Boizot listened in silence, nodding to show his interest.
“So when your brother was old enough, he wanted a career in the field?” he asked.
“Yes, after graduating, he worked for several years in Orléans, in a lab. Then he was hired by a big company in Paris called Palonnier, one with rather big operations in Africa, from what I hear. For Jean-Mi, who loved traveling, that was amazing: he spent weeks deep in the bush. He was ecstatic.”
“A sort of Indiana Jones, then?”
“I guess you could say that,” said Sylvie with a curious smile that lay halfway between irony and affection.
The waiter arrived on the patio and led them to their table, and the topic of conversation changed. Boizot, curious as to whether Sylvie enjoyed running the bakery, asked her the question directly.
“I had no choice, really,” she said. “When my father realized that Jean-Mi would not continue the family tradition, he pinned all his hopes on me. I was still in high school at the time, and I will always remember the dinner with my parents when they invited me to join the business. The restaurant was a bit like this, just closer to Senlis. The place was formal, so I knew they were going to tell me some big news. At first, I thought there was a serious problem, like maybe that they wanted a divorce or one of them had an incurable disease. But it didn’t take long for me to realize what was happening. As soon as we sat down, it was ‘my little girl’ this and ‘my angel’ that. I had never seen them so attentive before. Over dinner, they pulled out all the stops to convince me that, without me, the Flaneau bakery would soon go out of business. At that time, I was sixteen, and not really into my studies. I had no idea what I wanted to do later in life. I was a little annoyed that they asked me when my guard was down, but in the end, the option they were offering wasn’t a bad one.”
Boizot thought he saw a veil of sadness in Sylvie’s eyes.
“So you’ve become the queen of the baguette and the Paris-Brest?” he joked to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.
“Oh, not at all! You know, my father and mother are sixty-one; they are in good shape, even if Jean-Mi’s accident was hard on them. Me, I’m just helping out in the front and with deliveries at the moment. I also take care of the books. So there you have it. It does leave me a fair amount of free time, and believe me, I know how to waste it: stupid soap operas on TV, movies once or twice a month in Paris, tabloids. I can’t deny I’m living the easy life in all its glory.”
“If you’re so bored, why not try something else?”
Sylvie shrugged resignedly.
“Impossible. You don’t realize what my family business is like. Leaving became even less feasible after Jean-Mi’s death. But I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy. What about you?”
Boizot dreaded this question. He hated talking about himself with a passion.
“Not much of anything to say, really. I work as a journalist. The woman who dumped me has custody of our two kids, and I live in a crummy apartment in the twentieth arrondissement. Nothing exciting. That may be why I’ve gotten so caught up in this strange robbery and its aftermath.”
Sylvie nodded. She understood Boizot’s state of mind perfectly.
The waiter, efficient and quiet, came to serve them some more wine. When he turned around, Sylvie pointed at him and whispered, her face leaning toward Boizot’s, “And do you think he’s happy?”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘happy.’ That said, and to ensure that we don’t start sobbing in the middle of the restaurant, let’s change the subject. Let me tell you a little something more about the case.
“This morning, before heading to work, I went to visit an old neighborhood mechanic in the twelfth arrondissement I’ve known for forever, a guy named Antoine. I had an important question to ask him: Was it possible for someone to get into my car without breaking in?
Antoine looked at me, clearly confused, and I explained—as I’ll tell you now—that I wanted to know if it was possible for a receipt to get into my car without me putting it there.”
Sylvie looked at him questioningly.
Boizot continued. “Let’s just say it made me suspicious. Anyway, Antoine pointed out that my old Renault model has no automatic locks. So a simple copy of the ignition key would allow entry to anyone. He also told me there are some dishonest mechanics out there who will turn out copies of any kind of key. It’s good business for guys who traffic cars, apparently.”
“So you think someone got your key and searched your car?” Sylvie asked. “And left the receipt behind by mistake?”
“I don’t think so. I’m sure of it.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it, because I was able to confirm my suspicions through a stroke of luck. When I got home, I realized that my apartment had also been visited.”
“But why?”
Boizot made a face. “That, I don’t know, but I do have an idea. Listen: I got back from Batz on Friday afternoon. That evening, I was at my brother’s place and stayed there until the next morning. I picked up my car on Saturday morning, and later that day my daughter noticed the brasserie receipt. So it seems fairly obvious what happened. On Friday night, someone took advantage of my absence to get the lowdown on me; apparently, it was two guys in a beat-up green Fiat Punto. Since nothing was stolen from my home or my car, I can only assume they want information—most likely about what I know about the burglary in Batz. And, in my opinion, Deputy Perdiou must be behind it. He’s far from being a fool, and must have realized that I know he faked the burglary. He’s probably dying to find out exactly what I know.”
Sylvie gulped, suddenly worried. “You think that it could be dangerous?”
“You know, there’s already been a death in this case, maybe two, if we can prove any links to Charles Plesse.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
Boizot knew when he’d invited Sylvie to this inn that sooner or later she would end up asking this question. But in spite of being prepared for it, he nevertheless felt embarrassed.
“Thanks to an appeal printed in the newspaper with the picture of the burglar in Batz, whom I briefly mistook for your brother, I finally just learned his name: the burglar was a man named Franck Héron. He was from Clamart. Thankfully, my editor is letting me go to Biarritz tomorrow morning so I can visit Franck Héron’s parents. They don’t even know that their son’s dead yet. So I’m going down there to inform them and at the same time verify once and for all that he really was involved in the burglary.”
He hesitated, but Sylvie sat completely still, waiting as if she expected to hear more.
“And I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but on the way back, I’m planning to drive through Cahors and see Marc Dabos, an old friend of mine from journalism school. He now works for a daily newspaper in the area. Thanks to him and his contacts, I hope to reopen the investigation into your brother’s death. I want to know if it really was an accident.”
This time, Sylvie jumped a little. “Reopen the investigation? But it was closed a long time ago, and they concluded that it was a simple collision!”
“I know,” he said. “But even if there’s a one in a million chance that it wasn’t an accident, I have to know. I feel certain that there’s a connection to all these cases. But why, how, I don’t know. So I’m going to find out, starting with getting the real facts about your brother.”
Sylvie stared at him. She seemed to hesitate. Boizot saw the hint of a smile form on her face. “And would you mind if I came with you?”
Boizot, who had been expecting anything but that, blushed. “Well, no, why would I mind? I suppose I wouldn’t mind at all.”
Chapter 21
The first morning with a woman had always been difficult for Boizot. The night before, he’d been euphoric as he’d escorted Sylvie back to
Senlis, feeling as confident as if he’d been Alain Delon. Especially when, after parking the car in front of the bakery, she had turned to him, her eyes glittering, and leaned in to kiss him without saying a single thing.
But now it was morning. He opened his eyes, and it took a few seconds to figure out where he was.
The first thing that brought him back to reality was Sylvie’s blond mane, a splash of brightness in the morning’s feeble light. She was lying by his side, and he felt reassured by her deep, regular breaths. She wouldn’t see him get out of bed, at least there was that. He’d have enough time to return to his human form before she woke up.
Boizot had never liked the way he looked, and he had not gotten over it with time. He hated the tragic proportions of his belly and the baldness of his scalp.
In the bathroom, he reclaimed his clothes and quickly got dressed. He found some chewing gum in one of his pockets, shoved a piece in his mouth, and started chewing as if his life depended on it.
A glance in the mirror showed stubble emerging on his face, and there was obviously no razor, but all things considered, it wasn’t so bad. So he returned to the room, knelt beside the bed, and gently kissed the tip of Sylvie’s nose.
She woke up slowly, and when she saw him, Boizot discovered a sort of tenderness in her eyes that surprised him.
“What time is it?” she said as she pushed away the sheet, uninhibitedly revealing her body. She did not seem to have any problems with modesty, and for good reason. Sylvie was all lean muscle, but endowed with rather respectable curves in just the right places.
“Eight thirty,” said Boizot, not missing the fact that she was putting on a bit of a show for him. Sylvie sat on the edge of the bed, facing him, and, placing her chin in the palm of her hands, gave him a mischievous look. “Do you still want to take me with you?”
“More than ever!” Boizot replied as he tried to embrace her.
But she jumped out of bed. “Behave yourself! Biarritz isn’t just down the road. I’ll take a quick shower and get dressed. Could you make some coffee in the meantime?”
Boizot nodded with a smile, eyes fixed on Sylvie’s cute bare ass as she sauntered away from him into the bathroom.
The spacious kitchen, which, like the rest of the apartment, was furnished with antiques, was located on the second floor of the house, just above the bakery.
By the time Sylvie came down wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, which made her look like a tomboy, Boizot had already set the table.
“A house-husband!” she quipped as she sat down across from him.
The sunlight highlighted the features of her tanned face. He wondered how he had not noticed its charm when he had visited the first time.
“What are you thinking about?” she said, laying her hand on top of his.
“A lot of things,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “The drive to Biarritz, the fact that I have to go home to shave and pick up a few things.”
“Don’t shave, it makes you look a little less . . . less plain, which is fine by me.”
Boizot smiled in return. He had a burning desire to take her back into his arms and make love to her. “And I’m also thinking about you, how beautiful you are.”
This time, she blushed, and seemed to lose a little of her composure.
“If you keep saying such nice things to me, we’ll never make it to Biarritz.”
“Nevertheless, we have to: Magnin, my editor, is not the type to let me drag my feet.”
Sylvie nodded, looking a little disappointed. “You’re right, we should be sensible. Besides, I’m sure there are some good hotels in Biarritz.”
Boizot whistled between his teeth. “Well, at least with you, things are clear.”
Sylvie shrugged. “I’m too old to beat around the bush, buddy!”
Boizot took a sip of coffee.
“Tell me about your brother. You told me yesterday that he had first worked in Orléans and then Paris?”
“Yes. He first studied in Nancy, at the National School of Geology.”
“Not too shabby!”
“No, not at all. But, you know, Jean-Mi had a big head. He wasn’t a typical geology nerd even though he had a passion for it. In any case, he found a job in Orléans before he even left school, at a place called the Bureau of Geological and Mining Research, the BGMR.”
“So he worked there for a while?”
“Several years, yes. Let me think. He graduated in 1996 and then left Orléans for Palonnier in Paris, around . . . well, it was the year of the World Cup.”
“In ’98?”
“Yes.”
Boizot put down his mug.
“So, if I count correctly, he spent eight years in Orléans. And he lived there the whole time?”
“Yes, yes, he had an apartment in the center of town. A pretty nice one, by the way. I had the chance to visit him a few times with my parents . . . ”
“Was your brother single?”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Jean-Mi, single? That’s a good one! He was a real heartbreaker, my brother. He used to collect girls like my father collected rocks.”
“That’s quite the image.”
“But accurate. Still, we thought he had finally met the woman of his dreams in Orléans.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a very nice girl, a nurse named Patricia. They lived together for at least two years. My parents were already saving up for the wedding. And then one day, it was over. No more Patricia. Jean-Mi told me much later that he had discovered that she was blithely cheating on him with all the docs at the hospital where she worked.”
“Classic.”
“Yes. It’s always ‘classic,’ except when it happens to you—then it’s tragic. Jean-Mi was slow to get back into the swing of things. Then one day he found himself in the compassionate arms of Chantal, the wife of one of his colleagues at the company. Obviously, it wasn’t a very good choice on his part. Because when the husband finally learned of his misfortune, as they say in soap operas, the affair ended with a fistfight between the two men in the parking lot of the BGMR. Needless to say, management was not happy. Jean-Mi, who had left the other man nearly unconscious, received a harsh warning. That’s also why he started looking for another job and ended up finding one as an inspector at Palonnier. Well, that’s not the whole story, but don’t you think it’s about time we got going?”
“You’re right!”
Boizot had just passed Roissy, near Charles de Gaulle, when he thought he noticed a green Fiat Punto in his rearview mirror.
“Do not turn around,” he said to Sylvie, “but I have a feeling we’re being followed.”
She looked at him incredulously: “Followed, like in the movies? Is this a joke or what?”
“No, not at all, I swear. The green Punto I told you about, it’s been behind us for a while. Can you read a license plate backward?”
“I can try.”
She adjusted the passenger rearview mirror. But after a moment or two, she said, “It’s impossible. The guy makes sure there’s always another car between us!”
“OK, then, we’ll force him to reveal himself!” said Boizot, as he suddenly changed lanes and slammed on the gas. Behind them, the driver of the Fiat Punto did not react immediately, but when he saw the Renault getting away, he also changed lanes, and Sylvie had a chance to note the license plate number. “Seventy-eight means it’s from Yvelines, right?”
“Yeah. In any case, as soon as we’re at my place, I’ll call a well-placed buddy of mine. We’ll find out who owns that car right away.”
She put her hand on his knee. “This whole thing is starting to scare me.”
He smiled, trying not to reveal that he was a little scared, too.
Boizot was miraculously able to find a spot for his car opposite his apartment building. As he cut the en
gine, the Punto passed by. In the driver’s seat was a guy he didn’t recognize at all. The car continued down the street slowly and stopped at the corner, right in the middle of a crosswalk.
“Let’s go, and take your bag!” said Boizot to Sylvie.
“My bag?”
“Yeah, if the guy’s been following us from your place, then he must have seen you put your bag in the trunk. Now, when he sees you bring it into my place, he might think that you’re staying with me for a few days and stop watching us so closely.”
“Good point,” Sylvie said as she opened the trunk.
A few minutes later, as Sylvie was looking around the house, Boizot placed a call. “Well,” he said when he hung up, “I know the identity of our follower. His name is Pierre-Yves Quiguer, and he lives in Marly-le-Roi. Want three guesses as to his line of work?”
Sylvie, who had settled on the couch next to Boizot, made a face. “I don’t know. Politician? Wait, no. Perdiou’s lover—that has to be it!”
“You’re not even close,” Boizot said, smiling. “He’s a private detective.”
“We must have stepped into a soap opera,” she joked. But Boizot was in no mood to laugh. “Well, we’re not driving all the way to Biarritz with this guy tailing us.”
“At least we won’t get bored along the way. Still, we’ve got to find a way to lose him. And I have an idea: I’ll walk out by myself, as if I’m running an errand in the neighborhood, and he’ll probably follow me. As soon as he’s gone, you take the bags down and lock the door behind you. Start the car, come pick me up at Rue des Balkans, and then it’s on to Biarritz!”
“And if he doesn’t follow you?”
Boizot grinned. “We’ll just have to figure out another easy way to slip off.”
An hour later, Boizot’s Renault had just driven through the toll at Saint-Arnoult and was heading toward Orléans.
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 11
