“No more Punto! We showed him, that pesky detective!” Sylvie blurted out as she relaxed in the passenger seat. She’d been looking behind their car anxiously ever since they had left Paris. But this time she was sure they had shaken their stalker.
“And now onto Orléans. We’ve still got a few hours: Biarritz is about five hundred miles away, I think,” said Boizot.
“Yes. It’s already past eleven. That means we won’t get there until seven this evening, right?”
“Probably. But it’s funny, I almost feel like I’m going on vacation.”
“Me too,” said Sylvie. “And at the same time, I’m nervous. My life was awfully quiet before I met you.”
She affectionately placed her hand on Boizot’s knee. He smiled.
“What if we talked a little more about your brother? In the weeks leading up to the accident, how was he? Did anything change in his life, were there any major events?”
Sylvie removed her hand and suddenly became serious. “Nothing in particular, except for another emotional breakup. He had been in a relationship for a few months with Geneviève, a secretary at Palonnier, but she dumped him for some hotshot at the company. Apparently, the girl traded sex for favors. At first, Jean-Mi took it pretty hard, but then he got over it.”
Boizot glanced at her furtively: her face had that stern, rigid expression that suited her so poorly. “So he seemed normal when he got in his car and headed out on vacation?”
Sylvie did not reply immediately. Staring into the distance, she seemed to search the deepest recesses of her memory.
“As far as I know, yes. But, you know, in my family, we have never been very good at sharing emotions or confiding. I often had to trick Jean-Mi to find out what was going on in his life.”
Boizot, who could not help glancing at her frequently, remained silent for a moment. He felt good, almost happy, aside from a vague sense of apprehension that just wouldn’t go away.
He saw a rest stop, put on his turn signal, and parked between two German RVs.
“What are you doing?” Sylvie asked.
Boizot turned the car off and with a broad smile pulled a pack of cigarettes from the glove box. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t had a cigarette in a while. I can’t take it any longer. Plus, it’s a good excuse to stretch my legs.”
“I’m going with you.”
As they started strolling, they passed the Germans, who were diligently picnicking under the trees as if their lives depended on it.
“Did you often trick Jean-Mi?” Boizot asked.
“All the time, maybe. With Jean-Mi, you could never address things head on, otherwise he would balk.”
“You mean he was secretive? Was he also a loner?”
“There was certainly a bit of keeping secrets that went on. But he had many friends, both at work and outside of work. He wasn’t a loner or a homebody. He took frequent business trips to Africa, and he often went for the weekend to Deauville, not to mention the mountains in the winter.”
“Sounds like he lived the high life!”
“You could say that. I think he made a lot of money. But that was never discussed, either.”
“Did you know his friends?”
Sylvie slipped her hand into his. “Is this an interrogation?” she asked with a smile.
Boizot shrugged. “Not at all. I’m just trying to figure out your brother’s personality, to understand him, to learn things about his life that could help me progress.”
“In your investigation, right? Don’t forget that you’re not a cop.”
“I know. But I’m a journalist, and there are some similarities.”
“Yeah.”
Boizot carefully stubbed out his cigarette, and they returned to the car. “You didn’t answer me. Did you know his friends?”
“No! Jean-Mi had his life, and I had mine, and they did not overlap. I knew that he dined in expensive restaurants and went out to the clubs in Paris, the names of which I can’t remember. Sometimes we talked about that when he came home. He had everything he needed.”
After they returned to the Renault and got back on the highway, Boizot switched topics. He got the distinct impression that Sylvie didn’t like being questioned about her brother.
Chapter 22
The owner of the Hotel Touraine spoke with a deliciously singsong accent, which was just the first thing about Biarritz that delighted Sylvie. Moments after they’d arrived, she’d put her hand on top of Boizot’s. “I’ve never been here before and it’s just so beautiful. And such great weather, too.”
Everything about their time here so far had been lovely. The previous night had been their second one together, the likes of which he hadn’t known since Sandrine.
Now it was morning, however, and a painful task lay in front of him.
Sylvie had already announced he’d be handling the situation alone. While discussing the matter the night before in a small restaurant near the farmers’ market—Hurray for expense accounts! Boizot had thought—she had made her thoughts clear. “Don’t count on me going with you to see the Hérons tomorrow morning. That’s more than I could handle!”
After Boizot paid the hotel bill, they loaded their bags into the trunk of the old Renault and walked over to nearby Rue de la Poste. The sun shone over the city, and passersby had the carefree look of people on vacation. Boizot mused that in a few minutes, because of him, two parents would forever remember this sunny day as a dark time.
In front of the Hérons’ building, Sylvie said, “OK, I’ll leave you here. I’m going to take advantage of the sun and go see the beach. I’ll be waiting for you at the sidewalk café over there next to the Galeries Lafayette. All right?”
Boizot nodded, kissed her wild hair, and, after watching her walk away for a moment, turned to ring the Hérons’ doorbell.
The Hérons lived on the sixth floor of a new seven-floor apartment building. Boizot introduced himself over the intercom and explained to a female voice—he hoped it was Madame Héron’s—that he had come from Paris to talk about Franck.
Arriving on the sixth floor, he immediately spotted Fernand Héron waiting for him in the open doorway of one of the apartments. He was a man in his early sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a prominent belly, and a ruddy, jovial face.
“Monsieur Boizot? You were the one who called me the other day, right?”
“That’s right,” said Boizot while extending his hand and forcing a smile.
In the small but tastefully furnished living room, Madame Héron stood waiting. Cute, blonde, and all done up, she was wearing a white sleeveless dress. She had a round yet somewhat sad-looking face with deep blue eyes. She was getting ready to go to the market, as she did every morning, but she clearly felt a bit nervous to meet Boizot and hear his news.
Feeling self-conscious, he sat down in the chair Fernand Héron pointed out to him, and pulled out a copy of L’Actualité from a folder. He looked up at them both. “So . . . I came straight from Paris to talk to you. In the course of an investigation I am doing for the newspaper, a few things have come to light.”
“You told me over the phone that it was about some competition,” Fernand Héron suddenly interrupted.
Boizot felt himself blush as if he had been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.
“Yes, actually, I did say that . . . but that’s not exactly right. I’m sorry, but you may want to sit down for this. Could you both take a seat?”
The husband and wife quickly looked at each other and sat down without a word.
Boizot felt suddenly drenched in sweat. He would never have thought that something like this could be so difficult.
“Here . . . well, I don’t know where to begin.” He cleared his throat. “The day before yesterday, we published a photo of an unidentified man on the front page of L’Actualité and asked our readers to help identify him.”
<
br /> “What did this ‘unidentified’ man do?” asked Madame Héron.
“I’ll come to that. But first, you should know that I was contacted by people living in Clamart who told me they recognized the man in the photo and believed it was your son.”
Boizot could not think of what else he could add, so he unfolded the newspaper and showed them the front page.
“Franck!” the wife immediately shouted. The husband said nothing, but Boizot, who was watching him, saw his face change, as if it had suddenly slumped, as if he had understood everything.
Fernand Héron took the paper and read the text accompanying the photo.
Boizot then turned to the wife, who seemed to have fallen into a daze. “Madame Héron, is this your son?”
She nodded slowly, staring into the distance, her face bereft of emotion.
Boizot, feeling shaken, recounted the details of the robbery that had taken place in Batz. Fernand Héron put the newspaper on the table and listened attentively.
“I’m sorry to deliver such awful news,” said Boizot. “I came from Paris expressly to inform you. I thought it would be more proper on my part to tell you rather than the police, who would have come and told you bluntly without knowing the full story.”
Fernand Héron, his face stern, said, “But how is this possible?” His wife burst into tears, stood up, and staggered out of the room.
Somewhat cynically, Boizot told himself that now, with the wife gone, it was probably a good time to ask the man about his son.
“So Monsieur Héron, there’s absolutely no doubt on your part? This is your son, Franck, in the photo?”
“Obviously I’m sure. I’m still capable of recognizing my own son.”
“Of course, of course. Did you often see him?”
“Not often, but regularly, and his mother called him on the phone a lot.”
He choked back tears and continued.
“You know, Franck is a very nice guy who has only one fault: he is as lazy as can be,” he said.
Boizot couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy. It was sad the way he was talking about his dead son in the present tense.
“I had tried to get him to work with me at the car dealership where I worked. But after barely a month, the boss, who was also a friend of mine, called me into his office and told me that Franck was not cut out for the job. Then, since he’d always liked mechanical work ever since he was a child, I had a mechanic I know hire him. But he also managed to get fired from that. The only thing he’s interested in is lounging in front of the television.”
Lowering his voice, he said, “You know, all my life, I worked hard. I never really paid attention to how we raised him. I left that to Marie-Jeanne, my wife. Franck is our only son, and now I have the impression that she spoiled him too much, giving in to his every whim and over time transforming him into a boy who was incapable of the slightest effort.”
“So he didn’t work?”
“No, he just freeloaded off us. Until two years ago. I retired, and Marie-Jeanne and I decided to move to Biarritz, where we’d bought this apartment a while ago. And we left the house in Clamart to Franck.”
“How did he make a living?”
“Every month, I would send him some money, enough for food and utilities. For the last three or four years, he made up the rest. I’m not sure how. He seemed content taking temp jobs from time to time.”
“In what field?”
“Didn’t matter to him, I don’t think.”
“And how did he find these jobs?”
“Oh, he signed up with some agency.”
“Do you know what the name of that agency was?”
“Some place in Saint-Cloud, Job-something.”
“Job-Inter?” Boizot said quickly.
“Yes, that’s the one. You know it?”
“Yes, it has a good reputation,” lied Boizot, shaken by this revelation.
Sylvie was busy sipping some mineral water with a sprig of mint when Boizot rejoined her.
She raised her eyebrows when he told her what he had just learned.
“It’s crazy, right?” Boizot shook his head. “So the burglar in Batz had signed up with Plesse’s agency! That’s a damn good lead!”
“How so?” said Sylvie, a bit skeptical.
“I’m not sure yet. I mean, with the Plesse-Héron connection, there has got to be something behind all these burglaries. It can’t just be coincidence!”
Sylvie nodded.
“So what do we do then?” she asked.
“First, I’ll call Magnin, tell him that we have confirmed that the photo is Franck Héron. Then I’ll quickly type up an article for tomorrow, since the good man was kind enough to give me a laptop.”
“What are you going to put in your article?”
“The fact that the Perdiou burglar has been identified. I’ll write about the reaction of the devastated parents, and include some of the biographical information I learned.”
“Are you going to talk about Job-Inter and Charles Plesse?”
“No, I think we need to dig a little deeper into that ourselves.” He had spoken without thinking, and wondered why he’d used “we” instead of “I,” but Sylvie seemed neither surprised nor shocked.
It was just past six in the evening when Marc Dabos, a funny little man with a shaved head and a moon-shaped face bisected by a handlebar mustache, finished the article on which he’d spent a good part of the day working. He was at his desk at L’Indiscret, a local newspaper in Cahors situated just steps away from the prefecture. He rubbed his eyes and whispered, “They won’t be much longer now.”
He was alone in the office, which was located on the ground floor of a charmless modern building. He sent in his article, turned off the computer, and lit his pipe. It was a pleasure he was rarely offered when his colleagues were present: recently, the nonsmokers had definitely gained the upper hand.
At that moment, a beat-up old Renault parked in front of his office, and he instantly recognized his old classmate, Dimitri Boizot. When they’d been students, they’d painted the town red. In the twenty years since then, they’d managed to remain in touch, although they only saw each other occasionally. Still, he was looking forward to seeing him. He left his desk and went out to greet them.
He grinned at Boizot as he emerged from the car. “How was your trip?” Then, seeing Sylvie, he added, “Hello, my name is Marc. Give us a hug!”
A few minutes later, guided by Dabos, the three sat down at a delightfully shaded café within sight of the newspaper offices. “I’ve done some research on the accident,” he said, his face animated with excitement. “Let’s just say that you are on to something. I found the wreck of the car at Tallet’s, a scrap metal yard in the area. Didn’t have to be an expert to realize that the brakes had been sabotaged.”
“Sabotaged?” Boizot raised his eyebrows. He had fully expected something like this yet hadn’t dared to believe it might be a reality.
“Couldn’t be more sabotaged, yes.”
“Is the car still at the scrapyard?” Boizot asked.
“Yes, I asked Tallet to hang on to it for me, backing up my request with a small gesture of goodwill, if you know what I mean.”
“And you are sure, absolutely sure, that it was sabotage, not something that could have been caused by the accident?” Sylvie asked.
“You bet,” said Dabos, grinning. “I have it on the authority of my friend, Turquaise, who’s a serious automotive expert. He’s one hundred percent certain! He also mentioned that the sabotage job looked like the work of amateurs. Obviously, I’ve asked him not to publicize the case. But now are you going to tell me just what this is all about?”
Chapter 23
The restaurant was big and noisy and decorated to look like a brasserie from the Belle Époque; all the waiters wore long white
aprons. It was the favorite meeting place of Geneviève Murelle, Françoise Jandrain, and Gabriel Cano. All single, all in their thirties, and all still working at Palonnier—where they had first met and become friends—they’d gotten into the habit of meeting at this spot on Friday nights as a prelude to a night of partying on the Champs-Elysées.
That evening, as usual, Geneviève Murelle arrived late. She quickly kissed her colleagues on the cheek and immediately noted a sense of buzzing excitement at the table.
“What’s up with the cheerful faces?” she said, sitting down. “Did one of you just win the lottery?”
Françoise, who worked in IT and had “blossomed” in her thirties, as she put it—meaning she’d put on a few extra pounds—was the first to speak up. “Gaby was explaining to me that there are going to be changes made in the company. Changes affecting someone you know very well,” she added with a wink.
Suddenly uneasy, as if she could guess what was coming, Geneviève Murelle turned and raised her eyes at Gaby. He looked disheveled, as usual. Gabriel Cano was about thirty-five, and as tall as he was skinny. With his long, unkempt hair and tendency to wear T-shirts and jeans in the suit-and-tie environment of the office, he purposefully cultivated the look of an artist. He worked in the communications department at Palonnier and was always aware of news before anyone else. “Go ahead, spit it out,” she said impatiently. “What is it?”
“It’s very simple, my dear,” he said. “Your good friend Ernest Lullier, the former Director of Exploration and Development and arriviste extraordinaire—excuse my frankness—will be, as of the first of October, the new CEO of Palonnier. He’s slated to replace the good Simon Estrepont, who seems to have had his day in the eyes of shareholders.”
Geneviève, who had been sure that something like that would happen one day, kept her expression neutral. She took advantage of the waiter’s arrival to compose herself. But her friends were not fooled.
“So there you have it,” said Gaby. “All you have to do is get back together with Ernie, and we can all call you Madame CEO.” As usual, he was trying to defuse a crisis with humor.
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 12
