by Alice Quinn
I opened up a few drawers with the tips of my fingers and skimmed over several papers. They all looked like bills. In one of the left-hand drawers, I found several checkbooks and bank statements—all linked to different accounts. Another drawer was full of old diaries and organizers. They looked like top-quality items. They were all quite small and had well-crafted black leather covers.
Little Miss Reasonable inside my head was telling me to be careful not to leave any prints and to keep using the tissue. The other voice, let’s call her Little Miss Shit-for-Brains, was telling me that the tissue didn’t really matter because I worked here, so my prints would be all over the joint, anyway. So I threw the tissue in the bin. I’d been carrying it around forever.
I looked at some of the check stubs. Apart from a couple of payments to the caterer, the cleaning company, and a private health-insurance subscription, all the others had been made out to his son Théodore and someone named Ariane Dumond de la Pinsonnière, who must have been one of his two daughters. Each check had been made out to the tune of twenty thousand euros. Was that their monthly allowance? Wowsers! These folks were megarichies!
Under the checkbooks, I found a smallish wooden box. When I looked inside, it was crammed full of five-hundred-euro notes. I closed it quickly, almost as if it had burned my fingertips. No, thank you very much. I’d already been caught up in enough troubles when it came to stashes of dough, and I wasn’t about to repeat all that anytime soon. I took another tissue from the box and wiped everything in the drawer that my grubby little mitts had touched.
As I opened the last drawer, at the bottom on the right, I spotted a gun hidden behind yet more medical-looking boxes and transparent bags filled with what looked like talc. I rubbed all my prints off again. Dear Lord, this was starting to look more and more dicey.
I’d been right! The old bastard was a total druggie! Or maybe even a dealer? I was sure those little bags weren’t full of talc. And if it was what I thought it was, then there was a hell of a lot of it. A small fortune! Unbelievable! So old Max liked a bit of a snort and a go on the old needle on top of his whiskey and cigars? That explained why his mood changed so much. One minute he was supermean and refused to give his kids any help, and the next he was throwing checks at them for twenty grand . . .
It meant that maybe he’d overdosed.
I’d gone from being scared, worried, shocked, and miserable to curious and emotional to a deep level of sadness.
Somehow I also felt nostalgic. Nostalgic for everything I’d just lost.
I really thought I’d be able to hold down the job with Max. It was a great job—it was easy, and it suited me in every way. It had been my first job. I was nostalgic for the sense of security it had given me. I know . . . I felt nostalgic for what was only a single day out of my life. But I was nostalgic for what could have become a fab daily routine. I was nostalgic for the nice little normal life that had just been beginning for me. I was nostalgic for all the great little meals my munchkins could have eaten from Max’s caterer. I could have gotten nice and fat. My babaloshins could have been full to brimming with vitamins and minerals and all that good stuff I worried they didn’t always get.
OK, enough with the nostalgia. Why get myself all upset over what I’d lost? I hadn’t even made a proper start with Max. I was being whacky.
I suddenly stared at the telephone next to the computer. I picked up the receiver (with my new tissue, of course) and pressed the button that gave the last dialed number. I definitely had a Jessica Fletcher reflex in me, didn’t I? It rang three times before a woman—a classy-sounding broad—picked up.
“Minister’s Office, how may I help you?”
What? What minister? What sort of business could the old boy have had with a government minister?
Just then I heard a loud knock-knock-knocking at the front door. It scared me half to death! I hung up the phone and went running to answer. It had to be Borelli! Except it wasn’t.
31
Standing where Borelli was supposed to be was the huge bulk of a man I’d spotted the day before as I was leaving work. I was speechless. He pulled out a badge. It was a gold, flashy thing, like something out of an FBI film.
“Is this the address of Maximilian Dumond de la Pinsonnière?”
“Yeah . . . umm . . .”
“There’ll be a police team along shortly. I’ve arrived ahead of them.”
He almost pushed me out of the way. Rudo. When a big Schwarzenegger type with a body built like a brick shithouse and a head like a block of wood wants you to get out of his way, you get out of his way.
I got my thinking cap on as quickly as possible, but I couldn’t put two and two together. This fella wasn’t Mafia, was he? Could he really be FBI? No way! That would be going too far. The FBI wouldn’t be working in the South of France. I think I had them on the brain since we found those files in Sélect. He must have been a special agent from the National Police Service. He seemed to know that something had happened to Max.
I couldn’t remember that badge. Did it actually say FBI on it? Something was written on it in gold, but he’d flashed it too quickly and I hadn’t managed to read it. I was pretty sure I’d recognized the French flag, though.
“Are the paramedics on their way?” I asked.
“And what would you want with them? Is he dead?” he asked over his shoulder as he took giant strides into the office.
It was like he knew the house perfectly. I didn’t like his question. It was in bad taste.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t really know. But I think so.”
“I’ll be able to tell you.”
I had to run to keep up with him. He was in Max’s office before I knew it. He approached the body and started touching him all over, pressing and pulling.
“Hey! Stop touching him!” I shouted.
“Of course I need to touch him. I’m trying to resuscitate him! Don’t count on the paramedics to get here. Everyone dies before the paramedics arrive.”
He scowled at me and then continued to rant in much the same vein. “Did you actually touch the CS? You did, didn’t you?”
“The CS? I’d probably be able to tell you if I knew what in the hell you were talking about.”
“The crime scene!” he explained, rolling his eyes.
“Hey! Listen up! There’s no need to be like that with me, OK?”
He ignored me as he stretched out Max’s arm and inspected where the needle had been. “Here!” he yelled. “You’ve removed something from here, haven’t you? You need to put that back right now!”
My face reddened as I thought about the needle.
“You listen to me! Calm down, Monsieur! I took nothing, I promise you!” I was taking a risk, but how on earth would this guy know what I’d taken or not taken, anyway?
His face turned purple. He was livid!
I added in a moany tone, “There’s no need to shout. Shouting doesn’t work with me. Do you think you’re actually scary? I never take notice of people who are clearly having some kind of mental breakdown.”
He gasped at me, dumbfounded, and barely managed to get his words—well, word—out.
“What?”
A moment’s silence. But then he couldn’t hold back.
“He wasn’t in this position when you found him. What you’ve done here is very serious. You’ve probably messed up the investigation!”
“I told you already that I didn’t do a damn thing! First off, how do you know what position he was in, huh? I’m the only one who knows, and I’m telling you I didn’t move him.”
Something in his eyes was absolutely ferocious. I swear that if his look had been armed, I’d have had a bullet in my dome right then and there.
His voice got louder. He was howling like a deranged animal. “What’s your name?”
“The only person I’ll talk to is Borelli!” I replied, digging my heels in.
He got out his cell phone and started tapping away on the screen before slowly po
inting it at me. I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew he was trying to use the thing to put a trace on me or something. I know that might sound over-the-top paranoid, but you shouldn’t trust any of this modern technology. I’d seen a few of those American TV series (even though I didn’t have a TV . . . I had my ways) and they were always on about what these phones could do nowadays . . .
“Have you finished your histrionics now?” I asked.
He took a deep breath. I got the impression he was doing his best to calm down. He asked me brusquely, but in a slightly calmer tone, “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary since you’ve been here? Anything strange?”
“Apart from you?” I responded cheekily. It was my way of trying to make friends with him. But he wouldn’t take the bait. He obviously didn’t like my sense of humor. So I went a bit further. I enjoyed pissing people off sometimes. “Anyhow, say I did see something. I sure as hell wouldn’t be telling you about it.”
He shrugged. It was pretty obvious he was done talking to me. He hunkered down to the ground and starting searching Max’s pockets. This one was a nut. I always managed to find them. Why was he is such a hurry? He was like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. How does this big plank know I took the needle? Is he psychic or what?
He emptied out the old man’s pockets and spread everything on the rug next to the body. Then he stood back up again and set about scurrying all over the place, moving everything on the desk and searching through all the drawers. He was moving at high speed, but it was as if he knew what he was doing. The Incredible Hulk was a pro.
We heard car engines approach and then a whole ton of knocks at the front door.
“I guess the rest of the team showed up,” I grunted.
“What’s stopping you from going and opening up for them?” he shouted, stepping toward me and pushing me violently.
Alrighty! Enough is enough already!
“Is there something wrong with you? I mean, are you out of your tree? For real?”
He left the room before I finished speaking. His legs were so long, he covered about seven leagues with every step. He went into the dining room and over to the table with the wine bottle on it. Shit! That’s where I’d left my purse.
32
I hesitated a couple of seconds, deciding between going and grabbing my bag so the loony guy couldn’t get to it first—I think rummaging around people’s stuff was his hobby—or hustling to the door to open up for the cops.
I decided to give up on the bag. The knocks were getting more frenzied, and I didn’t want to give in to my feelings of paranoia.
As soon as I opened the door, Borelli stormed in like a lightning bolt followed by three uniformed officers.
“Hello, Maldonne.”
“Hello, Borelli.”
“So then? Where is it? You did exactly as I told you, didn’t you? You haven’t laid a finger on a thing in here, right? Tell me what happened, Maldonne.”
Before telling him everything, I said, “One of your colleagues made it here before you. A great big monster of a man.”
“Sometimes I think you make stuff up because you thrive on the attention!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What’s all this bull about a colleague? You don’t need to embellish your story. Just get on with it. You can see very well that I’m the first law enforcement agent on the scene. Nobody got here before me for the simple reason that only my team knows about any of this. And nobody on my team matches that description.”
He made his way down the hallway as he was speaking. Twice I had to physically turn his body to show him the right way. Big problem. I couldn’t see the FBI nutcase anywhere. Where had Schwarzenegger gone to? Jeez! How did an oaf that size manage to slip past us?
“No, there was someone here. A big Schwarzenegger type, but Schwarzenegger back when he was hot. He looked like an American fed! You’re saying he’s not one of your men?”
Borelli stopped and turned to look at me with an expression of intense interest. I thought he’d finally got what I was yapping about and recognized who it must have been.
That wasn’t it at all, though.
“Your problem is you want people to listen to you,” he spouted. “You’re an attention-seeking broad, and you’ll say anything to have people hear you!” Then he got a fit of the giggles. “OK then. Go ahead. We’ll indulge you. Tell us what happened from the beginning.”
I went over every detail: how I got in, how my boss wasn’t in the dining room like I thought he would be, how worried I was, how I went into his office and found him lying on the floor, how I went back to my bag to look for Borelli’s card and phone number, and how I’d called him up on his cell.
When I got to the bit about big Arnold arriving, he lifted his hand. “No! Stop! That’s enough for now. Everything you’ve given us is just fine. There’s no need to add any extra juicy bits. This is France, Maldonne! We’re not in the United States. There aren’t any FBI investigations going on around here. You know that the Federal Bureau of Investigation isn’t French, don’t you?
Of course I do.
He added, enjoying himself too much by this point, “You watch too much TV!”
I was so angry. He’d made me feel ashamed. I decided to just keep my trap shut. So you don’t want to listen to me? Fine! Well, don’t come asking me questions later then. Not my problem.
As he reached the office, he paused in the doorway and put his arm on the doorframe to stop me from getting inside.
“Come off it! Are you actually telling me I can’t go in? I know the score. I know it’s a crime scene. I’ve been here for half an hour already, all by my lonesome!”
“Ha! I thought you said someone had already been here? Ha!”
“I mean before Mr. Fed showed up! Don’t even try to be funny with me! And anyway, I had to go in and deal with him. The paramedics told me on the phone to try and resuscitate him in case he was still alive.”
I chose to blame the emergency services for what I’d done rather than tell him I’d been working on my own initiative.
He started yelling again. “Resuscitate him! So you’ve mucked everything up! You’ve traipsed about in here! You’ve touched the body! You’ve left your prints everywhere! You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Isn’t that right, Maldonne?”
“Hey! If I hadn’t told you about this, you’d never have known!”
He glared at me out of the corner of his eye and reached for his phone.
“Hi there, yes! Russo? Yes, I’m here now. Sorry, the witness has had her paws on everything.” He turned to me. “How was he when you arrived?”
“He was facedown. Actually, I think you’ve been pretty rude to me, so I won’t be telling you anything you need to know now.”
“Stop with the bull, Maldonne. You’ll tell me everything you know, or I’ll lock you up for withholding information.”
Proudly, I held up my cell phone. “I took photos of the body before I flipped it over. I can send them to you by text if you like.”
I could tell by his face that he was pretty pleased with this, maybe even a little proud of me.
“That was a great reflex, Maldonne. OK, send them to me.”
As I set about forwarding him the photos, he continued his telephone conversation. “Great news. The witness took photos of everything before she moved the body. Yes, I know. They’re pretty useless in a court of law, but this witness is OK. I trust her. I know her.” He sniffed and added, “A ton of whiskey it looks like to me . . . and a cigar. Maybe he lost consciousness because of the booze and then his heart gave out? No, I don’t think so. The paramedics are heading over here now. I’m expecting someone from the lab to show up and the photographer too. But they’re coming from Nice, so it could take a while. But I’m here. No, I can wait.”
He hung up, slipped the phone back into his pocket, then gave me a hand signal which I took to mean “Don’t move.” He didn’t want me, or the three guys waiting behind me, t
o go into the office. He stepped toward the body, got down on his knees, put on a pair of latex gloves, and did more or less what the Incredible Hulk had done earlier. He patted down the whole body, but he was gentler and took his time more than the last guy.
Part of me felt somewhat ashamed that I was holding back clues. Only part of me, though. Hmm, ashamed! Yeah right! Some of the evidence might have been really important. The notebook, the needle. Of course they were important . . . but I was going to take a little time to think things over before I fessed up. I could always take them down to the station later.
He craned his neck to turn and speak to me. “Did you roll up his sleeve?”
“No! It wasn’t me! You’ve got the photos on your phone!”
“Was he left- or right-handed?”
I answered him straight away. No need to even think about it. “He was left-handed.”
“And how do you know?”
“I had lunch with him yesterday.”
Borelli didn’t let me in on his thoughts. But I could see what he was getting at. If his left sleeve was rolled up, it meant he had to have injected himself with his right hand. That would be difficult for a left-handed person to do, sure enough.
But Borelli couldn’t have been thinking along those lines, because he didn’t know anything about injections, did he? He didn’t know there’d been a needle. But if he had known about it, Borelli would have guessed that a third party had been involved. I knew, though! I knew there must have been some kind of setup. Or Max had used his right hand to get his fix. No way, though. If Max had done it himself, his right sleeve would be rolled up.
Who’d rolled up the sleeve? This was getting confusing. I could see a grimace cross Borelli’s face. He stood up again and roamed the room. His eyes, beady just like a fox’s, were taking in everything: the paintings on the walls, the knocked-over glass of whiskey, the computer, the desk.
He pulled out a big white bag (where in the hell had he had that hidden?) and started searching through the desk drawers. He got out a few files, checkbooks, the wooden box of money, and the medical stuff (or druggie stuff) and threw it all into the bag. He also felt behind all the cushions, removed a few books from the shelves (at random, I think), and shook them to see if anything fell out. Nothing did.
