  Boizot put the album on his knees and looked at the photograph carefully. With curly blond hair like his sister, Jean-Michel Flaneau exuded joy. Wearing a light suit and a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, he only vaguely resembled the young man Boizot had seen in the snapshot at Corneau’s place, and he looked even less like the ID photograph of “Marcel Orphelin.”

  “You’re right,” admitted Boizot. “The resemblance is not very obvious.”

  “I told you,” said Sylvie as she closed the album.

  In the house, a clock struck noon. There was nothing left for him to do but to leave.

  Chapter 17

  Dr. François Ménessier’s practice was located at a private clinic in Le Vésinet. When Boizot arrived, a dozen or so cars were parked in the lot behind the building, which was a large villa dating to the turn of the century. It had a certain charm that surely must have impressed clients.

  Inside the entrance, seated behind a smoked-glass desk, sat a young receptionist with platinum blond hair. She asked him to wait in a small lounge with a flat-screen TV playing a short video that gave an overview of the clinic. It reeks of money, Boizot thought as he plopped down on a white leather sofa that went perfectly with the room’s look.

  The day before,
after returning from Senlis, he’d spent ten minutes in Magnin’s office summarizing the interview he’d conducted with Sylvie Flaneau. He’d finished by showing him the photograph she had lent to him—Flaneau at a cousin’s wedding. Sylvie had agreed to let him borrow the photo so long as he promised to return it. Boizot had ordered a new print of it that cropped out everyone except for Jean-Michel.

  Immediately Magnin had thought of showing the pictures to an expert. “I have a friend who is a cosmetic surgeon. Contact him on my behalf.”

  After Magnin had called in a formal introduction, Boizot had obtained an appointment for the next day.

  The building seemed surprisingly quiet for late morning. Through the waiting room’s large French doors, which overlooked the garden, Boizot saw a man in a blue apron leaning over a flowerbed. Everything in the place breathed tranquility, and he dropped into a melancholy daydream. He was quickly roused from it by the arrival of the doctor himself.

  “Monsieur Boizot? Nice to meet you. Doctor François Ménessier. If you would please follow me.”

  With his impeccably tanned face, immaculately white teeth, and perfectly ironed white pants, the doctor clearly cared about his appearance. Probably an attempt to instill confidence in his patients.

  In his office, simply furnished with a cabinet and a smoked-glass desk—they must have bought them in bulk, thought Boizot—Dr. Ménessier settled into a deep armchair, gesturing for Boizot to have a seat.

  He spoke in a deep, warm, low voice, which surely appealed to his patients. Boizot wondered if the doctor had undergone cosmetic surgery himself.

  “Well, if I understand the note from my secretary, you are a journalist at L’Actualité, Monsieur Boizot, and you work with my old friend Magnin—how’s he doing?—and you are investigating several unexplained deaths. A perfect topic for vacation, right?”

  Boizot, who dared not open his mouth lest he expose his coffee- and tobacco-stained teeth, was fascinated by the doctor’s ultra-white smile.