by Gerald Jay
“Yes, of course.”
“How is the investigation going?”
A cop’s natural mistrust of a juge d’instruction made him hesitate. Folding his arms defensively, the inspector drew himself up. “Still early days. But we’re making some progress,” he confidently assured her. No reason to go overboard. “We have a weapon PTS is testing that may prove of some importance. Now you really must excuse me, madame. I have to get back to my men. Dr. Langlais will fill you in on the latest news.” Taking leave of the owl-eyed Madame Leclerc, he promised her, “I’ll be in touch.”
When Mazarelle turned into the driveway of the commissariat, the courtyard was crowded with newspaper reporters and TV cameramen from Canal Plus and France 2. It felt like old times to the inspector. Driving around to the rear, he went in the back way. But before he could get into his own office and phone downstairs to his task force to find out what was going on, Rivet caught sight of him. Calling Mazarelle into his office, he told him to sit down and slammed the door shut. His blue dress-uniform jacket, hanging on the back of the door and worn only on ceremonial occasions, flapped angrily. Rivet was not a happy young man. He marched to the window and pointed down at the noisy crowd of reporters.
“What’s that all about?”
“Damned if I know. I just got here.”
“They seem to think there’s been a new development in your case. Is that true?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” Mazarelle told him about discovering Phillips’s body. It wasn’t the first time that reporters seemed to know almost as much as he did about a case. He couldn’t understand how they’d found out so quickly.
“I don’t care how they found out. Get rid of them. They’re turning this place into a circus. And, oh yes …” A sour look crossed the commissaire’s angry face. “That sign you put up downstairs on the door of the meeting room I gave you.”
“The sign? You mean Mazarelle’s Murder Squad?”
Rivet squirmed at the sound of it. “Couldn’t you tone that down a little?”
“It is what it is. It’s not a book club, sir.” Mazarelle felt himself losing it.
“Damn it! You know what I mean, Inspector. Change it.”
Mazarelle wondered if Rivet was already regretting having helped set him up here in the homicide business. Odd, he thought, glancing at the large photograph of Chirac on the wall behind his boss. It was curious how much the young commissaire—with his hands clasped behind his back and that same pained look and tight-lipped smile—resembled the president of the republic. Was Rivet grooming himself for higher office?
Downstairs there were more than a dozen reporters from all over France milling about in the courtyard. Everything from La Dépêche du Midi and Nice-Matin to Le Monde. Mazarelle waved to Jacques Gaudin, who worked for the local edition of Sud Ouest. He also recognized Hervé Stein, an old acquaintance from Paris, who covered crime stories for L’Express. Unlike Gaudin, Stein had the prosperous look and self-importance of someone who wrote for a major national publication.
Mazarelle was about to reach into his jacket for his pipe when he remembered something an old girlfriend had once told him. She’d seen a picture of him in a newspaper and laughed because he looked more like some dotty old professor, she said, than a hotshot cop.
The inspector thrust his hands in his pockets and exchanged nods with Stein. Despite what his critics once said about him at his old commissariat in Paris—that he was dying to be a celebrity, a TV star, a cop who would do for crime what Bernard Pivot had done for books—Mazarelle genuinely liked reporters and they seemed to like him. Maybe that was because he didn’t bullshit them. He said what he could and knew when to keep his mouth shut. This time they wanted to know if he’d found another body, and he acknowledged that he had. After that, the questions came thick and fast.
Calm as ever in front of their cameras, he waited for them to finish before cherry-picking the ones he’d answer. “It was the dogs,” he began. “The way they ran into the barn and pawed at this large wicker basket. It turned out to be empty, but I knew they were on to something. Not long after that, we found the body.”
This last victim, Mazarelle explained, had been tentatively identified as Schuyler Phillips, the fifty-nine-year-old American husband of one of the murdered women. Phillips was the CEO of the Canadian corporation Tornade. Unlike the three others who were murdered in different rooms of the main house at L’Ermitage, the fourth victim was discovered in the nearby barn. Phillips was sprawled out dead on the floor inside a hidden, windowless chamber behind a barred door, the entry to which was concealed by a wicker basket.
“Hold on!” Stein interrupted. “You mean the door was barricaded from the inside?”
“Correct. Now if I may continue …”
Earlier investigations, he pointed out—that is before he was asked to take over the case by the procureur of Périgueux—had speculated that the missing Phillips, perhaps for personal reasons, might have been responsible for the other three deaths. It was obvious now that the industrialist had not committed suicide but had been killed with great savagery. In Mazarelle’s opinion, Phillips at the time of his murder was attempting to hide from his attacker, a ruthless killer using a shotgun at very close range.
Yet the puzzling question remained: How did the killer get into this barricaded secret room where Phillips sought refuge? The inspector guessed that he must have known that years ago it had been a granary. Once he’d located the outside opening of the old chute, the rest was simple. He entered and left without a trace, leaving behind nothing but a corpse. Although this wasn’t exactly true, there was no reason for Mazarelle to tell them everything.
As of now, the inspector acknowledged that these four murders were unquestionably the most brutal and mysterious crimes to have occurred in this peaceful region since the war. But regardless of whether the murderer was a deranged random predator or this was a revenge killing by a person out of their past or simply a crime of greed, he promised that the outstanding special task force he’d assembled would track him down.
“Above all,” he concluded, “I urge the public to remain calm. There is absolutely no cause for general alarm.”
As Mazarelle hurried back to his office, he wished he could be sure of that. His phone was ringing when he got upstairs.
“Mazarelle,” he said, a little out of breath.
It was Roger Vignon with more news about Schuyler Phillips that he’d dug up on his computer. “Did you know his reputation for being ruthless with business rivals?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I found a profile of him in the Canadian magazine Maclean’s that claimed he was a sweetheart socially but a monster to do business with.”
“Yeah? Which one of his friends said that?”
“Phillips’s second-in-command, a guy by the name of Jean-Paul Dargelier. He was pretty open about what happened. Boasted that his boss took Duncan Cross, the big shot American billionaire, to the cleaners. Muscled him out of a large investment he held in production subsidiaries of Tornade. And Cross was only one of several competitors who couldn’t stand Phillips’s guts.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Maybe one of them hated him enough to hire someone to tear up his ticket.”
“What about the other three?”
“Oh yeah … Right, I’m working on that.”
“Fine. Meanwhile, do me a favor and get me the phone company records for L’Ermitage. I want to know all the calls that were made to and from there since they arrived. But especially the night of the murders.”
18
CALPE, SPAIN
South of Valencia, near the little Spanish former fishing village of Calpe, there is a spit of land that runs into the sea and ends in a huge thousand-foot-high exclamation point known as the Rock of Ifach. It can be seen for miles up and down the Costa Blanca but dominates the view from the luxurious sunbaked houses opposite, high up on the hills. Unlike the other residen
ces, traditional Mediterranean-style buildings in stucco with tile roofs, Max Kämpe’s modern villa in the Mies van der Rohe mode made no compromises with its setting—three enormous slabs of concrete and glass resting on top of one another with terraces jutting out in different directions, all of it enclosed by a high wall. The sort of place that promised privacy and, along with the panoramic views of crystal blue sea and mountains, a less stressful way of life.
Reiner had almost forgotten how laid-back it was here and how good Pilar’s cooking was. The simple lunch of fish and rice, a local favorite, had been delicious. Naked, he stretched out on the deck chair under a tall date palm by the pool and poured himself a coppery-amber glass of Carlos I, the best brandy Spain had to offer. Raising the fragrant snifter to his lips, he took a sip. “Hmmmm, liquid gold. Wunderbar!” It was good to be back free and uncluttered, but best of all to be out of France.
Of all his personas, Max Kämpe was Reiner’s favorite. He enjoyed Kämpe’s style, his villa, his cars, but they were hardly a weakness. Simply another safe house, another setting, another mask to put on for a few days or weeks while doing business before moving on. He also enjoyed the three-hour Spanish lunches but, as he’d discovered not long after he bought the house, more as a concept than a fact. For the truth was that though it always took him a while to unwind when he arrived, he soon became annoyed by the waste of time. Perhaps that was why he never stayed here very long.
Reiner had been in Spain three days now and still couldn’t relax. But the Spanish sun helped, soaking into his bones and his hair, which was now washed back to its original blond. The sun felt as if it were purifying him, burning all that he’d been through out of his flesh, his mind. And his headaches, thankfully, seemed to have gone. But not the black dreams. What had started out as a simple enough job that should have ended with a run-of-the-mill car crash—not so different from others he’d done—had gone wrong and turned into a sloppy bloodbath.
How could that have happened when everything seemed to be falling into place for him the night he returned to L’Ermitage? All of them gone except Phillips. It was a perfect setup. But when he searched the house, Phillips wasn’t there, or in the barn either, it seemed at first. Then he found him. The two twelve-gauge number one shells in the shotgun were all Reiner had to work with, but that was all he needed. And it didn’t take long. He was on his way out when the three friends unexpectedly came back. He’d been too busy inside the barn to hear their car arrive. Call it bad luck all around. It wasn’t that he was unprepared for emergencies or too rigid or lacked the imagination to improvise if need be, but the unexpected always made Reiner nervous, angry. The bastards! They could have easily ruined everything for him. Reiner slipped back inside the barn before anyone saw him and found what he wanted in the Arab’s toolbox. As they got out of the car, he stood there, blocking their way. The look on their faces was priceless. Herding the three of them into the house at gunpoint, he told them to shut the fuck up and walk, almost as if he himself believed that his shotgun was loaded.
What followed still remained jumbled in his mind. Maybe because killing with a blade at close range was as trackless and alien to him as the Arctic. Which explained, he supposed, why he could barely recall exactly what came next. Except for his growing sense of exhilaration, fear, disgust, and fury as he went from one to the next in a frenzy of blood and muffled cries. Controlling events had always been central to everything Reiner was and did, and here in an instant he’d broken free of the gravity of habit. Free of the limits he’d known all his life. Excited beyond his wildest imagination, he felt amazingly liberated, as if falling headlong through space in a mindless rage for the next blow, the next sound.
“Another bottle, Senor Kämpe?”
He looked up. It was Pilar, her eyes fixed appreciatively on his bare genitals as if they were being exhibited at the Prado. Reiner couldn’t care less. If she wanted to look, let her gaze to her heart’s content. She needed a little sex in her life, poor woman. Aber, he thought, Vorsicht Kunst. Drive her out of her mind.
He wondered if at that hour he could reach Spada in Zurich. He told Pilar to bring him his red phone, but her mind was elsewhere.
“En seguida!” he snapped, and she scurried away.
Reiner’s housekeeper had little education, but she wasn’t stupid and ordinarily did what she was told. Exactly what he wanted. A single woman in her forties with a birthmark that covered one whole side of her face like a purple ink blot. He thought it a plus when hiring her—assuming that she was a quiet spinster—but as he learned, her disfigurement didn’t stop Pilar from having admirers. Rodrigo was the sleazebag who nearly cost Pilar her job. The three-car garage on the property held Max Kämpe’s black BMW; his red Ferrari; and, his personal preference, the Bentley Azure. One day, her beloved Rodrigo took the Bentley out for a joyride, and when he was stopped for driving under the influence, he of course didn’t have the registration. The policía called the house and told Pilar what had happened.
Reiner, who was away at the time, would probably never have heard of the incident if Rodrigo had been alone in the car instead of with another woman. When he did hear, Reiner was livid. He warned her never again to bring her drunken lovers into his house. He said if he found another Rodrigo there, he’d cut off his nuts and kick her out on her ass. The well-paid Pilar had no intention of losing a good job. After that, he had no more trouble with her. That is, except for the budgies.
It happened one perfumed night when the air was filled with guitars and the scent of Valencia orange blossoms. Restless and hungry, he’d gotten out of bed and gone down to the kitchen for something to eat. It was then he heard them, the honeyed voices. They were coming from Pilar’s room.
“Mi bella. Mi amor. Eres tan caliente, querida. Haz el amor conmigo, mi corazón.”
Enraged, Reiner burst through her door like a battering ram. The two of them stared at each other in dumb amazement. The room was full of caged birds. The uncaged yellow-and-gray one in bed with her, who had been doing all the yapping, flew up to the light fixture on the ceiling crying, “Pilar! Pilar, mi amor!” As Pilar attempted to coax it down, the bird cooed, “Bésame, guapa.” Reiner told the housekeeper to get her gabby friend back in his cage pronto and shut him up, or he would. Storming out of the room, he slammed the door behind him. Better birds than boyfriends, he thought, and never mentioned her roommates again.
Pilar returned with the red phone and he snatched it out of her hands, dialed Zurich, and waited for the bank to connect him to Numbered Accounts. Reiner recognized the bank officer’s velvety tones immediately. “Ah, Monsieur Spada.” He gave the manager the number of his account and asked him to check on the latest deposit. Spada was not gone very long.
“You’re sure of that?”
“Oh yes. Quite sure.”
Reiner felt the muscles at the base of his neck throb. They were tight as clamps. As soon as he’d left Taziac—his job finished—he’d called the phone number in Paris that Pellerin gave him with the news. Blond said he’d tell him. But that was three days ago, and the rest of his money still hadn’t been deposited. He loathed any delays in payments, any changes or irregularities in agreed-upon financial arrangements. Reiner jumped up and hurried into his bedroom where he slipped into his tennis whites, grabbed his racquet, wallet, keys, his expensive aviator shades. Calls like the one he had to make required a public phone, and Benidorm was only a short ride away.
The Bentley, with its top down and whisper-smooth 6.75-liter V-8 engine, was a joy to drive and could hit over 230 kph if there were any decent roads in the area to drive on. He took a deep breath. The smell of the magnolia-white leather seats, the lamb’s-wool rugs, the walnut trim, everything about his Bentley soothed. So did the CD he was playing, the debut album of Oliver Schmid’s German sextet Lacrimas Profundere, an amusing heavy-metal band full of gothic groans and heart-tugging weltschmerz. It took the edge off how rankled he felt. He couldn’t bear an unreliable client.
&nb
sp; Entering Benidorm, Reiner pulled up in front of the Gran Hotel Delfin, which faced the beach, and got out. The door of the Bentley closed with the satisfying solidity of a bank vault. From the house phone on the front desk, he notified Senor Rincón that he’d be out on the court in fifteen minutes. The Delfin’s tennis pro was always available for a fast set with Senor Kämpe, followed by a bracing single-malt whiskey chaser in the bar. Just off the lobby, Reiner went to the public phone booth and placed his racquet on the floor. Dialing the number in Paris, he waited for what seemed to him a long time before Pellerin picked up the receiver.
“Ah, so you’re there. Good. I wouldn’t want to have missed you a second time. Did Blond tell you I called?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Don’t jerk me around. I took care of your business. Now it’s your turn. Where’s the rest of my money?”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t like the early reports,” Pellerin broke out. “We asked for one soloist, not a whole damn quartet. Jesus, what were you thinking of?”
“Nothing to get exercised about. It was necessary to make a few last-minute improvisations. You wanted terminal, and that’s what you got. But don’t worry. There’ll be no extra charge.”
“Fine. But we also wanted restraint, discretion, no questions asked, and instead Taziac has already turned into a horror show—an international incident. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you understand what we expected?”
“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about.”
“You can’t be serious. The story is all over the newspapers, the radio, the TV.”
“Mere blips on the radar screen. That will all be gone in a few days when they arrest the murderer.”
