Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

  Nico had a somewhat cynical view of notaries. In his eyes, the notary was a relatively clever human capable of adapting to historical upheavals and finally becoming an indispensable administrative cog in everyone’s life, from marriage to death. In biology, that kind of living organism was called a parasite, because it fed, found shelter, and reproduced by establishing a lasting relationship with its host. But Nico had to give credit where it was due. There were some beneficial parasites that didn’t necessarily damage the host—or, in this case, the client.

  Nico had come across more than a few notaries in his life. They were all conscious of their image. They tried to give the impression that their clients’ interests were even more important than their own. To do this, they used the most refined language, dressed conservatively, and acted like grade-school teachers. But put a few drinks in them, and they let their hair down. In the end, they were like everyone else, prisoners of their role. Wasn’t that the case with the majority of jobs? Indeed, there was something fundamentally easy to caricature about notaries, which made Nico actually like them, despite his reservations.

  Maître Belin didn’t disappoint. Dressed to the nines and seated behind an antique oak and mahogany desk, he looked down on them. The chairs occupied by Nico and David Kriven were slightly lower than the notary’s armchair. It was an old intimidation tactic. Rugs covered the hardwood floor, and an imposing bookshelf was filled with law manuals.

  “I can confirm that Mr. Guedj wanted to see me to make sure that his affairs were in order.”

  “Did he do this often?” Nico asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “What were his objectives?”

  “To make certain that his family was protected in the case of some lapse on his part.”

  “By lapse, would you mean death?” Nico asked, not without a touch of sarcasm.

  “That is correct. Mr. Guedj mentioned a friend who had died suddenly, leaving his family in an uncomfortable situation. He said that it had shocked him, and he would not have the same happen to his wife and children.”

  “When did this appointment occur?” Kriven interrupted.

  “On Monday, October 19.”

  “What, exactly, did you talk about?”

  “His life insurance. Mr. Guedj wanted to go over his coverage with me, as he feared that his policy would be null and void were he to commit suicide.”

  “And was that the case?”

  “That particular restriction applied only during the first year of the policy. So he was covered in the case of suicide.”

  “How did he react to this news?” Nico asked.

  “He seemed relieved.”

  “Didn’t that surprise you?”

  “Mr. Guedj did not seem to be a man who would take his own life, although he did seem to be more anxious than usual. In any case, the information was protected by notary-client privilege, and Mr. Guedj was sure to remind me of that.”

  “What else did he ask you to do?” Kriven asked.

  The notary nodded, looking uncomfortable. “We also discussed his other insurance policies.”

  “And what were they for?” Kriven asked. Nico saw that Kriven was becoming annoyed, probably because getting straight information from the man was like pulling teeth.

  “Those covering the mortgage on the pharmacy and the loan on his apartment on the Rue Roger Verlomme. There, too, suicide was covered.”

  “So, to sum up, Guedj’s loans would all be covered if he were to commit suicide,” Nico said. “In addition, he made sure his heirs would have money to cover their needs, thanks largely to the sale of the pharmacy.”

  “It does not qualify as a fortune, but Mrs. Guedj has no worries for the future, and her sons’ educations will be paid for.”

  “Did you not find all of this somewhat curious?” Nico said, trying to imitate the notary’s formality.

  Maître Belin looked away.

  Nico went on. “I venture to ask: are these not the actions of a man who is trying to put his affairs in order before committing the unthinkable?”

  “I cannot answer that question,” the notary said. He was becoming testy. “I repeat, Mr. Guedj seemed to hold his life dear. He appeared to love his wife and two sons deeply and not to have any desire to abandon them. Evidently, the events have proved me wrong.”

  “Have you told his widow about your meeting with him?” Kriven asked.

  “No, it was privileged, as I said, except in your case. In addition, I had given my word.”

  “To Bruno Guedj?”

  “He demanded it.”

  “And is that because he shared his concerns with you?”

  Sweat beads appeared on Maître Belin’s forehead. He took a breath and composed himself. “Of course I was worried. But Mr. Guedj was quick to quiet my concerns, reiterating his desire to see his sons become men, play with his grandchildren, and grow old with his wife. He added that there were no guarantees that he would be able to do those things. He could fall victim to some bad luck. Something unfortunate could happen to him. So he wanted to make provisions for his family. His declaration sounded like an epitaph, I admit. But I took him at his word.”

  “Which you asked for, in the same way he did,” Nico said, not expecting an answer.

  The notary stared at him. Touché.

  Then Maître Belin’s voice thickened with emotion. “Why did you come here to discuss all this?”

  “He talked about some bad luck or something unfortunate happening, right? Were those his exact words?”

  “That’s what he said. I remember it perfectly.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Maître Belin.”

  Nico and Kriven stood up to leave.

  “I remain at your disposal. Am I to deduce from your visit that you are looking into the possibility that Mr. Guedj did not commit suicide?”

  “I expect you to keep that among us.”

  “Is it possible that you have discovered something?”

  “It is possible that he did not commit suicide, Maître.”

  “Please keep me informed. His death was a shock to me, as you can imagine, and I would be relieved to know that it was not a suicide. I would feel that I helped to protect his family, instead of holding the weapon that killed him.”

  “In any case, you were not the one holding the weapon. If Bruno Guedj did kill himself, you bear no responsibility.”

  “Thank you,” Belin said.

  They left the quiet office and dived back into the hubbub of the streets.

  “Damn it, boss,” Kriven let out as they walked to the car. “Did you learn to talk like that at Science-Po? If we’d been there any longer, you would have been calling him as ‘my good man.’”

  “Traditions, David. Traditions. French cultural expectations, good taste, and all that.”

  “Is that what you call it? I’d say mothballs. Paris pollution never smelled so good.”

  Just as they were getting into the car, Kriven’s cell phone rang. It was his second-in-command, Captain Plassard. Kriven pressed the speakerphone button so Nico could hear.

  “Vidal and I are just leaving Maxime Robert’s place,” Plassard said.

  Church bells, those belonging to Sainte Élisabeth on the Rue du Temple, could be heard in the background.

  “His friends call him Max. A jolly fellow, fiftyish, graying hair. But at the mention of Guedj, Coco the Clown turned pale. He immediately made time in his schedule and gave us half an hour. He seemed sincerely demoralized and glad to see us. He had lost all hope.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guedj had scared the daylights out of him. But he had promised Guedj that he wouldn’t tell anyone about his visit to the office at the end of October. Guedj had even said that their families’ lives would be in danger if he opened his trap. Dr. Robert admitted that he had been having a hard time sleeping since his friend’s death. He was praying that the cops would show up, because Guedj had said that only then could he spill the beans.”
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  “What beans?”

  “Guedj asked him to drill a hole in a healthy tooth, put a piece of plastic inside it, and cover it with a gross, ugly filling. There was nothing temporary about it. Guedj wanted to attract attention once he died.”

  “And Dr. Robert agreed to do this?”

  “Yes, he went along with it.”

  “Did he read the message before putting it in the tooth?”

  “Guedj categorically refused to let him, saying the dentist’s safety was at stake.”

  “What drama! You said they were friends?”

  “Their families didn’t know each other, but the two of them went out for drinks on occasion. They had met for drinks in July, and Guedj was fine. When Max saw him at the office at the end of October, he was a changed man—extremely nervous, almost tormented. When Dr. Robert didn’t hear from Guedj again, he called two or three times to check on him. Guedj never answered. Then he found out that Guedj was dead.”

  “And the dentist seemed to take his concerns seriously?”

  “He had been hoping that Guedj was just going through a bad spell and perhaps imagining things. But our visit today seemed to confirm that there was good reason to be afraid.”

  “Why was that?”

  “It proved that Guedj wasn’t just being paranoid,” Plassard said. “I had the distinct impression that Max was going to send his wife and kids out of town to stay with an old aunt with a house deep in the woods.”

  “I’ll talk it over with the chief, but I don’t see anything that would justify placing these folks under police protection,” Kriven said. “Just in case, find out where the old aunt lives. Maybe we’ll send word to the local police.”

  “Consider it done. Hugs.”

  “Yeah, right, I’ll give you hugs you’ll never forget.”

  Kriven ended the call, and Nico and he didn’t say anything. Nico finally broke the silence.

  “Two weeks ago—a simple suicide. Today—a mystery that’s becoming more complex by the minute.”

  The day had been intense. Nico was multitasking, reviewing the various cases his detectives were investigating and going over terrorist threats related to the holidays. He would have to arrange for appropriate defensive measures. Although the lion’s share of his job involved investigating and solving homicides, Nico handled the gamut of major crimes, from missing persons and kidnappings to those terrorist threats. Meanwhile, Kriven and his team were focused on Bruno Guedj. Seventeen days had passed since his faux suicide, which was a seventeen-day advantage for the culprits. Enough time for them to think they were safe, but not enough for them to escape the division’s top sleuths. Nico felt sure of that.

  He looked from Rost to Kriven, who were sitting in front of him. They had made progress, positively identifying the firearm and the ammunition that caused Guedj’s death. The ballistics report had come in from the police forensics lab. Would it support Nico’s suspicions or not?

  “David requisitioned the gun, which had not been destroyed,” Rost began.

  “The serial number didn’t give us crap,” Kriven said, sounding irritated. “The weapon is not on state records. It doesn’t exist.”

  “The DES 69 is one of the best competition handguns, still used, even if it is no longer being produced,” Rost said. “Shooting clubs have tons of them. Gun laws have changed since the nineteen seventies, but that kind of firearm could be handed down in a family without anyone realizing that it needed to be registered. It’s in high demand on the black market.”

  “Forensics looked for fingerprints and trace evidence. They took it all apart. Nada.”

  “Bad luck, but foreseeable,” Nico said.

  Kriven went on. “As for the .22-caliber long-rifle bullet pulled from the skull, it’s standard. It’s a widespread and frequently used bullet. The lab guys shot the DES 69 and compared the bullet they used with the bullet found in Guedj’s skull. The trace marks are identical. So they concluded that the gun was the one used to kill Guedj. Then they checked the database, hoping the gun had been used before, but again, nada.”

  Kriven was referring to the firearms database managed by the National Forensics Institute in Lyon.

  “In any case, you can find .22-caliber long-rifle bullets everywhere—in any gun shop and online,” Rost said.

  “Mrs. Guedj insisted that her husband had never owned a gun,” Nico reminded them. “Getting back to the question Claire asked, would he have been able to get one on the black market?”

  “He really wasn’t the kind of man who was used to black-market dealings,” Rost said.

  “No, he wasn’t. It would have been much easier to take a bottle of pills, which he could just pull off a shelf.”

  “How ironic: a pharmacist with access to any number of potentially lethal drugs shooting himself in the head,” Kriven said.

  Nico went back to his questions. “And what about the theory that Guedj cracked his teeth biting down on the weapon?”

  “There are, in effect, traces on the barrel,” Rost confirmed. “Professor Vilars took imprints of the victim’s teeth, and Plassard got his dental records from Dr. Robert. With all of that, the lab came up with a computer-generated three-dimensional bite print and simulated the teeth chomping down on the gun, and everything fits.”

  “Good work. That said, Guedj could have bitten down in either scenario—if he was killing himself or if someone was about to murder him.” Nico reached for the phone. His secretary was calling to announce that Helen Vasnier and Bastien Gamby were there to see him. He almost sent them away before turning back to Rost and Kriven. “The antiterrorists are here to see me. Does this have anything to do with you?”

  “You gave me the idea,” Rost said.

  “Send them in. Thank you.”

  Helen Vasnier led the antiterrorist investigation and training squad, and Bastien Gamby was her computer specialist. Both were top-notch agents who worked on a variety of investigations under Nico’s orders.

  Vasnier was fiftyish and looked like a professional from an old spy movie: severe bun, houndstooth jacket, and plain leather pumps. A short pearl necklace polished off the image. She was a timeless mother figure to everyone in the division, her skills deserving of their blind trust.

  Bastien was an altogether different sort. With tousled hair and coloring as pale as a sheet, he lived in a parallel world—the world of the Internet. Dimitri would have called him a “no life.” Bastien was capable of surfing the web for hours, even days, fueling up on nothing but chips and soda. With his eyes cemented to the screen and his agile fingers typing away, he weaved his way through networks of bastards and cybercriminals: identity thieves, forgers, con artists, stalkers, sexual deviants, and terrorists. He talked to his computer, as though it were his best friend.

  “Deputy Chief Rost had us do a little something for you,” Helen Vasnier said. “He asked us to identify a number found on Bruno Guedj’s cell phone. If I understand correctly, Guedj was getting harassing phone calls before his death. The number you’re interested in, which was used to contact Guedj between September 23 and November 16, appears to be suspicious. According to our research, it was used to call Guedj and no one else and has not been used since. In addition, the calls all came from relay antennas inside the city.”

  This was a significant piece of information. “Mrs. Guedj said her husband started acting depressed before that, in mid-September,” Nico said. “How many calls were made from that number?”

  “Seventy-eight calls in about eight weeks, which would mean that he was getting nearly ten calls a week,” Vasnier answered.

  “That would be enough to spook anyone,” Kriven said.

  “Digital technology and mobile phones are a gold mine for police surveillance, but the bad guys are having a great time with them too,” Vasnier said. “Bastien?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Tell us about the number.”

  “It’s a burner phone, not the throwaway kind, but one with a prepaid SIM card. The
authorities may be fighting anonymity, but they are not there yet. In France, you’re supposed to have some ID to get a prepaid SIM card, but in Barbès you can get one pretty easily on the street. The store owners don’t always ask for identification. Even the places that are stricter can be taken in by a forged ID. That’s what happened here. It led to a fake name and address.”

  “Damn it,” Nico let out.

  13

  Two days later, Nico received a call on his cell phone. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, worried that it was bad news. It was the precinct chief in the seventeenth arrondissement.

  “I know where your ex-wife is,” the man said.

  Nico’s shoulders relaxed. Sylvie was still alive. “Where?”

  “At a seaside resort in Charente-Maritime.”

  “A seaside resort?”

  “It’s a resort with a treatment center for people with anxiety and depression. They help clients get off their meds, minimize their symptoms, sleep better, and so on. It’s legit. Shrinks run the place. Your ex-wife is staying in a three-star residence on the grounds.”

  Sylvie had an aunt who lived in Royan, on the Atlantic seaboard.

  “The center is in Saujon,” the man continued.

  That was in Val-du-Seudre, about fifteen minutes from Royan and fifteen miles from the Paris-Bordeaux highway.

  “I can contact our guys there to double-check and even get her records, unless you prefer to handle that personally.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Nico said.

  “I’ll send you the information by e-mail.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know your plate is full at the division, with the holidays and all. It must be crazy there.”

  “The season’s usual terrorist high alert.”