Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “May I ask you a few questions?” inquired the priest.

  “Of course.”

  “What are the names of the police officers you encountered?”

  “The first person I met was Captain Nadia Barka—at the police station and, the night of the second murder, in the Quartier Saint-Laurent. The one who interrogated me today is Captain Rivera. Captain Barka was very understanding, but I was relieved when Sophie’s mother saved me from the clutches of Captain Rivera.”

  “Ah, so you’ve met Madeleine Dupas. It would be difficult to find better hands to be in.”

  Julien Lombard looked questioningly at the priest. “What do you think of my story?”

  Bernard de Valjoney took his time before answering. “As a priest, I’ve met a number of the faithful, and not-so-faithful, who have come to me with all sorts of stories, from the most trivial to the most complex, even unbelievable. Yours is clearly one of the strangest I’ve ever heard.”

  “So you don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Did I say that in the slightest? Let me finish. You can’t deny that your story goes beyond conventional understanding. But it’s coherent and in line with what I know of this case. I myself met with Captain Barka. Besides, if Sophie sent you to me, it’s because she thought you told her the truth.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “Yes, as strange as your visions may be, I believe you are telling me truthfully what you experienced. Furthermore, the facts speak for themselves.”

  “How do you explain these visions? Who’s sending them to me? Why me?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So you can’t do anything for me? What if the killer is getting ready to strike again?”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything for you. The Church, you see, is very cautious about everything that involves . . . how shall I put this . . . communication with the spirit world. Its precepts are clear—man’s salvation is through Christ and the Gospels, and there is no need to talk to spirits in order to get answers.”

  “I get that, but Bernadette Soubirous had visions of the Virgin at Lourdes, and the Church recognized that as fact.”

  Father de Valjoney smiled. “Naturally, but one must exercise judgment, a lot of judgment. One name for the devil is Lucifer, the light bringer. If from time to time God manifests his divine power in men in order to edify them, how many men have run to their doom by delving, more or less consciously, into occultism?”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “First of all, it’s terrifying. In fact, it was especially terrifying the second time, when I realized that Camille Saint-Forge might die. Even worse when I saw her get killed. At the time, I didn’t understand why someone was inflicting that on me. But then, once the fear passed, I thought back on the facts, on what I saw, and I tried to make sense of it all.”

  “And what were your conclusions?”

  “I think that someone, or something, I don’t know, is trying to warn us . . . that I’m just a channel. The police almost arrested the killer at Saint-Laurent, if I rightly understood what Rivera told me. Besides, when I was . . . how do I say this . . . at the scene of Camille’s crime, I felt a presence near me.”

  “What type of presence?”

  “A reassuring one, one that encouraged me to move forward. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the reason I made it down the hallway to the room where the murderer was sacrificing his victim was because I felt protected.”

  “And why do you think you were a witness to this murder?”

  “That’s what I’ve wondered. Thanks to the vision at the Saint-Laurent museum, I was able to tip off the police about the place where the body would be dumped. I also clearly recognized Camille Saint-Forge’s face, which could have helped find her. When she was murdered, I couldn’t do anything, but I saw . . . the murderer’s face.”

  “You didn’t tell me that just now.”

  “First I wanted to know if you would believe me. Sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Did you tell the police?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t appear to me quite clearly enough for me to describe it to them accurately.”

  “Let’s go back to your dream. So you’re telling me that someone, whoever it may be, is using you to inform us about the killer’s intentions.”

  “Yes. And the sense of security that I felt makes me think that it’s—I don’t know—a good spirit.”

  “Perhaps, but don’t be fooled by it. To be effective, the devil must be seductive.”

  “So what do you think of this whole thing, Father? Can you help me?”

  The priest didn’t answer right away. He was deep in thought. Julien respected his meditation.

  “Personally, I won’t be able to give you much help. But I’m going to seek guidance from a few people. Leave me your contact information, and I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. What do you plan to do?”

  “It’s too soon to tell. But tomorrow, before noon, you’ll hear from me.”

  Chapter 32: Four Seasons Pizza

  Étienne Fortin had parked in the Grenoble museum lot. Finding a spot around there, at that time in the evening, required a sharp eye, catlike reflexes, and lots of luck.

  He’d walked along the Isère in the direction of Nadia’s apartment. Those few minutes of walking had done him good and changed his mind. The day had been hard, and Rivera’s presence hadn’t made it any easier. They had to find something to feed the press and the minister’s need for rapid results, which set the whole investigation team’s teeth on edge.

  He’d stopped to buy two pizzas before going up. He was hungry and knew that Nadia had a weakness for Four Seasons pizza. He was one of the rare colleagues who had been to her apartment. She was very secretive about her private life, but the long hours they’d spent together on stakeouts had fostered a little closeness. In truth, he’d confided more than Nadia. All he’d managed to find out from her was that she didn’t have a man in her life.

  Étienne pushed open the door to Nadia’s building, which was sandwiched in between two Italian restaurants. Because the common areas in the building had no windows, they were completely dark. He flipped the switch, revealing a stairwell that had seen better days. He climbed three flights before arriving in front of his colleague’s door. He rang twice. No one answered. He waited thirty seconds, then pushed the button again. He thought he heard a muffled sound inside. He decided to call out. “Nadia, it’s Étienne!” Nothing moved. “Nadia, it’s Étienne! I have two pizzas, and one’s a Four Seasons with oregano.”

  He waited. Suddenly, he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened slowly, and a tired voice said, “Come in.”

  Étienne entered the shadowy room. Heavy curtains were pulled across the open windows. He looked at his colleague. He’d known her for seven years, but he’d never seen her in this condition. Her face was streaked with tears, and she wasn’t trying to hide her distress. She closed the door, took the pizza boxes from him, and carried them into the kitchen. She was wearing only a rumpled sleeveless T-shirt and denim short shorts that she’d thrown on just before coming to the door. She slowly came back out of the kitchen and gestured toward the sofa.

  “Sit down.”

  He obeyed.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a tone he found surprisingly curt.

  He decided not to take offense. She hadn’t asked him for anything, and he was disturbing her solitude. But he didn’t regret being there, no matter what the outcome was.

  “How are you?” Étienne asked.

  She spread her hands evasively. “What do you think?”

  “Not looking good . . . but maybe after a Four Seasons? They should still be warm.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll go get them.
”

  Nadia came back from the kitchen with the two pizzas and a bottle of chili oil (one of the rare culinary preparations she still took time to do herself), put them on her living room coffee table, and waited.

  “I asked him to slice them for us,” Étienne told her.

  “Okay. I think I’m hungry.”

  They ate in silence. Étienne would have liked a lively discussion, but he recognized his colleague wasn’t ready to talk yet. They didn’t leave a single crumb in the boxes. Nadia looked at him, then seemed to reconnect to the world around her. “I was hungry.”

  She finally came out of her stupor. “I didn’t offer you anything to drink. I’m going to see what’s left in my fridge.”

  She reappeared with a bottle of Coke, a bottle of water, and a six-pack of cold beer.

  “I’ll have a glass of water and a beer, please.”

  She left the bottle and the six-pack on the table, put the soda back in the fridge, then returned with two glasses, which she placed in front of them. Étienne decided to initiate the discussion.

  “Was it the Four Seasons that got you to open up for me?”

  She gave a weary, enigmatic smile. “Maybe. I didn’t feel like seeing anybody. I imagine your culinary argument was worth all the sermons in the world.”

  “We’re worried about you.”

  “Who cares about me?”

  “Rodolphe, Jérôme, Marie, and lots of others. And me!”

  “That’s nice of you. It’s true I’m having a hard time right now, but it’ll pass. It’s always passed,” she added, almost imperceptibly lowering her head.

  When Étienne saw her so demoralized, he felt his heart break. Captain Nadia Barka, always at the heart of the action, always the first to comfort a colleague who needed it, an officer who was relied on by her higher-ups and her colleagues, now needed his help. He remembered her unfailing support during the Barciglia case. He had to say something, even if she sent him packing.

  “Nadia, we’re all disappointed not to have you in charge of this case anymore.”

  “It’s not that, Étienne,” she cut him off. “Far from that! Let’s just say it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  He fell silent, guessing she needed to talk, to purge everything that had been spinning around in her head for two days.

  “My life is pathetic. And only at thirty-six years old do I finally have the courage to realize it. What have I gained by putting more than fifteen years of service into law enforcement? Look at the state I’m in! My head in a muddle, nightmares one right after the other almost continuously, the jealousy of half my colleagues, the hatred of a chunk of the population, two bullets in my skin and a knife wound, and, especially, a disastrous personal life. No one to talk with about little everyday things in the evening, no one to reassure me when things aren’t going well, no one to ask how they are when I come home! That, Étienne, is what I’ve come to . . . And when you finally open your eyes, and you let all the walls you built to protect yourself fall, it hurts—a lot.”

  Étienne didn’t reply. Nadia’s words had just made him think about himself. Was his life really any more enviable? No doubt, because he wasn’t living his colleague’s nightmares, but the loneliness she spoke of frightened him. He wasn’t seeing the years pass as quickly as the young woman was, telling himself that he’d always have time to start a family. But his private life was as hopeless as his friend’s. Because he was pretty handsome, he’d always managed to go out on dates now and again. But he was starting to wonder when he’d find someone to build a life with.

  They looked at each other silently, immersed in their gloomy thoughts. Nadia was sitting on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her. Étienne had a sudden flash of insight: what if the person he was waiting for was right in front of him? No, that was absurd. First of all, never date someone from the office. And then, why Nadia? He’d always had a weakness for her, but it was an imaginary world, a sweet dream. He’d never imagined trying something serious. Or maybe he’d never dared imagine it?

  He looked at her large dark eyes, framed by a squarish cut of black hair. A mouth that could threaten as easily as it could enchant. Her exhausted face exposed a fragility that touched him. As for her body, it was perfect, sculpted by constant workouts, but that wasn’t what Étienne was looking at. He felt himself gently carried away by a wave that took him far from the shore of reality.

  “You okay, Étienne?”

  He was startled by Nadia’s eyes examining him. The darkness in the room hid his confusion, but even so, he must not have been very discreet. “Yes, just fine, thanks. What about you, how’s your wound?” he said, seeing the bandage visible underneath the young woman’s T-shirt.

  “I have to redo my dressing. I was just about to start when you buzzed.”

  “Let me help you. You know I was a nurse for a few years.”

  “Do I know? Given the number of times you came to our rescue, I’d have to have Alzheimer’s not to remember! Okay, take care of me, it’ll do me good, and it’ll probably be better than what I’ve been able to cobble together the past two days.”

  They proceeded to the bathroom. It was huge and tiled in warm ocher. A shower stall with a massage showerhead occupied one corner; another stall, enclosed by a glass door, faced them.

  “What’s that?” asked Étienne curiously.

  “A sauna. I gave it to myself two years ago, but I’ve hardly had the opportunity to use it. Here, I’ll turn it on. It’ll do us good. Let me take a shower first.”

  Étienne left the bathroom, more confused than he could say. He hadn’t imagined finding himself in this situation when, less than an hour earlier, he was on the landing outside the apartment wondering if his colleague was going to let him in.

  Nadia came out of the bathroom, dripping, wrapped in a towel.

  “Your turn. In the time it’ll take you to shower, the sauna will be at the right temperature.”

  He came closer to her and looked at her shoulder. “First let me see how it’s healing.”

  She undid her towel and nonchalantly dropped it to her waist. Étienne concentrated on the wound. Shit, he felt like a teenager on a first date. God only knew if he’d ever get a second one.

  His professionalism regained the upper hand, and he saw that the injury was healing nicely. The wound was clean. The skin was puckered around it but would return to normal soon enough. “Everything looks good. I’ll redo your dressing after the sauna. But don’t turn it up too hot.”

  “Okay, Doc.”

  A puff of heat escaped into the bathroom when Nadia opened the sauna door. They stepped into the small space and sat on the wooden bench. Étienne had brought a bottle of ice water and two glasses. They had towels around their waists. He appreciated the heat enveloping him and drawing the fatigue and stress of the last few days out of his body.

  Nadia’s face had recovered its suppleness and, eyes half closed, she abandoned herself to the relaxation overtaking her bit by bit. Why didn’t she use this sauna more often? Undoubtedly because she didn’t feel like coming face-to-face with her loneliness. But that evening, things were different. She nearly hadn’t let Étienne in, and it really was the reference to Four Seasons pizza that had been the trigger. Now, she didn’t regret it in the slightest. She really needed the company.

  They got out twenty minutes later and, after a cold shower, sat on the living room sofa. Étienne took the bottle of soda from the fridge with him. Nadia went to find him a T-shirt that was too big for her, a souvenir from the Berlin Marathon. Then Étienne redid her dressing, his nursing expertise coming back to him. They drank the cold soda slowly.

  “That feels good. Thank you for coming over.”

  “If we’re not there to comfort each other during the rough patches, who will be?”

  “It’s still very nice.” She seemed to hesitate, then asked him, “Are you auth
orized to discuss what’s going on with Operation Open Heart?”

  Étienne was surprised. “Of course. They took you off the case, not off the force! But . . . I’m surprised you want to discuss it.”

  “No matter how far down in the dumps I’ve been, I couldn’t stop the little wheels in my head from turning. Can you sum up for me what’s happened over the past two days?”

  Étienne brought her up to speed on the case and the ongoing investigations. When he’d finished, Nadia said, “So, for the Chechen’s death, no big headlines in the papers.”

  “They’re talking about it, but the murder of Camille Saint-Forge has drawn media attention. Besides, the bullet you took in the shoulder is irrefutable proof of self-defense. His lawyer will probably get involved, but he shouldn’t have much to latch on to. And Bogossian was more feared than loved by his gang.”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t been summoned yet for that case.”

  “It’s Mazure’s responsibility. He saw you at the hospital, he has my testimony and Rodolphe’s. I think he wanted to let you rest as long as possible.”

  “I appreciate the gesture. But there’s a question I haven’t asked you yet. Who dropped Bogossian?”

  “I did.”

  She gave him a long look. “Thank you: I owe you my life. A pizza and my life.”

  “No . . . the pizza I gave to you willingly. And I’m enjoying your life tonight. I can also assure you that the Chechen’s ghost has yet to come haunt me at night.”

  “Let’s go back to what you told me. You’ve launched inquiries to identify the killer’s car, but nothing concrete has been found, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Have you looked into the guys from the Chechen’s gang?”

  “I recognized one of them in the internal files, but it’s impossible to identify the others.”

  “I’ve identified five of them, the ones I’d caught two years ago in a drug trafficking case. I’m going to write down their names. They’ve all got files, and you can gather the addresses by tomorrow morning. There’s a good chance they saw something.”