Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

“Hey, congratulations on rounding up those jewel thieves. Great work. I’m happy I could help you on this matter.”

  “You did help, believe me. It’s a huge relief. Thanks again.”

  “No problem. Anytime.”

  So Sylvie had decided to get treatment. Good. It was the only way she could come back and be a good mother to Dimitri. As Nico took in the news, he heard a knock at the door. Jean-Marie Rost walked in, with a file under his arm.

  “I have the preliminary report.”

  This was a key document in the investigation. It was prepared for the chief prosecutor, who would review the facts, establish a timeline, and draw conclusions. Nico skimmed through the pages, which he had already read and annotated.

  “The die is cast,” he said.

  “The prosecutor will have to act on this,” Rost said. “There are too many unanswered questions.”

  Half an hour later, Nico presented the report to his boss. Nicole Monthalet asked a number of pertinent questions and finally admitted that Bruno Guedj’s suicide reeked of a setup.

  Together, they went to the fourth floor, where there was a private door, used primarily by Monthalet and guarded by the division. It was an ordinary-looking door at the end of a hallway, and it led directly to the offices of the chief prosecutor. It was one of the secrets of the monolithic Palais de Justice and its two hundred thousand square feet of government administrative space.

  The police commissioner knocked twice and then opened the door. She was greeted with the respect due her, given the position she held, and the prosecutor saw her immediately.

  “A real case for the textbooks,” he said. “Which side do you come down on, Commissioner? Suicide or murder?”

  “I share the division’s opinion. This is a murder.”

  “Tell me about it,” the public prosecutor said as he started reading the file.

  Nicole Monthalet explained the case, and Nico had little to add.

  “The use of that cell phone with the burner SIM to harass Guedj is enough to call for an investigation,” the prosecutor said. “Add to that the encounter with the stranger at the pharmacy and the fact that the victim supposedly pulled the trigger with his right hand, which makes no sense because he was left-handed. And then there’s the message in the tooth. I think we can call this a homicide.”

  “That is our conclusion in the preliminary report,” Monthalet said.

  “We’ll go ahead and open the investigation,” the public prosecutor said. “I’ll give it to Magistrate Becker. Any objections? Nico, I believe you and Becker make a good team.”

  Indeed, Nico and Becker had worked together. Nico hadn’t cared for the man when he first met him. He seemed arrogant. But the two had gone after a serial killer together, and Nico had gotten to know the investigating magistrate much better. In fact, they had become close friends. Magistrate Becker would soon have full control of the investigation, much to Nico’s liking. He couldn’t wait to unravel it.

  Nico walked across the Place Dauphine, nicknamed “the golden triangle” because of its geometry. André Breton, a founder of Surrealism, had likened the Place Dauphine to a female pubis. Nico preferred to think of it as the main haunt of detective Jules Maigret, the well-known fictional character created by Georges Simenon.

  Curiously, despite the millions of visitors who came to the Île de la Cité to see the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Conciergerie, and the Palais de Justice, the Place Dauphine was spared much of the tourist traffic. Weather permitting, people played pétanque under the chestnut trees. Others walked their dogs, and lovers kissed on the benches, the very same benches Simone Signoret and Yves Montand had sat on decades earlier. The married actress and actor had lived in an apartment in one of the old townhouses lining the square. On this day, however, it was cold, and the square was deserted, with the exception of a few bundled-up regulars leaving nearby restaurants. Maigret had loved the blanquette de veau served at the Brasserie Dauphine. Simenon had based restaurants in his books on those in the neighborhood, including the tiny Taverne Henri-IV in the middle of the Pont Neuf. Nico had a late lunch date there.

  He opened the door and asked for the table bearing the copper “Maigret” plaque. It was just the right spot. Maigret—the fictional head of his division, the Brigade Criminelle—had enjoyed his food and drink. And this restaurant, with its charcuterie, snails, tripe, and cheeses aged in the cellar on site, offered simple and satisfying cuisine.

  A voice came out of nowhere. “Daydreaming, are you?” Magistrate Becker stood in front of him, a half smile on his face.

  “Greetings, my friend,” Nico said.

  “Sorry I’m late. I finished reading the preliminary report. Now I understand why you’ve invited me to dine at Maigret’s table. Maybe his spirit will help us. We’ll need some intuition and insight to solve this one.”

  “What may I serve you, sirs?” a young man in a black apron asked.

  “Two cheese and charcuterie plates, and, um, what’s on the board,” Nico said.

  That day’s wine recommendation was written on the blackboard in question-and-answer form. “What’s the boss drinking this week? Château Ramage La Bâtisse, Haut Médoc, 2006.”

  The dining room was emptying, and soon they would be alone. Then they would be joined by those who came in after two to have a cup of coffee or nip of brandy.

  “How is your wife?”

  “As well as she was two weeks ago, when we all had dinner together,” Alexandre Becker answered. “And since we’re friends, I can tell you that Stephanie still kisses like she did when she was twenty. Isn’t life beautiful?”

  “You’ve got sex on the brain, Becker.”

  “Really, and you don’t? Have you convinced Caroline to move in with you?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “It’ll happen. Don’t worry. By the way, have you heard anything from Sylvie?”

  “She’s hiding in a spa near Royan.”

  Becker looked him in the eye. “Have you told your son?”

  “Not yet. I want to call her first.”

  “You’re right. Test the waters before diving in. The current might pull you under.”

  Nico nodded at the comparison. The server brought their plates and glasses of red wine, and the two men dug into their gourmet picnic.

  Still chewing, Becker got down to business. “So, Bruno Guedj didn’t kill himself. QED. Next step: find out who was harassing him, who killed him, and why.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Nico said, swallowing a mouthful of Bordeaux.

  “Any ideas?”

  “You’re leading the investigation now.”

  “What about starting with a search warrant for the victim’s home and workplace?”

  “You read my thoughts.”

  “We’ll need to put together Guedj’s schedule from September to the date of his alleged murder.”

  “I think we can tighten the time frame,” Nico said. On September 5, Guedj had a romantic dinner with his wife, and all was well. Then, on September 23, he got the first anonymous phone call on his cell phone. His wife dates his behavior change between the nineteenth and the twenty-sixth. So something happened between the sixth and the twenty-third.”

  “Good thinking. What about that Denis Roy, the guy buying the pharmacy? Do you think that was motive enough?”

  “We’ll have to look into it. We don’t want to neglect any lead.”

  “But you wouldn’t bet on it?”

  “Not a kopeck.”

  “I think you mean not a cent.”

  “A kopeck is good.”

  “You’re going to end up emigrating, you know.”

  “I just want to see the country.”

  “You do know that they invented this thing called an airplane, don’t you? Other than the search warrants, what do you suggest?”

  “Questioning the neighbors, as usual, to see if anyone noticed or heard something unusual on Friday, November 20, the day Guedj died. We could show the composite imag
e of the fellow who showed up at the pharmacy. You never know.”

  “Could a gunshot from a Unique semiautomatic go unnoticed?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What do you think of the dentist and the notary?”

  “I think we’ve gotten what we can from them,” Nico said.

  “That message in the tooth is odd. You need quite an imagination to think of doing something like that.”

  “Or you need to feel cornered to the point of giving your body to science and praying that a doctor will find it.”

  “It’s completely crazy!”

  “And Guedj gave his body to his alma mater, betting on the expertise of the faculty there,” Nico said.

  “This is the stuff horror movies are made of. He actually wrote the message, ‘I was murdered.’”

  “The man must have been terrified. Truly terrified.”

  Becker savored his last piece of cheese and ordered coffee.

  “I’ll get the warrants to you right away. Plan to search the two places at five this afternoon, if you can.”

  Nico and Kriven’s squad arrived at the Guedj home. Detectives armed with the composite image began knocking on doors.

  Nico found himself facing Mrs. Guedj, who was clearly exhausted. He presented her with the search warrant signed by the investigating magistrate. Her face crumbled.

  “We are looking for evidence that could clarify what happened to your husband,” Nico said.

  Mrs. Guedj stepped aside to let them enter. “Will you search everywhere?”

  Nico could see that she was shaken. To her, it had to seem like a violation. “We have to, ma’am. We’ll be respectful.” Nico was aware that most people had preconceived ideas about police searches. On television, the police spilled out drawers and tossed things all over the floor. In reality, that destroyed evidence and upset bystanders, neither of which real officers wanted to do.

  “Dad didn’t kill himself, did he?” the older son asked.

  His brother was in the background, and he looked angry. This once-sheltered boy, having lost his father, was getting his first taste of life’s injustice.

  “We have reason to believe that might be the case, but we don’t know for certain, which is why we are investigating.”

  “We want to know what happened,” the boy said.

  “We’re on the same side,” Nico responded.

  “Thank you for trying to find out what happened to Bruno,” Mrs. Guedj said, her voice sounding weak. “After all, you’re not obliged to.”

  “Daddy had no reason to shoot himself in the head,” the younger son cried out.

  “Romain,” his mother shouted, grabbing his arm. The boy calmed himself. There was an infinite sadness in his eyes.

  Nico gave his team the signal to begin. Plassard and Almeida would search the main rooms, while Kriven and Vidal would head to the office. Nico asked the family to wait in the living room before joining them in the office. The detectives put on gloves and explored the shelves, the drawers, the credenza, and the desk, looking for anything that could have served as a hiding place. Kriven turned on the computer and ferreted through the files. Vidal inspected the man’s papers, while Nico looked on.

  “Guedj must have kept a calendar,” the chief told Kriven and Vidal. “Let’s find it.”

  A voice rang out from the other end of the apartment. “Chief!” Nico left the office and headed to the couple’s bedroom. Plassard was holding up a notebook.

  A telephone number was on the last page. The number had three question marks behind it and was underlined. Nico grabbed his phone and punched in the number. It rang several times. Then a female voice announced in a monotone, “This number is not in service.”

  Nico called Bastien Gamby. “Check to see if Guedj called this number, would you?”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Nico dictated the number and ended the call. Then he returned to the office. Kriven was sitting in Guedj’s armchair, a leather-bound personal organizer open in his lap. He gave Nico a thumbs-up. Nico recognized the number, written across the columns corresponding with Tuesday, September 15, through Sunday, September 20.

  “Gamby’s already on it,” Nico said, just as his phone rang. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Guedj called it four times on Tuesday, September 15, and seven times between then and the following Sunday. That’s all.”

  “At what time did he make the first call?”

  “Four minutes past noon.”

  “Thanks, Bastien,” Nico said, ending the call. “Who did he think he was calling? Where did he get the number? I want to know everything he did between September 6, the day after his tête-à-tête with his wife, and four minutes past noon on September 15, when he started making those phone calls. Find out where he ate, who he saw, where he took a piss—every detail.”

  “We’re on it,” Kriven said.

  Nico left the room with the nagging feeling that they were missing something. In the living room, Mrs. Guedj was trying to soothe her younger son. His head was on her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Guedj, you said earlier that your husband refused to tell you what was bothering him. You also said that this worried you, and you agonized over the cause of his change in behavior.”

  “That’s correct. Where are you going with this?”

  “You said you had no logical explanation for the change. Those were your exact words. Now think carefully, Mrs. Guedj. If I asked you what absurd, illogical thing that could have happened before everything changed, what would you say?”

  14

  At first, she didn’t seem to understand the question. But then Nico saw that her pupils were dilated. She was thinking. Nico hoped she was digging through her memories, trying to uncover anything that could have provoked the bizarre chain of events. What could have convinced this man that he would be murdered? What made him so sure of it that he asked his dentist to hide the accusation in one of his teeth and arranged to have his body donated to science in the hope that someone would find that tiny piece of plastic? By all indications, he was a man who loved his family, a man who would not have abandoned them by committing suicide. And then there was the matter of the good-bye letter. It rang false. Even if he was depressed to the point of killing himself, Nico sensed that Guedj’s words would have been gentler.

  Nico read these thoughts in Mrs. Guedj’s face. Then he saw a wave of anger sweep over her, a tidal wave capable of destroying everything in its path. She swallowed, and Nico thought he heard a crash in the silence. Mrs. Guedj stood up, her fists clenched. She seized a lamp and tore at the wire. The younger boy hid his face in his hands. The woman hurled the lamp against the wall, and it shattered in an explosion of glass shards. Kriven bounded into the room, a hand on his holstered gun. Plassard was on his heels.

  “They killed Bruno,” she screamed. “That’s it, isn’t it? But why? Why?”

  “What did Bruno see? What happened to him?” Nico asked softly. No one moved. “Bruno came across something, didn’t he, Mrs. Guedj. What was it?”

  “Something crazy,” she said.

  “Something insignificant for you or me. Not necessarily ordinary, but insignificant. Something that became catastrophic for your husband.”

  The woman began to shake. “Bruno ran into an old acquaintance. It was stupid.”

  “Go on.”

  “A friend from school. They hadn’t seen each other since then. Bruno seemed…well, surprised. And that friend gave him a fake phone number.”

  “Did he mention the man again?”

  “No, not really. When I asked, Bruno said a lot of water had flowed under the bridge in twenty years, and if this man wasn’t interested in renewing their friendship, that was his choice.”

  “So it didn’t seem to trouble him that much?”

  “I took him at his word. But then again, he did seem preoccupied. I figured that if his feelings were hurt a bit, he’d get over it.”

  “And was that the case?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t have any idea. I didn’t bring it up again. Maybe I should have.”

  “It seems clear that your husband didn’t want to mention it either, with all that water under the bridge, as he put it.”

  She looked down, the tension draining out of her.

  “When did the encounter occur?” Nico asked.

  She shook her head, unable to recall.

  “Try to remember some point of reference. Was it a weekend, when the boys didn’t have school? A weekday?”

  Mrs. Guedj massaged her temples. Kriven and Plassard looked on wordlessly.

  “It was a morning, sometime in mid-September. Romain was in school. Bruno had just come home from Vigot-Maloine.”

  “Is that the medical bookstore at the Odéon intersection?”

  “That’s right. On the Rue de l’École-de-Médecine. It’s also a publishing house. Bruno was working on a book on drug compounding.”

  “Is that where he could have run into his old college friend?”

  “It’s possible. In any case, it was that morning.”

  “Did he have an appointment there?”

  “Yes, with his editor. And Bruno loved to wander the aisles of the bookstore. The store was part of his life. Even when he was a student, he spent endless hours there. He had dreamed about being published by Vigot-Maloine.”

  “What time was his appointment?”

  “Ten, I think.”

  “Your husband had the initials F.B. jotted down on his calendar, at ten on the fifteenth. Is that someone you know?” Kriven asked.

  “François Brun is his editor.”

  “Bruno called the same number eleven times between the fifteenth and the twentieth,” Nico said. “The number was not in service. That fits.”

  Mrs. Guedj and her sons looked at him, as if waiting for more.

  “He called the first time on Tuesday at four past twelve.”

  “He came home for lunch that day, before returning to the pharmacy. He must have called before then.”

  “Okay. Do you have any idea who this old college friend was?”

  “A med school student, I think.”

  “Did he mention a first name?”

  “No. I admit it’s strange. I expected him to tell me who it was, but he didn’t. And I didn’t press. It seemed that he wanted me to believe there wasn’t anything to it.”