Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1)

by Patrick Philippart

  Boizot smiled. “I ask because Héron, your burglar, and Charles Plesse knew each other. Plesse had a temp agency in Saint-Cloud and sometimes employed Héron.” Perdiou had listened without flinching, almost serene, as if he found Boizot’s words reassuring.

  “Amazing, indeed. It’s a funny coincidence. Were you the one who discovered this?”

  Boizot lied. “Yes, by chance, while reading a snippet in the newspaper. At first, I didn’t give it too much thought. Probably because the identity of your burglar was not yet known. And then a few days ago, it came back to me, and I found the coincidence to be rather extraordinary.”

  “It is amazing, yes,” said Perdiou.

  At this point, the deputy’s cell phone, which he had placed on the table, rang. Perdiou looked at the screen and said, “Excuse me,” as he picked it up and very quickly put it to his ear. Boizot squirmed in his uncomfortable seat and took the opportunity to glance around the room. An entire wall was composed of bookshelves with hundreds of volumes in perfect order. There were also some trinkets and two framed photos.

  In the first, an elderly couple smiled awkwardly at the camera. They had to be Perdiou’s parents, Boizot concluded. In the other, above the inscription National School of Geology in Nancy, Class of 1983, a dozen young men and women stood lined up in a row.

  On the phone, Perdiou was talking in one-word sentences: “Yes,” “no,” “agreed,” “OK.” Finally, he said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it, I’m in a meeting right now. Yes, that’s it. Talk to you later!”

  He put the phone down and again said, “Excuse me.” He seemed to have regained his composure perfectly.

  Boizot pointed to the shelves. “Are those your parents over there?”

  Perdiou, who seemed a little surprised by Boizot’s question, merely nodded.

  “And the photo next to it?” Boizot asked.

  “That is my class at the NSG.”

  “Where are you in the photo?”

  Clearly vain, Perdiou grinned. He got up, grabbed the frame, and sat next to Boizot. “Take a guess,” he said.

  Boizot looked closer and pointed to a tall, bearded, long-haired beanpole wearing little round glasses like John Lennon. “Here, right?”

  “Right. We looked incredibly silly back then. Look at the others; they’ve all settled down, become serious now. There, on the left—the big baby doll with the Afro—is Maurice Crellant. He runs a Canadian mining company with twenty thousand employees.”

  “Not bad. Did you start working at Palonnier immediately after graduation?”

  “Yes,” said Perdiou simply as he got up to put the photo back in its place.

  “Were other students from your year hired there, too?” Boizot asked.

  “Listen, Monsieur Boizot. I think we’ve digressed a little now. You requested an interview,” said Perdiou, as he sat down once more. “Perhaps we could start?”

  “Of course, you’re right,” said Boizot, conciliatory.

  He put his notebook on the desk, uncapped his pen, and asked Perdiou where the investigation on the burglary in Batz was. But he didn’t give a damn. He knew that the deputy was a master at giving smooth answers. But since Magnin was desperate to keep the readers in suspense with what he considered to be one of the best beach reads of the summer, Boizot figured he might as well play along. And anyway, he was already here.

  It was close to seven o’clock when he found himself back on the Quai d’Orléans. He got into his old Renault and headed toward the newspaper offices. He wanted to put together the interview without wasting any time and use what remained of the evening to call Sylvie, whom he already missed. He glanced in the mirror as he made his first turn, but once again did not notice the gray Mégane trailing him.

  Chapter 28

  Geneviève Murelle closed the door, kicked off her shoes, and dropped the shopping bag filled with files on the table in the living room. It was stuffy, so she opened the window overlooking Rue Vasco de Gama. She had found this apartment perched on the sixth floor of a rather well-preserved building two years earlier thanks to a colleague at Palonnier, the nephew of the owner.

  She felt at ease there, though sometimes a little lonely, too. But at thirty-two, she believed she still had time to find a soul mate.

  As she did every Monday evening, she had stopped at the neighborhood Shopi on her way home from work to pick up some groceries.

  As she emptied her bag, she thought back to her phone conversation with that reporter. Why did he want to talk to her about Jean-Mi? She remembered the moment she heard of his death with strange precision—she was on vacation with her parents near Nevers. Her cell phone rang as she was lounging in a deckchair in the garden, re-reading The Conspiracy. She had hesitated to pick up, but then recognized Françoise’s number.

  The latter had at first chitchatted in an artificially nonchalant tone. Finally, Geneviève had asked her with sudden apprehension, “Françoise, are you sure that you have nothing else to tell me?”

  “Jean-Mi was killed in a car crash,” her friend had blurted out. Then she had burst into tears. It had taken Geneviève a few seconds to realize what was happening. The thing was, Françoise had been in love with Jean-Mi ever since he had started working at Palonnier. Yet, Geneviève had been the one who had managed to lure him into her bed. At one time, she had even believed that she really did love him. But eventually, she’d pegged him as shallow and uninteresting, which was yet another reason she had not resisted Ernest Lullier’s advances for very long. One benefit of starting the affair with Lullier: it had allowed her to break up with Jean-Mi unequivocally.

  She had let Françoise cry her heart out before attempting to console her. After she had hung up, she in turn had broken down. It was as if Jean-Mi’s sudden death had forever severed her from a period in her life that, all things considered, had been happy. Fate seemed to be chiding her, saying, “There you have it. You dumped him, you’ll never get him back, and now you’re stuck with a despicable man who is putting you through the wringer.”

  She had spent the evening confiding in her mother. Who knew more than a year later a journalist would turn up wanting to talk to her about the sudden death of her rather unremarkable ex?

  She pulled the plate of ravioli from the microwave and moved to the table, facing the TV. It was time for “Don’t Forget the Lyrics,” but that night, she was not interested in the contestants’ second-guessing. The shopping bag and its contents monopolized her attention. For the first time in her life, she was about to make a decision that would potentially upend the lives of others.

  On the other hand, she mused, it’s the law of the jungle. If I don’t protect myself, then I’ll be the one devoured. Lullier won’t miss me.

  She convinced herself that the ravioli had a funny taste, but in fact she was not very hungry. So she pushed her plate aside, opened the shopping bag, and pulled out a few folders. Just holding them gave her a sense of exaltation as well as a feeling of vague anxiety. Before meeting with the reporter the next day, she had to make her decision.

  She got up, went to get her cell phone from her purse, and called Gabriel Cano.

  Hearing music blaring in the background when he picked up, she realized that he was having a drink in a bar near the Champs before returning home. “Gaby? It’s Geneviève. This isn’t a bad time, is it?”

  “With you, it’s never a bad time! What can I do for you?”

  “Would you like to come over for a drink? I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I think it’s urgent.”

  “OK, gorgeous. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Later!”

  After escorting Boizot to the front door of the apartment, Claudio had wanted to join Lionel in his office. But when he had poked his head in the doorway, the latter had waved him away like a lord dismissing a servant, a gesture he was becoming les
s and less tolerant of as the day wore on.

  He closed the door quietly and put his ear to the wood. Like many people, Lionel usually spoke louder when he was on the telephone. Claudio distinctly heard him say, “Boizot. Yes, the journalist. Yes, if you want. In any case, he’s just left here. He wanted to interview me allegedly to get my reaction to the announcement of Héron’s identity. Yes, of course. Let me speak, I’m not done yet. In fact, he asked me if I knew Plesse.”

  Claudio did not miss a word of what Lionel said. He didn’t understand much of it, but he would have bet his life that the person Perdiou was talking to was none other than Lullier. Claudio cursed in Italian.

  “Thanks for coming over so quickly.”

  “Don’t be silly!” said Gabriel Cano. “Anyway, I had nothing else to do. No, I’m kidding. In fact, I’m dying to know what’s so urgent.”

  Geneviève smiled, returning to her seat at the table in the dining room where she had left in full sight the four file folders with the documents.

  “Come and sit down over here. I want to show you something.”

  More than an hour later, as night was falling, Gaby put down on the last document and looked at Geneviève. His joking tone was gone. “Your files are dynamite.”

  Geneviève nodded. Gaby took the first folder and began to flip through the pages again, as if to convince himself that it was real.

  “So to summarize,” he said at last. “Our future CEO has been taking Palonnier to the cleaners for years. And you have in your possession all the proof needed to nail him.”

  “Yes. You know, Gaby, I have no choice. It’s him or me. This is the only way to protect myself.”

  Gaby did not answer right away, as if to give himself time to reflect. Finally, he put his hand on top of Geneviève’s in a gesture of friendship.

  “I understand, but there are still a number of questions you should get answered before going any further.”

  “Meaning?” she said, suddenly on guard, anticipating objections.

  “Well, first of all, are you absolutely sure that once he’s promoted, Lullier will kick you to the curb?”

  She shrugged, grinned, and said, “Think about it: Everyone in the company knows that we slept together for months, and now it’s over. He can’t wait to get rid of me and find another secretary.”

  Gaby nodded. “Agreed. Another question: What do you intend to do with these documents?”

  “That’s a good question, and that’s why I need your advice. Tomorrow at noon, I have an appointment with a reporter.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Hang on, don’t get so excited. I’m meeting with a journalist who phoned me this morning at the office. He wants—get ready for this—to talk about Jean-Mi’s death.”

  “Your Jean-Mi?”

  “Yes, my Jean-Mi. Frankly, I wonder why a journalist would be interested in an accident that happened a year ago. Whatever the reason, I’m seeing him tomorrow. Should I give him the scoop? I can see the scandalous headlines on the front page now.”

  Gaby rubbed his chin in a gesture that betrayed some nervousness. “Exactly, it would be scandalous. Another question: Say you hand the file to this reporter and it makes the front page of his paper. Palonnier’s reputation will definitely take a hit. There may even be problems with Palonnier’s shares in the stock market. At that point, Lullier won’t be the only one in trouble; the rest of us will suffer, too.”

  Geneviève, who’d expected anything but this response, stared straight into her friend’s eyes and said, “Are you serious or are you trying to make me laugh?”

  “OK, maybe I’m imagining the worst possible outcome. But all the same, disseminating these documents is a bit like opening Pandora’s box.”

  “I just want Lullier’s head before he gets mine, that’s all.”

  “With those files, you’ll definitely have his head, but there’s a risk of collateral damage, too. There may be an alternative, though. Lullier doesn’t know you have these papers, right?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know!”

  “It might be enough to just put the ball in his court: either he keeps you and gives you a nice raise, or you go public with what you know.”

  Geneviève was incredulous. “If I understand—–and please correct me if I’m wrong—you’re advising me to blackmail Lullier so as not to harm Palonnier’s reputation, which would make me his accomplice, so I’d be just as guilty.”

  Gaby blushed slightly, but Geneviève could not tell if it was out of shame or anger. “Is that right?” she insisted, unwittingly raising her voice.

  She felt betrayed. She had appealed to him in order to determine the best course of action, and here he was asserting the company’s best interests over her own!

  When she closed the front door after Gaby’s departure, her decision had been irrevocably made: the next day, after hearing what Boizot had to say about Jean-Mi, she would offer to help him take down Lullier.

  Chapter 29

  The dark circles had gained even more ground overnight. Boizot plunged the razor into the soapy water and, leaning in to look at himself in the fogged-up mirror, examined the fine lines around his eyes. He grimaced bitterly—pathetic—and resumed shaving while the radio played the news in the background.

  He had had a rough night’s sleep. At around eleven o’clock, just as he had plunged into a sweet slumber, he had received a call from Geneviève Murelle.

  She’d seemed concerned, nervous. She had initially claimed to want to know before meeting him what exactly he wanted to tell her about Flaneau. He had explained it to her in a few words. She had then added, hesitant, that she had a few things to tell him about Palonnier, some “shenanigans” in Africa, fake prospecting that had lined certain pockets for several years. She had evidence of what she was alleging at her place, she had added before hanging up.

  A little earlier that evening, he had spoken to Sylvie on the phone, but she had just returned from Roissy with her parents and didn’t have time to talk to him. They’d made a date for the following evening, though Boizot had been hoping she’d come spend the night with him.

  Boizot’s sleep had been completely ruined by a strange phone call at 4:28 a.m. on the dot—his clock radio could attest to it. The caller had simply remained silent on the other end of the line. Finally, exasperated and completely awake, Boizot had hung up swearing.

  He had tried in vain to fall back asleep, but his panicked heart was pounding in his chest. He finally decided to get up, though it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. All this explained the puffy, tired face he was contemplating in the mirror.

  He finished dressing, put his cup in the sink, and got ready to leave. He knew what he had to do before meeting Geneviève Murelle. He would first go to the L’Actualité offices to update Magnin on the latest developments in the case and call the National School of Geology in Nancy. He had a burning desire to know the names and contact information of everyone in Perdiou’s 1983 class photo.

  He left his building, looked up at the sky, and noticed that it seemed to promise a beautiful day. He thought about Andrée and the kids, who were flying that morning to the Dominican Republic—with that idiot Jean-Christophe, of course.

  He sighed and looked for his car, which for once was parked right in front of his building. Crossing the street, he immediately noticed that the front left tire was flat. He walked over, gave it a slight kick, which was of course useless, and leaned over. It was then that he heard the sound of a car speeding toward him. He turned and realized that it was heading right for him. He tried to move out of the way, but he was not fast enough.

  Boizot awoke in an unfamiliar place. When he opened his eyes, he did not understand right away where he was, but then he saw Sylvie’s pained, smiling face. She leaned toward him and gently kissed him on his lips.

  “So?” she whispered. “Are you trying to frig
hten me?”

  It was hellishly hot in the room. Boizot closed his eyes. He had the sensation of floating on a cloud of cotton, as if disconnected from the rest of the world. He felt Sylvie’s hand, refreshing in the muggy room, grab his. He opened his eyes again slowly. A hospital smell lingered in the room, along with an excessive heat Boizot found repulsive. Sylvie whispered, “It’s OK. Are you waking up?”

  He tried to answer, but could only manage to produce a pathetic squeak. His mouth and throat were parched. He tried to cough, but his chest hurt too much. His voice quavered as he said, “Where are we?”

  “At Tenon Hospital. You don’t remember? This morning you were hit by a car in front of your place. The driver fled the scene. Fortunately, one of your neighbors looked out the window when she heard the noise. She saw you lying on the ground and the car speeding off. She immediately called an ambulance.”

  Her hand squeezed his as she spoke.

  “Can you give me a glass of water?”

  Sylvie continued. “The hospital called me around twelve thirty. It seems that when you regained consciousness, you gave them my number. What a beautiful demonstration of love and trust. When I arrived, they’d finished the tests and brought you into this room. I’ve been at your bedside all afternoon, like a true wife,” she said with a smile.

  Boizot still felt like his head was in a huge ball of cotton. He closed his eyes, overcome by a new wave of fatigue. At the same time, he felt strangely good, more relaxed than he had been in a long time. He didn’t want this moment to end.

  “You need rest,” he heard her say. “With a concussion, you should always be careful, the doctor told me . . .”

  Sylvie’s voice seemed to drift away into a strange cacophony of sounds, though Boizot could not distinguish anything in particular. In the space of a second, he had plunged back into a deep sleep.

  The nurse had a big head with a somewhat hairy upper lip and a lean, muscular body. She placed the meal tray on the small Formica table. “You’re in luck. Today is the chef’s specialty: chervil soup, fish fillets à la normande, mashed potatoes, and, to top it all off, a small caramel flan! Enjoy your meal, Monsieur Boizot.”