by John Brooke
‘She’s going to cooperate.’
And a bonus! Procureur Souviron, under siege after Pugh, had convinced Strasbourg to send (and pay for) a heart specialist from the university to work with Raphaele Petrucci. In a backdoor sort of way, the hysterical press surrounding Pearl’s dead loves was working in Claude’s favor.
Aliette smiled. ‘Good, Claude.’ His hunch was turning into an obsession — but one he could run with.
‘Yeah, good.…And you?
‘Have to get ready for lunch with the Swiss police.’
The two cops continued in their separate directions.
Pearl was punctual, waiting at the door of her building when Commissaire Néon arrived. They headed for the river. They would start at the beginning, with Didier Belfort. Claude explained his thinking. ‘Confront them. If you’re there with me, something will give.’ It always did. If Pearl could handle it — if she honestly wanted to help the police do their job, they might clear this thing up directly.
Pearl nodded, quietly truculent. She’d do her bit. ‘But I still don’t believe I slept with a killer.’
They arrived at a refurbished warehouse complex, another of the architect’s noted projects. Didi Belfort’s studio was adjacent, a done-up loft, his latest fabulous residence. They were greeted by a diminutive woman with wildly cascading red hair set against a million freckles and milky blue eyes who was clearly quite gone on some drug — it was plain to a cop, if not to a former schoolteacher; though Pearl seemed to nod knowingly as the woman fumbled and spilled trying to simultaneously tie the sash on her housecoat and sip the drink in her wobbly hand.
She was Charlotte, Didi’s cousin. Her French was thick with Black Forest German. ‘I have been taking care of Didi,’ she told Claude. Her distracted gaze came to rest on Pearl. ‘This woman has made much harm, no? Cunt.’ With that, Charlotte began to shut the door.
Claude blocked it. ‘I want to see him.’
‘Didi is at his tennis.’ Then she belched. The hand holding the sash came up to cover her mouth. Her housecoat fell open. She fumbled to regain a proper balance of decorum.
Seeing there was no point in further chat with Charlotte, Claude released the door.
He walked a weeping Pearl down to the riverside promenade. The flow was silvery on a grayish spring morning. Pearl’s tears glistened as he softly assured her that she did not deserve that kind of abuse. She leaned on his arm. He respected her courage and sense of civil duty in agreeing to accompany him. During this mid-morning interlude Claude Néon again felt the fragile thing at the core of Pearl Serein. The thing beneath the pride and temper. The heart that was in need.
But she was OK and wanted to continue. Insisted, ‘Yes! I said I would… Let’s go.’
So they headed north to the club in search of Didi Belfort.
They found Bruno Martel instead.
The club was at the foot of a cul-de-sac. An unused château on an overgrown property had been purchased and extensively remade into the city’s chicest club. Parking and ten tennis courts had been laid down around the grounds, three handball courts designed into the carriage house (by Didier Belfort). A pool was added to the patio area, changing rooms and showers installed in the basement. Card, billiard and private dining rooms now filled the elegant nooks on the second floor to complement the dining, bar and ball rooms on the main. A barber, hairdresser, manicurist and masseur each had mini-shops as adjuncts to a shiny fitness facility on the third floor. There was a security box at the gate, with a sign: Members Only.
In fact, the Quarter Racquets Club was three blocks from Commissaire Néon’s new home in the north end, but he had yet to explore this little lane. Making the down payment on the house had been a reckless gamble. A boy from the streets of Paris, he was still tentative as to his status amongst the provincial bourgeois. But tennis couldn’t be that hard, surely.
Pearl said, ‘Why, there’s Bruno.’
‘Martel?’ A giant with a Jesus beard and hair, all in white, was shuffling along, a woman, also all in white, was at his side. Like they were out for a walk in their pyjamas. Claude pulled over. Rolling down his window, he watched the man approach. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘B’en, going to the club, obviously.’
‘I thought he was in the mountains.’
‘So did I.’ Adding, ‘Looks like Agnès got her wish.’ Pearl’s catty side rang clear.
She meant the woman holding Bruno’s hand.
Claude asked, ‘Are they allowed to wear that kind of stuff to the club?’
‘For lunch it’s not a problem. Bruno wears only white. He says it’s more enlightened.’
Claude had done a search on Bruno Martel: Sold insurance, then financial planning, had morphed into motivational speaking, usually from a financial strategy angle, then hit it big when the therapy movement boomed. A large man, his mass contained an expansive energy that became his calling card when Bruno had discovered a gift for hugging. He began to bill himself as a healer. He’d opened a center in town and transformed a farm in the Vosges into a spiritual retreat, strictly secular — lots of cows and shit to balance out the quasi-religious group hugs and meditations. If you were feeling especially forsaken, Bruno offered Une Semaine Face à Face, a one-on-one week with himself, secluded in a converted muck room attached to his barn. The experience, described as ‘duo-innering,’ was monitored by Bruno’s personally trained staff. In the many articles and TV news spots produced on the spiritual farm, the healer always promised that an intense week of duo-innering Face à Face was guaranteed to ultimately expose ‘the heart inside the heart.’
Time alone with Bruno cost a fortune. You signed on with a promise of nondisclosure.
Claude Néon always found it hard to believe people bought into such touchy-feely bullshit. But in getting the facts from Pearl Serein, he’d been careful to avoid implying as much. Though vexed with her ex-lovers’ apparent inability to be graceful in losing the prize that was herself, Pearl refused to undermine the professional credibility of these men. Now here was Bruno Martel, walking down the street. Shambling was a better word. A bear of a man — a bear that had swallowed a barrel of beer. ‘You spent a week in a room alone with him without coming out?’
‘Two. He insisted. An extra week. He didn’t make me pay. Bruno’s not about money.’
‘What happened?’
‘I can’t tell you. I signed a contract… He has incredible presence,’ she murmured. ‘He has helped a lot of people.’
Claude repeated his bottom line: ‘People are dying, madame.’
Pearl acquiesced. ‘We talked. We had sex. Meditated.’
Meditated. Claude had never meditated. For two weeks? ‘Were you afraid of him?’
‘Monsieur Commissaire, I’m not attracted to men I’m afraid of. That’s not logical.’
‘When you left, he didn’t attempt force?’
‘Of course not!’ She was mad that Claude still did not get this central thing about her men.
‘All right.’ Claude got out of the car, indicating that Pearl should too.
She obeyed, nervous, and stayed very close as they stood on the curb.
The woman Pearl had identified as Agnès was pale skinned, with straight black hair cut short in the common workaday style. In her enlightened whites Agnès was ascetic, dancerly. When her eyes fell on Pearl, she stopped dead in her tracks, stern face registering scorn, maybe fear.
Like a ship that needs a lot more room to put the brakes on, Bruno Martel kept going. ‘Pearl?’ Agnès reached to pull him back. The huge man did not notice her restraining move. ‘…Pearl?’ Peering as if through fog. ‘Is it really you?’ Massive arms spread, the prelude to a world-sized hug.
‘Yes, Bruno. It’s me.’ She did not offer a kiss. Stayed well away from his hug.
Bruno seemed at a loss until Agnès stepped into the void. ‘Agnès!’ (You have to say it the French way: An-yes, pushing softly on the yes.) ‘Agnès is now my special assistant,’ said Bruno.
From deep inside Bruno’s large embrace, Agnès demanded, ‘What do you want from us?’
Claude answered. ‘We’d like a word with Monsieur Martel.’ He flashed his ID.
Martel stood mute, eyes locked on Pearl. Up close, Bruno Martel showed bulging pock-marked cheeks, a pin-like nose descending from between button eyes a tad too close together, thinning hair swirling down over his ears and collar from a central bald spot, the whole mess held together by the patchy, biblical beard. For the life of him, Claude could not figure out Pearl’s attraction to the man.
Two weeks! Pearl having sex with Bruno Martel? Claude was truly baffled.
Freeing herself from Bruno’s arms, Agnès started in on Claude. ‘Leave us alone!’ Whatever the problem, Bruno knew nothing about it. He had been in seclusion since February. He was in a very delicate transitional state. Could the commissaire not see that? Agnès was aghast at his presumption.
Claude said, ‘Bon. It can be here or in garde à vue.’ A huge bluff without a clear mandate.
Bruno said, ‘I will answer your questions.’
Claude said, ‘Good. Now – ’
But Bruno was addressing Pearl, not Claude. ‘I sense anger, Pearl. Anger at your life.’
‘I’m not angry, Bruno. It’s finished. It’s gone from my mind.’
Bruno Martel didn’t hear this. He said, ‘All things can be transformed by an ever-deepening spiritual perception and activism. Early on in my innerings I discovered gratitude, I learned the importance of feeling grateful for the pain in my life, especially as regards the heart…’ Bruno’s large hands began to move. ‘The more forgiving and grateful you feel for all that pain, the more you will appreciate that pain only reflects your inner state of mind. I’ve been alone meditating on these things for several months. I have been examining my heart. And your heart, Pearl — I know all about your heart.’ Again he reached. Pearl Serein did not respond.
Agnès purred, ‘Bruno, please…’ She moved back inside his arms. She stroked his cheek.
The only forewarning was his ears, sticking through his greasy hair and turning a bright translucent red. He began to emit a gurgling sound. The gurgle congealed into a frightening train of wretched dry coughs. Agnès held Bruno tight — like hanging onto a shaking tree trunk. Then Bruno loosed a preternatural howl that rang in the street with such incredible force that Claude Néon instinctively felt for his gun. The man in the security box at the club gate stepped out. Pushing his special assistant away, Bruno Martel clutched his breast and bent double, face in hands, huge body convulsing. Then rising again, an outsized man, sobbing chest-wracking outsized sobs, torrential tears flooding down through his scraggly beard. And he whimpered: a high-pitched, squeaky sound. ‘Pearl?’
Claude let go of his gun. Always a disorienting sight, a big man breaking down like that. He hesitated, then dared to rest his hand on the shuddering shoulder. ‘Come on, man, pull out of it.’
Pearl touched Claude’s arm, whispered, ‘Bruno believes in crying.’
But Claude found himself resenting it. This dreadful spilling, heedless of another man’s presence. It had something to do with manhood. It made Claude Néon feel too much like an invisible cop. Claude waited for Pearl to respond. She knew him — she had spent two weeks face à face with Bruno. He finally demanded, ‘Can’t you do something?’
No. Pearl was shaking her head, resolute. Not my problem. Let Agnès do something.
Agnès wanted to take care of it. ‘Bruno…Bruno?’ She was wary as she tried to calm him.
Claude had seen similar caution in the faces of the bomb-squad guys.
Bruno’s stupendous crying had brought the neighbors to their windows. Cars heading into the club were slowing. Claude held up his Police ID, waving them by. Everything’s under control.
But it wasn’t. Beside him, Pearl Serein uttered a chagrined, ‘Oh, merde.’
Because Tommi Bonneau had arrived.
‘Hey, Pearl!’ Already moving in, flashing pictures. ‘What a brilliant coincidence!’
Blinking away diffusing ripples of green-white light settling in his eyes, Claude stepped protectively in front of Pearl Serein. ‘If you even think of running that.’
‘It’s a free country, Commissaire… Beautiful! Totally perfect!’ Never even looking up from behind his lens, flashing off shot after shot, Tommi Bonneau was undeterred.
Claude stuck his ID card square in front of Tommi’s lens and raised his voice. ‘You leave!’
‘Bugger that…’ Dodging, clicking away, ‘I’m an accredited reporter, I’m in the street, I’m covering the news, it has nothing to do with you. Bruno’s one of my best customers. Eh, Bruno?’ Reacting to the same green-white flashing, the healer had fallen silent. Thank God. But his tears still flowed, a monumental river of broken-hearted pain. As Tommi circled, taking pictures, Bruno’s button eyes seemed locked to Tommi’s lights. From behind his viewfinder, Tommi commanded, ‘Talk to me, Bruno. Come on, I need a quote… Pearl, if you could move a little closer to Bruno.’
Pearl’s defence was to look bored. ‘Stop it, Tommi.’
‘Could be a wonderful moment, Pearl. Where’s your sense of history?’
Pearl Serein opened her mouth to reply —
‘Bruno!’ Agnès shrieked, frantic, tugging at his oversized arm.
With a heavy shake, Bruno sent her staggering. A bystander amongst a crowd of bemused club members caught her before she fell. Stumbling like Frankenstein, Bruno Martel began to run. The crowd watched the distraught healer lumber up the street. Tommi Bonneau took off after Bruno, flashing shot after shot after shot. They disappeared around the corner.
Claude Néon would have liked nothing better than to chase them down — and smack them both. But he was needed. Agnès was screaming, ‘Did you really need to do this? Are you happy?’ She leapt at Pearl, pummeling. Pearl tried to protect herself, yet remained oddly mute. Claude watched for several dumbfounded seconds before summoning the wherewithal to pull Agnès away and deliver her, flailing, into the arms of the club security guard. He hugged a weeping Pearl.
Agnès wailed, ‘She ruined him! She ruined everything!’
A city police car pulled up. Two uniforms rushed to take charge.
When Agnès calmed down, they got her papers, took the information over to Claude.
Agnès Guntz lived a few streets away. Tommi Bonneau was waiting when they arrived — affecting a hang-dog Lucky Luke pose, Tommi pointed. ‘He went that way.’
Agnès bared her teeth. ‘Stay off my property, you pig.’
Tommi smiled. ‘I am off your property, madame.’
‘Just ignore him,’ Pearl advised.
Claude made it clear. ‘Fuck off or you’re in trouble.’
Tommi took another picture as Claude and Pearl followed Agnès Guntz inside.
PJ Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was sitting at a table in the Rembrandt Café with Swiss FedPol Agent Franck Woerli, enjoying coffee after gobbling down Willem van Hoogstraten’s special Pig’s Feet Sausage served on a bed of sauerkraut and a bock of Jupiler beer. The meeting had been productive. With some simple tweaking of names and dates, the French and Swiss would be in sync on the latest multinational police action. Her portable buzzed. ‘Sorry, Franki. Excuse.’
Monique. City had called. The commissaire was caught in the middle of an incident with Pearl Serein. ‘At the gate to that club in the north end…Quarter Racquets?’
‘Merci.’ Aliette made her apologies and grabbed a cab. After some confusion at the club gate, she was directed to the residence of Agnès Guntz with basic information as to the situation.
The north end is prosperous. On a peaceful spring day there were hints of new flowers peeking over garden walls. Well-heeled mothers pushed well-planned children strapped in well-designed poussettes. Joggers passed, intent on health, unconstrained by work. The elegant corner-lot house of Agnès Guntz — a divorcee who had done well by it — was typical: pinkish terra cotta masonry, three tall stori
es plus a half-floor lined with dormers. A gargoyle in the lintel was a sign of roots. A high stone fence shielded the Guntz residence from Tommi Bonneau, waiting out front in the suspended ambience of a leafy afternoon. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Working.’
‘Haven’t you done enough for one day, Tommi?’
‘I serve the story, Inspector.’
‘I’d think twice about publishing those pictures.’
‘He’s a bit of a nul, your commissaire.’
‘He’ll fight you if you want it, monsieur. Count on it.’
He ignored this. Returned to his habitual fiddling with his camera.
Crossing the street, Aliette was distracted by screeching tires, the wailing pan-pon, pan-pon of uniforms arriving. A voice cut through. ‘Attention!’ She narrowly missed being run down by a jogger rounding the corner, earphones on, eyes focused on the house of Agnès Guntz. Imbécile!’ he cursed, veering to avoid her. A beautiful jogger but less than neighborly; his almond eyes in a ruggedly tanned face registered a flash of pure disgust for the careless woman.
‘Pardon!’ Startled. But the inspector easily noted a man very interested in this house.
He kept running, eyes locked on a bedroom window, oblivious to the arriving police cruiser.
And now a radio news team roared to a dramatic halt. More pan-pons in the distance. The rush was on. Calling to the uniforms, ‘Keep them well away,’ Aliette pushed through the gate, hurried to the door, let herself in with the briefest knock.
Pearl Serein was in the salon, huddled on a sumptuous divan, head in her hands, weeping. Agnès Guntz was in her kitchen in a state of rigid shock. A trail of strewn and shattered objects led the inspector down the basement stairs. Where she found Claude, puzzling over victim number five:
