Ducard raised his eyes and saw Jules looking at him from behind the bar, then turned to see Louise sitting next to him. In her Myrna Loy dress and her black hair parted on the side reminiscent of the woman on the book cover, from Ducard’s reaction, Louise’s version of the femme fatale had an immediate effect.
“May I join you?” Louise asked in French.
He nodded yes and picked up the book. “Le Faucon De Malte en français.”
“Cadeau,” Louise said.
“No, I couldn’t possibly accept this.” He pushed the book toward her. “It is very rare.”
Louise pushed the book back to him. “J’insiste.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it when I was at university in Paris. While I was packing to come here from Chicago, this dress inspired me to bring the book along. I finally had a chance to read it. So, now I pass it on to you.”
Ducard was at a loss for words. He had seen his share of the worst of mankind and it had hardened him. This act of kindness made a chink in his armor. “Merci,” was all he could muster.
“You’re welcome.” She turned to Jules. “A bottle of champagne, s’il vous plaît.”
“Avec plaisir!” Jules said, filling an ice bucket.
“What are you reading?” Louise asked Ducard.
He closed the cover of the book, revealing the French bestseller, Les Rivières Pourpres.
“The Crimson Rivers,” Louise said aloud in English, recognizing the author’s name on the cover. “That’s the latest Jean-Christophe Grangé crime novel. I’ve been meaning to get a copy.”
Taking the book with both hands he presented it to her. “Cadeau,” he said.
“But you’re still reading it.”
“I have already read it twice. Please take it. J’insiste.”
“Thank you,” Louise said. The champagne cork popped, perfectly timed. “Three glasses please. One for you too, Jules.”
By the second bottle, they had discussed life, love, and family. Ducard was warm, charming, and intelligent. Around ten-thirty, the place had mostly emptied out. Jules turned up the stereo when the song In a Sentimental Mood, the Sarah Vaughan version, came on.
“I love this music,” Louise said. The familiar refrain brought back old memories of her father, yet it sounded so fresh and new. “Inspector Ducard, you remind me of my father. I detect that, like him, you are very stoic, very enigmatic, but deep down, a softy.”
Ducard gave a crooked smile and raised his glass. “He is a wonderful father too, that is clear.”
“Thank you,” she said, clinking his glass, truly touched by the double compliment. The conversation and champagne had both fortified and emboldened her. “Sooo,” hesitating, “what’s your theory about the unsolved murders in Auxerres?” Louise immediately regretted blurting it out so clumsily. Ducard glared at her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a sensitive subject.”
He looked at Jules, then back at Louise. They both could tell his anger was brewing and thought he was about to walk out. But then something remarkable occurred. His entire demeanor softened – as though he were mulling something, and then made a decision – right before their eyes. He was ready to get something off his chest.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I was a senior detective in Auxerre when the murders happened.” The first sentence almost sounded sentimental. “Even the good cops couldn’t do anything to stop the killers.”
“Killers?” Louise took the tone of a therapist. No acting class could have given her the skills to remain in character of Karen. She thought of Marlon Brando’s technique, she wasn’t acting, she just was. “Wasn’t it a serial killer?”
“Serial killers,” said Ducard. “They are still kidnapping, raping, and killing.”
“Still?” Louise asked. “Do you have proof?”
“Proof? What good does proof do? We had overwhelming evidence. But the judge threw it away.”
“What kind of evidence?” Louise, in her tipsy state, was interrogating Ducard as if he were the perpetrator.
Ducard didn’t notice. “Follow the trail of death. The primary suspects, Michael Fourniret and Monique Olivier, the couple who were committing abductions and serial murders in Auxerre, fled to Belgium. Suddenly, there are serial killers in Belgium. There is no such thing as a coincidence.”
Louise was stunned. Michel Fourniret was the same name that Matthieu had mentioned. “How long ago was that?”
“Very recent. In 2000 Fourniret and his wife Monique Olivier were arrested in Belgium. Fourniret confessed to kidnapping, raping, and murdering nine girls over a period of fourteen years. His wife, Olivier, admitted that she sometimes picked up young women for him in their car with their baby son in the back. Olivier also confessed she had been present at the murder of a young woman in Auxerre in 1990.”
“The English girl, Joanna?” Louise asked.
“Oui,” he confirmed, his eyes filled with anguish. “But then, Olivier withdrew her statement, claiming to have made it under pressure from an investigator.
“Were you working on those older cases?” Louise asked.
“My department didn’t get involved until the cases were deemed runaways. But, even when we were involved, we were met with great resistance. Finally, my partner and I resigned in protest.”
“But you continued to follow the cases?” Louise asked.
“We had to,” Ducard said.
“What do you mean?” Louise asked.
“The public was outraged over police incompetence,” Ducard explained. “We were sure there was obstruction of justice. Not only did we want justice, we needed to do our due diligence in case we were implicated. But it was too big for us. There were so many perpetrators reaching all the way to Belgium”
“The Fourniret case.” Louise proclaimed, as if she was coming up with the title for Karen’s fake novel.
“Oui. But also, witnesses testified to having seen a white van in several missing-girl cases. Investigations led to an unemployed Belgian electrician with criminal history, Marc Dutroux.”
“Was there any evidence against him?”
“Just follow the money. Even though he was living on welfare, he owned several houses. His own mother insisted he would very likely commit a crime again. But he was released. Then there is the botched investigation in Belgium.”
“Like the botched investigation in Auxerre?” Louise said.
“Worse. Police set up cameras outside Dutroux’s residence, but they only recorded from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. As though it was banker’s hours!” Ducard’s pent-up frustration became manifest. “Then a police officer came to inspect one of his homes, accompanied by a locksmith who said he heard girls yelling. But the officer insisted the sounds were coming from outside.
“Now, get this.” Ducard’s voice was rising. “They entered the house, but the officer did not investigate thoroughly enough to find a door to the basement dungeon behind some boxes. He also found videotapes, but the police didn’t watch them because they didn’t have a VCR.” He repeated for emphasis, “They didn’t have a VCR! It wasn’t until weeks later that they finally watched what was clearly evidence, showing Dutroux actually constructing the dungeon in his basement. They raided the house again and found the two girls inside had died of starvation.”
“Quelle horreur.” Louise was truly disgusted.
The once taciturn Ducard now couldn’t stop telling his story. “In August 1996, Dutroux was finally arrested. But just when they were making progress on the investigation, the judge in charge was dismissed and replaced by someone who only focused on dead-end leads. Several prominent people involved in the investigation died under suspicious circumstances.”
This information struck Louise as more KGB style tactics with key witnesses turning up dead. But she remained silent to allow Ducard to continue.
“Marc Dutroux was eventually convicted and sentenced to life in prison. But he testified that he had kidnapped the girls to s
upply a larger organized pedophile network. Those claims were never investigated.”
“A network.” Louise said, trying to follow.
“As far as the authorities were concerned, the case of the missing girls ended with Dutroux,” Ducard explained. “The conspiracy theories started when authorities actively sabotaged the investigation to cover up evidence of an elite pedophile network. The public became aware of Dutroux’s claims that he was part of a sex ring that included high-ranking members of the police force, politicians, influential businessmen, and judges in Belgium’s court system. He also claimed that he had a partner who helped source girls from Eastern Europe. But then, the judge in charge of investigating the claims, Jean-Marc Connerotte, was dismissed on the grounds of conflict of interest because he attended a fundraising dinner for the girls’ parents.”
“It was quite the scandal,” Jules added. “The judge’s dismissal and the end of the investigation resulted in a massive protest called The White March. Two months after Dutroux’s arrest, 300,000 people marched in Brussels, demanding reforms of Belgium’s police and justice system.
Ducard resumed. “On the witness stand Judge Connerotte broke down in tears when he described the bulletproof vehicles and armed guards needed to protect him against shadowy figures determined to stop the truth from coming out. Police told him that murder contracts had been taken out against the magistrates. Connerotte testified that the investigation was seriously hampered because people in the government were protecting suspects. He believed that the Mafia had taken control of the case.
“A seventeen-month investigation by a parliamentary commission into the Dutroux affair produced a report in February 1998, which concluded that, while Dutroux did not have accomplices in high positions in the police and justice systems, as he continued to claim, he benefited from corruption, sloppiness, and incompetence. Public indignation flared up again in April 1998 after Dutroux escaped.”
“Escaped?” Stranger than fiction, Louise thought.
“Oui. While being transferred to a courthouse without handcuffs, Dutroux overpowered one of his guards, took his gun, and escaped. Police forces in Belgium, France, Luxembourg, and Germany were on an all-borders alert and he was caught a few hours later. The Minister of Justice, the Minister of the Interior, and the police chief resigned as a result. In 2000 Dutroux received a five-year sentence for threatening a police officer during his escape.”
Jules shook his head. “The Dutroux case was so infamous that a third of Belgians with the surname Dutroux applied to have their name changed.”
Ducard continued. “In 2000 Fourniret and his wife were arrested in Belgium. The saga continues here because all the events in Belgium reopened old wounds of the unsolved cases.”
“Can I ask you another question?” Louise asked.
“Why not?” Ducard emptied his champagne glass. He signaled to Jules who poured him a brandy.
“Do you know the account manager, Yves Renard, at the Beaune Crédit Agricole?”
“Oui. He’s not a local,” Ducard replied without hesitating. The drinks had loosened tongues. “With the Crédit Agricole merger, corporate types were put into the regional branches. This is not uncommon. But I refuse to bank with non-locals.”
“I’m staying at the gîte of Matthieu and Magali Mersault,” Louise revealed. “Renard is the Mersaults’ banker at Crédit Agricole. They sent inspectors to check on Mersault’s vineyards, and they found some diseased vines. Matthieu suspects foul play.”
Ducard looked at Jules, who raised his eyebrows. “This is very interesting. If the bank determines that the vineyard is at risk, they can raise their interest rates or even call the loan,” Ducard observed. “It could ruin them.”
“Exactly. I made an appointment specifically with Renard under pretext that I needed a loan to buy a summer home here. He told me that he was previously with the Chase Bank in Belgium and had also worked at Banque Almasi in Monte Carlo.” Louise said. They fell silent for a moment, digesting it all.
Ducard’s police instincts were kicking in. “What kind of novel are you writing?” he asked.
Louise was taken aback for a second, and then sputtered a reply. “It…it was going to be a mystery novel. But now it’s turning into a spy thriller.”
Ducard noticed the hesitation and was suddenly very intrigued. “You seem very familiar to me.”
“You seem familiar to me too,” Louise said, bumping shoulders with him. She was hoping her playfulness would diffuse his line of questioning.
“Not just on a spiritual level,” Ducard continued. “You look familiar to me.”
She tried a different dodge. “I get that a lot. I have classic American features.”
“No, it’s something else. You speak French so well. You lived in France?”
Louise had used up all the excuses she had prepared for this line of questioning. Given her recent discoveries about her mother, she went off script and improvised on her faux past. “My mother lived here briefly,” Louise said. “She went to school in Dijon, training to be a simultaneous translator.”
Jules tried to help lighten the now-heavier mood. “Like Audrey Hepburn in Charade!” he said.
“Exactly,” Louise said. “But she didn’t finish. She never told me what happened exactly, but it was bad.” Louise emptied the champagne glass. Jules refilled it. “Anyway, she spoke to me in French as a child, so I had a pretty good head start before school. Then I got my degree and became a high school French teacher. A family inheritance gave me a little financial freedom, and it has always been my dream to own a place in Burgundy, France.”
“What does your mother think of that?” Ducard asked.
“She was against me even coming here.”
“Giving you the seedlings for your novel,” Ducard said.
“Yes, a mystery novel set in Burgundy.”
Suddenly, Ducard became distracted by a customer who had gotten up to leave. Louise turned to see a mysterious figure watching them in the obscurity before exiting.
“Who was that?” Louise asked.
“Probably no one. But you should be careful.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that,” Louise said.
“Oh?” Ducard said.
“Matthieu Mersault made me promise not to go to Auxerre without him.”
“Good idea,” Jules said. “That is one big angry man. He will protect you.”
“Yes. If anyone wants to find the culprits it is Matthieu Mersault,” Ducard said. “Did you say that Renard had also worked in Monte Carlo?”
“Yes, he transferred from there to Beaune,” Louise said.
“Isn’t that interesting, inspector Ducard?” Jules said.
“It is very interesting,” Ducard said, finishing his brandy and getting up to leave. “Well, thank you for the champagne and the book.” He placed the cherished gift under his arm and gave Louise four cheek kisses. “See you soon?”
“Yes, I’ll see you both after I get back from a short trip,” Louise said.
“Where are you going?” Ducard asked.
Louise didn’t mean to pause, but it definitely gave her answer some weight. “Belgium.”
Louise drove home carefully. She had had too much to drink but getting Ducard to open up was worth it. She focused intently on the dark road, not noticing the car that was tailing her. As soon as she arrived back at the gîte, she picked up her mobile and made a phone call.
“Hey, Michael.” Her friend and confidant expressed gratitude for her call. But even in her multiple drink condition, Louise was all business. “I need a few background checks.”
“Are you okay?” Michael asked. “You’re slurring a little.”
“Champagne.”
“Ah. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Michael teased.
Louise buckled down. “I’m using my serious voice right now. Background checks. Grab a pen.”
The message was received, and he prepared to write. “Okay, I’m ready. Who do yo
u want me to check out?”
“Yves Renard, Michel Fourniret and Monique Olivier, Marc and Lelièvre Dutroux, Michelle Martin, Bernard Weinstein…”
The names rang an alarm bell for Michael. “Wait a minute,” Michael interrupted. “Why are you asking for background checks on serial killers?”
“Also, do a check on Matthieu Mersault,” Louise said. “That’s it for now.”
“That’s it for now? Who the hell is Mersault? How do you know him?”
“I’m staying at his family vineyard. They’re great people, but something seems off about him.” Louise gave Michael the relevant coordinates of the gîte.
Michael took it all down. “What’s the connection?”
“That’s what I need to figure out. Right now, they are all somehow tied to Belgium. See if there are any links at all between them. I’m heading to Auxerre tomorrow, then Paris and Brussels.”
“What the hell are you getting into over there?”
“Just following leads.”
“Leads, she says. Every time you follow leads, I want to call Interpol.” Michael emphasized what he said next. “Okay, be careful. And give me a call when you get to Paris.”
“Okay, thanks.”
As soon as they hung up, Michael received a text from Jean-Philippe. “Doesn’t anybody sleep in France?” he wondered aloud. He called him back immediately and heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line.
“Jean-Philippe, what’s happening?”
“You may want to come back here. My contact at the retreat may have something.”
“What is it?”
“There are two new Russian guests and he heard them mention the Maltese Falcon. Did the FBI find anything any COMINT about that?”
“No, but I’ll check again and let you know,” Michael replied. “Now get some rest.” Michael was about to say goodbye, but Jean-Philippe had more.
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