Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1)

by Patrick Philippart

  Boizot, still not understanding where she was going, had nodded.

  “Now, the private detective’s green Punto, the ransacking of your apartment—all this happened before we left for Cahors, so the two things bear no relation. You follow me?”

  “More or less.”

  “What do you mean, more or less?”

  “You’re saying it’s possible that Perdiou or someone else is interested in me because of the robbery in Batz and not because of your brother. But I’m still convinced that there’s a link between the two cases.”

  Sylvie had sighed, visibly annoyed.

  “Listen, see your friend Vendroux, tell him what I found out about Jean-Mi’s death. That way, he can reopen the case. But don’t tell him about the supposed connection with Batz, Perdiou, and all the rest.”

  Boizot had kissed her and agreed.

  Back in the bistro, Boizot finished his story. Vendroux gave him a curious look with his faded blue eyes, a look that often made his companions uncomfortable.

  “You’re right, it’s solid information, but there are still a couple of details that I can’t explain. First, how do you know Sylvie Flaneau and how long have you known her? Second, I don’t understand how you managed to make the connection between Plesse and Flaneau. And third—and this is perhaps the strangest detail—I remember you called me a few days after the burglary at Plesses’ place to ask me questions about the case. Funny, right?”

  Boizot, who had known Vendroux for a long time, had learned how to read him quite well. Clearly, Vendroux was implying that he suspected Boizot of hiding something from him.

  Boizot felt himself blush. He should have prepared a better story, knowing that Vendroux would not be satisfied with vague details.

  “It’s not that funny. In fact, Sylvie and I met three or four months ago at the home of mutual friends. We hit it off, and then one thing led to another. One day she told me about her brother, the accident. It left a big impression on her, you know.”

  As he spoke, Boizot wondered if he really sounded credible. In any case, Vendroux seemed like he was buying it.

  “Anyway, we talked about it, and it hit me just like that. But then in July, I went on vacation.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I had my kids with me and didn’t want to complicate things by introducing them to a new girlfriend. What was I saying? Ah yes, when I came back from vacation, I called Sylvie, we got together, and she told me about the burglary at Plesses’ place. She said, ‘It’s funny, Jean-Michel and he were pretty close, and now almost a year later, he’s died, too.’ She seemed to be wondering aloud whether the death of her brother wasn’t as clear-cut as everyone thought. I didn’t take her seriously at first, believe me! But you know women, and she was so insistent that I suggested we visit the crash site and try to track down her brother’s car. So there you have it.”

  Boizot felt hot. He hoped that Vendroux would buy it. He was torn between two opposing feelings: on the one hand, he could not go back on the promise he had made to Sylvie and tell Vendroux everything; on the other hand, deep down, he really wanted to get the whole story off his chest.

  “That’s when you called me,” said Vendroux simply, unaware of the inner battle that Boizot was waging.

  “Yes,” said Boizot.

  He sensed that Vendroux, a cop through and through, was looking for the flaw in his story.

  “Now let me tell you, reopening a closed case is a tall order. If it was concluded that it was just a nasty accident, it will not be easy to explain to my colleagues in Cahors that they got it wrong. That said, if the sabotage to the car is really as obvious as you say it is, then it should theoretically be possible. But don’t expect any miracles with the long weekend coming up.”

  As he left the brasserie, Boizot encountered the polluted air of the Boulevard du Palais. He took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. Vendroux, good investigator that he was, had tried to learn more about the attempt on Boizot’s life, but Boizot had avoided the issue, cleverly, he hoped. At the same time, he felt deeply uncomfortable. He had promised Sylvie he wouldn’t mention the possible link between the two cases to Vendroux, and he had kept his promise. But Boizot knew that Vendroux was going to question Plesse’s widow; he’d feel compelled to talk with her. She would tell him about Héron. Then, Vendroux, who was no fool, would quickly trace the story back and make the connection with the Perdiou case. As for informing Sylvie of his hunch that Vendroux would put all the pieces together—well, he saw no need for that.

  Serge Tworkowski stepped outside the house and stood under the leaden sky of Clamart, berating himself. Deep down, he’d known that he would find nothing interesting at Franck Héron’s home. He had wanted to come anyway, as if to convince himself that there was still a chance, however small, that he would not have to wrap up the investigation on the burglary in Batz, a chance to prove to the judge that Perdiou—whom she dared not upset—was not as clean as he might seem. Although he was hard-pressed to explain why, his gut—the gut of an old cop—told him there was more to the story.

  He looked up at the big gray rain clouds and checked his watch, which read four twenty. He took his cell phone from the pocket of his old trench coat, which—he was sure—made him look like Columbo.

  “Monsieur Boizot? Captain Tworkowski.”

  Boizot, who had just gotten off the Périphérique on his way to Vernouillet, took a deep breath. “Hello,” he said simply.

  “I’m in Clamart. I’ve just finished my search of Franck Héron’s house. I read about what happened to you in the paper yesterday. Would it be possible to get together this afternoon before I head back to Le Croisic?”

  Boizot glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He had some spare time: “No problem. Let’s meet at five in Versailles—it’s on my way and yours—at the Brasserie Louis XIV, opposite the entrance to the palace.”

  Despite the threatening sky, Boizot settled down on the patio and waited a few minutes before he saw the massive silhouette of the gendarme from Le Croisic moving toward him, stuffed into a trench coat that seemed too tight in the shoulders.

  “Have any trouble finding the place?”

  “Not at all!”

  Tworkowski sat down beside him and explained that he had spent the day in Paris with the hope of wrapping up the investigation of the burglary in Batz. “The judge is pressed for time and she would like it closed quickly. But between you and me, Monsieur Boizot, I don’t think things in this case are so cut-and-dried.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  A little surprised, Boizot nodded. Then, after clearing his throat in such a way that turned a few heads, Tworkowski said, “Well, I’m getting the feeling you haven’t told me the whole truth, that there are things you’re hiding from me. Am I mistaken?”

  Boizot felt himself blush like a kid caught doing something wrong.

  “What ‘things’ are you thinking of, captain?”

  Tworkowski’s eyes followed a group of passing tourists, seemingly overcome with fatigue: “If I knew . . .”

  “ ‘Things’ about the robbery itself, for example?”

  Tworkowski shrugged.

  “Maybe you’re right, captain. There is one thing I haven’t told you yet, and I don’t know why: the night of the burglary at Perdiou’s, I was sitting out on the patio at my villa next door. I have insomnia, and as usual, I couldn’t fall asleep that night.”

  Tworkowski leaned toward him, as if to hear his words more clearly.

  “I was having a cigarette, but I was also half-asleep. Nevertheless, I am positive that I heard an initial gunshot at 1:14 a.m. I know because I looked at my watch. I heard a second gunshot at 1:24 a.m.”

  He saw Tworkowski’s face change: his eyes, usually dim, seemed to glow, and the drooping corners of his mouth suddenly perked up
. He looked like a mastiff ready to bite.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Boizot?”

  “Not at all. I—”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” he shouted.

  Boizot looked around, embarrassed. “No need to shout, captain, let me continue.”

  He explained his doubts: Had he actually heard gunshots? Then there were the contradictions in Perdiou’s statements to the investigators, particularly his claim that the sound of breaking glass awoke him at one forty-five.

  “At one forty-five, I was definitely asleep,” continued Boizot.

  Opposite him, Tworkowski was frantically rubbing his left hand on his neck. “Yeah, OK. If those were shots you heard—I’ll ask the judge to look at the case again—then Perdiou lied to us. Why, in your opinion?”

  “I thought at first that it could be a love affair gone wrong. This would not be the first time it’s happened in the gay community, or anywhere, for that matter. But the more I think about it, the more I think there’s something else.”

  “Something else?”

  “Yes, I don’t know what, but something else. It was not a simple burglary.”

  Tworkowski lit a cigarette. “That’s what I think, too.”

  “Five o’clock!” exclaimed Marina as she conspicuously turned off her computer. “Vacation, here I come. It’s going to be all beaches and beautiful, tanned, muscled men!”

  Raïssa Rzaev turned to her, annoyed. That ditz really only thought about fun. She couldn’t care less about the future of the agency. She shrugged and turned back to the documents she was busy putting in order.

  “You’re leaving?” Cyril asked Marina.

  “Tomorrow morning, I’ll be on a plane with my two friends to Ibiza. It will be ten days of madness!”

  Cyril, serious as usual, approved, nodding his head knowingly.

  “And you?” said Marina.

  “I don’t know yet,” he replied. The girl did not insist. It was clear she didn’t give a damn about what Cyril was going to do during his vacation. She jumped up, grabbed her raincoat and purse, and walked out onto Quai Marcel Dassault, shouting, “Have a nice vacation!”

  “She doesn’t worry, does she?” Raïssa said when the door closed.

  “Unlike you, huh?” said Cyril in his soft voice.

  Raïssa looked at him. The boy’s ugliness really did make him seem sympathetic.

  “At my age and in my situation, I have good reason to worry.”

  “But the agency is doing well, as Madame Plesse was reassuring us the other day.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Raïssa.

  She hesitated a moment before adding, “Still, I’m going to see her over the vacation, to remind her that we exist and that our future depends on her and her decision.”

  “If you think it helps, then why not?” said Cyril, getting up to leave.

  Claudio, remote control in hand, had been busy flipping through the channels for half an hour. His mind elsewhere, he barely paid attention to the images scrolling across the screen. Through the wide-open French doors, he heard the ocean. He and Lionel had arrived at Cabourg in the early afternoon and were now installed in their regular suite at the Grand Hotel. Lionel was taking a bath.

  Usually, these escapades to the Côte Fleurie were an opportunity to rediscover each other and get away from the incessant demands of Lionel’s political life. On this trip, however, Lionel had not opened his mouth since the morning.

  Claudio had tried to be funny and cheerful, but nothing had worked.

  Lying on the bed, he moved the cushion so he could be more comfortable. He muted the TV and listened for sounds coming from the bathroom. Nothing. He called out to Lionel but got no response. Suddenly worried, he got up and ran to the door. Opening it, he saw Lionel lying in the bathtub, the reddish water reaching his neck, his head thrown back in a strange position. He rushed over screaming, “Lionel!” Taking his lover’s head in his hands, Claudio realized Lionel was dead.

  Absurd and contradictory thoughts ran through his mind like lightning. He wondered what would become of him and why Lionel had done this. He also thought, for no apparent reason, about Ernest Lullier. With infinite tenderness, he placed Lionel’s head on the edge of the tub, then stood up slowly, hands soaking wet, and realized he was going to have to call the police. All of a sudden, he felt a great calm come over him. He breathed deeply, and before leaving the room, he saw the note Lionel had left prominently on the sink counter.

  He took it and read the bizarre message: I have been dead since June 17, 1993. Farewell!

  Claudio shuddered, folded the piece of paper in four, slipped it into his pocket, and decided then and there that he wouldn’t speak a word of this to the police. It was up to him and him alone to find out what had happened on June 17, 1993.

  Chapter 33

  Entering the kitchen, Boizot was struck by the banal beauty of the scene: his mother busy preparing coffee in an antique percolator, his father sitting at the table, his glasses on his nose, trying to finish a crossword puzzle in some magazine. The French doors to the garden were open and the radio was tuned to RTL.

  “Hello!” he said playfully.

  “Did you sleep well?” his mother asked without turning around.

  Boizot leaned toward his father and kissed his bald head. “A miracle!”

  “And your bruises?” asked his father as he placed his glasses atop the magazine.

  “Much better.”

  He kissed his mother and sat down at the table, which as always was meticulously set.

  On the radio, the host read the day’s horoscopes. Boizot looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 7:58 a.m. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father resume his crossword in silence. At sixty-eight, he looked younger than ever. The cycling probably helped; he’d been riding a lot since he retired.

  At that moment, he heard the familiar five-note chime of the hourly RTL newscast; the update opened with the death of Lionel Perdiou.

  Immediately, Boizot’s attention turned to the radio, but the item was brief: the Parisian deputy had committed suicide the previous night in a hotel in Cabourg, where he had just arrived for the weekend. Perdiou’s career was briefly recounted along with the fact that he might soon have been awarded a ministerial post; then the news report moved abruptly to an update on the heavy traffic that would characterize the long weekend.

  “Perdiou didn’t look like someone who would commit suicide,” said Boizot’s father, closing his magazine.

  “It doesn’t take a special look,” objected Boizot, who was shaken by the news. When he had met with the man the previous Monday, he had not gotten the sense that he was dealing with a man at the end of his rope. Perdiou had seemed preoccupied, certainly, but not capable of something like this.

  “That’s true,” said his mother as she poured the coffee. “I will always remember big old Jeannot. He was the class clown in high school, always the first to make us laugh on outings. And then one Monday morning, I can still see our teacher, white as a sheet, announcing that Jeannot had shot himself in the head—at seventeen. We all went to his funeral. We all felt guilty, like we’d been sitting next to him all this time without really getting to know him. It was terrible.”

  “Perdiou must have had a good reason,” said Boizot’s father. “How old was he?”

  “The reporter said fifty-two. But he looked much older, don’t you think?” said his mother.

  “In your opinion, why did he do it?” continued his father.

  Boizot shrugged. “I was just asking myself that question. And I don’t really have an answer.”

  The rest of the breakfast took place amid a conversation that covered all kinds of politicians, their manners, their vicissitudes, and their appetite for excessive power. Boizot, lost in his thoughts, participated only sporadically.

&nbs
p; After swallowing his last sip of coffee, he stood up. “Excuse me, but I’d like to find out a little more. I’m going to make a few calls.”

  First he called the newspaper, where he reached Censier.

  “Boizot! How are you?”

  “Much better, thank you. I’m coming back Monday as planned. And you?”

  “All right. As all right as can be when you have to work on August fifteenth. Did you want something?”

  “In fact, I called because I just heard on the radio that Lionel Perdiou committed suicide. What’s the latest?”

  “There’s no shortage of reports. The AFP is pumping out dispatches as if he had been President of the Republic!”

  Boizot smiled. There was no fooling Censier; he was an old hand.

  “He was a character,” he said. “What are they saying?”

  “Well, he was found late yesterday afternoon at the Grand Hotel in Cabourg, where he had arrived four hours earlier. He was in his bathtub; he had slit his wrists after swallowing a deadly mixture of alcohol and sleeping pills.”

  Boizot automatically shook his head as if Censier could see him. “Do we know the reason? Did he leave a note?”

  “Nothing. His press secretary was the one who found him.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “Why?” asked Censier, who was obviously not aware of the deputy’s lifestyle.

  “Because the press secretary in question was also his lover.”

  “Really? Perdiou was . . . ?”

  “As the day is long!”

  Censier groaned at the other end of the line. “And here I thought I knew everything,” he said.

  “Any other details?”

  “As for the facts themselves, that’s it. But we’re obviously awash in pseudo-grief-stricken reactions from the entire political world. You’d think we had lost God, Mother Teresa, and the Nobel Peace Prize all together.”

  “OK. Thanks, Patrice. Good luck being on call.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Please just come back in one piece.”

  Even on vacation, Magnin never stopped working entirely. He was getting ready to contact Drichon to develop their coverage of the Perdiou suicide when his cell phone rang. Boizot’s name appeared on the screen.