A crime scene tech had just put bags over the victim’s hands and feet to preserve trace evidence. He was preparing to do the same with her head.
“Wait,” Nico said.
He carefully turned Eva Keller’s head, revealing a massive blow and a ribbon around the ponytail.
“Get that to the lab immediately,” he told the tech. “It’s urgent.”
Théron shot him a questioning look.
“Pink-and-red cotton, like the fiber found in Kevin Longin’s pocket.”
Nico could feel the room getting several degrees chillier.
“Finish up here. I’m going to go talk to the father.”
Two officers were bringing in the body bag. Nico gave them a nod and headed down the hall to the living room. William Keller was sitting on the couch, his face swollen and his eyes red from weeping. Images of his eviscerated daughter would haunt him to his dying breath.
“I’m Nico Sirsky, chief of police with the Criminal Investigation Division.”
As he extended his hand, Nico spotted the vomit stain on Keller’s shirt. Now he could smell it, too.
“She was all I had.” His voice was toneless.
Nico remembered seeing a newspaper photo of the father and daughter at the Cannes Film Festival. Keller had his arm around Eva, and the look on his face was one of absolute devotion.
“I have nothing left . . .”
“Does your wife know?”
“We still live together, but we’ve led separate lives for some time now. Our marriage will never withstand this.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “To answer your question, no, I haven’t told her yet. She still thinks I’m looking for Eva.”
Keller covered his face and moaned like a mortally wounded animal.
Nico waited.
Finally, the father looked up, pleading with his eyes. “You’ll tell her, right?”
Nico asked Théron to send a team to the Keller home in the nearby suburb of Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
“Was your daughter seeing anyone? Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She wasn’t very interested in boys her age. She thought they were immature. She had flings, but they never lasted long. She wasn’t ready to settle down.”
“To your knowledge, had she been having one of those flings lately?”
Keller shrugged.
“Did Eva confide in her mother?”
“Not much, as far as I know. She and I were closer.”
“And how were things at school?”
“Her professors had nothing but praise for her work. She was going to be a great director—the best in her generation!”
“Had she received any threats?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you gotten any threats?”
“Me? Never!” The director looked away, his jaw clenched.
“What is it?”
“The star in my last movie.”
“The one who got the César Award for Best Actress?”
“Yes. She’s married to a director and has two children. She doesn’t deserve to have her life ruined. She’s a good woman. A dear friend.”
“Did you have an altercation with her husband?”
“Just an argument. You can’t be thinking . . . Even an angry husband wouldn’t do such a thing!”
Keller started sobbing again.
“I’ll have someone take you home.”
“Where?”
“Home, to be with your wife.”
“For so many years, I’ve only felt at home in two places: on the set and with my daughter. She was my inspiration. I made my films for her, and her alone. Do you have children, Chief? Being a parent is complicated. She was so smart, so pretty and full of life. She gave her all to everything she did. I have no reason to go on . . .”
Nico was worried that Keller might hurt himself. He’d advise Mrs. Keller to get some help for her husband.
“Inspector, you’ll catch him, right? You’ll get the monster who killed my child.”
“I’ll do everything in my power. I give you my word.”
“The bastard has to die. From this day on, it’s my raison d’être.”
William Keller stood up, and, for the first time, Nico got a good look at him. The director was tall and actually rather handsome. He could pass for a movie star himself.
“I’ll keep you informed, Mr. Keller.”
William Keller turned and walked out of the apartment without looking back. Nico shook his head. For the first time in his life, the man who had directed hundreds of actors and actresses had no script to follow.
“We finished with the room,” Théron announced behind him. “The body’s on its way to the morgue. We’re about to start going through the rest of the apartment.”
“Will Professor Villars be doing the autopsy?”
“She’s waiting for us.”
“Perfect. I have to go back and give Commissioner Monthalet an update.”
“We’re already canvassing the neighbors. I’ve sent Eva Keller’s cell phone to the lab, and I’ve got a detective contacting her school.”
“We need her timeline. Be quick about it. I don’t want the killer getting too far ahead of us. And one more thing: William Keller was having an affair with a married woman, a well-known actress. Let’s check out the husband.”
“You got it, Chief.”
That the slain woman was the daughter of a celebrity would surely raise the profile of this case. The homicide would be all over the news, and the last thing his division needed was to be caught in a media feeding frenzy.
Nico left the building, where Eva Keller had lived in a loft with a magnificent rooftop deck and ivy growing over the white walls. He walked through a small courtyard. Closing the wrought-iron gate behind him, he stepped onto the Place Jean-Baptiste Clément. He was just around the corner from the Sacré-Coeur Basilica in Montmartre, a neighborhood filled with poetic cobblestone streets and secret passages, dotted with villas, intimate cafés, and vine-covered hills.
Nico suddenly recalled Lucie Valore, the widow of painter Maurice Utrillo, who had proclaimed herself Empress of Montmartre and proposed to Salvador Dalí that he become its emperor. Nico was a fan of the surrealist painter’s work and knew that he had lived not far from here.
Nico occasionally swapped his morning jog for a walk through Montmartre—but only before 10:00 a.m. After that, the streets were overrun with tourists. The neighborhood would be teeming with crowds today. The police cars had already drawn onlookers and promised to attract many more once news got out that the famous movie director’s daughter had been slain.
He was walking to his car when his cell phone rang. It was Caroline.
“Nico, have you heard from Dimitri?”
“No, why?”
“I got home early from the hospital today, and it doesn’t look like he’s been here. He always leaves a note if he’s going out.”
Nico double-checked his texts. Nothing from Dimitri. That wasn’t like him. He always checked in.
“I have no idea where he is,” Nico said. His heart began to race. “Please make some calls. Maybe he went to Anya’s after school, or Tanya’s.”
“Right away, sweetheart.”
Nico could hear the tension in Caroline’s voice. They ended the call, and Nico hurried to his car, trying to quell his rising anxiety.
A ten-year-old girl murdered in Normandy. A boy butchered in a middle-school classroom. And a young woman slain in her own apartment.
He needed to find his son.
9
Sensing her presence, Nico looked up from his desk. Caroline stood in the doorway, looking as beautiful as ever.
“Hi. I need to talk with you about a couple of things before you come home,” she said. “Nico, I don’t want you to be too hard on Dimitri.”
Caroline had located the boy. He’d been studying with his new love at a café. She had called Nico immediately and told him that his son was safe and sound.
“Dimitr
i and I are going to have a long talk,” Nico said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s getting downright airheaded.”
“That’s what I mean. I don’t want you to come down on him. He was just studying with his girlfriend and forgot to leave a note. He assured me that it won’t happen again. And you—overreacting’s understandable, considering what you’ve got on your hands.”
Nico walked over to her and put his arms around her waist. He felt the tension drain from his shoulders. She had a way of calming him, and he needed to clear his mind, if only for a few minutes.
“I wish I could get away,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “What are your plans?”
“I’m taking Dimitri out to dinner. Sylvie was supposed to, but she called and said she couldn’t make it.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s always letting him down. Where are you going?”
“Higuma, on Rue Sainte-Anne.”
It was a traditional Japanese restaurant that served big bowls of noodle soup, fried dumplings, and sautéed meats. Nico loved the bustling place. The chefs, shaking huge woks behind the counter, prepared dishes in record time.
“Are you sure you can’t come?” she whispered.
“No, I can’t,” Nico said. “We have another homicide: William Keller’s daughter.”
Nico felt a tremor run through Caroline.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, pulling away and looking at her face. She was biting her lip.
“What could be worse than losing a child?” she said softly.
“You’re right. I worry so much about Dimitri. God knows what I’d do if I had more than one kid.”
They stood together in silence for a moment.
“You said you had a couple of things on your mind?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Caroline said, avoiding his gaze. “We can talk about it later.”
He pulled her close again. “Thank you for taking care of Dimitri. He’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m not his mother.”
Now Nico was confused. Caroline had taken Dimitri under her wing, as if she had known the boy his whole life. And he considered her his second mom.
“You know how much you mean to him.”
“Yes, Nico, I do. I should go now. He’s waiting for me.”
Nico tried to hold on to her, but she stepped back.
“The car’s in a no-parking zone. I’ve got to go.”
Nico stood in the middle of his office and watched her leave without so much as a good-bye. What had he done? Caroline disappeared, leaving her enchanting perfume behind.
A minute later, Deputy Chief Rost walked in, with Commander Théron on his heels. “We’ve got a lead.”
“The ribbon?”
“No, no results on that yet. It’s about the letter.”
Nico took a deep breath and focused his attention on them.
“Queneau and Le Goff have an intriguing theory.”
Heading toward the forensics lab, the three men made their way through the interior courtyards of the Palais de Justice, only to find themselves blocked by a locked gate. A drop-off was taking place on the other side—prisoners scheduled to appear before a judge were being transferred to holding cells.
Nico shook the gate.
“Inmate arrival in progress,” a uniformed officer called out.
“It’s Chief Sirsky. How long? We’re in a hurry.”
“Hello, Chief. How many are you?”
“Three total.”
“I’ll open up for you.”
Nico and his colleagues hurried past the ground-floor cells to the lab entrance. They climbed the steps two at a time to join Queneau and Le Goff, who were waiting for them. They led Nico, Théron, and Rost over to a computer right away.
“This is the letter sent to police headquarters,” Queneau said.
Le Goff moved the mouse. “Here’s another letter that looks like it came from the same person.”
“Shit, no!” cried Théron.
The handwriting and ink color were identical. And the other letter was also in Polish.
Le Goff translated, “‘There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware, I’m going to make you cry.’”
“What does it mean?” Rost asked. “Who wrote that?”
“The Red Spider,” Le Goff responded. “The taunting tone, the long, spindly characters in red ink, the sarcastic humor. It’s a textbook case.”
“Can you be a bit more specific?” Nico asked.
“Lucian Staniak, a.k.a. the Red Spider, a nickname derived from the red ink he used to write to police and the media,” Professor Queneau explained. “According to urban legend, he was a Polish serial killer who committed at least twenty homicides from 1964 to 1967, primarily targeting teenage women. His homicides were sadosexual in nature and included mutilation, a bit like the Whitechapel Murderer.”
“You mean Jack the Ripper?” Nico asked.
“That’s right. Eighty years after the infamous Englishman went on his killing spree, Lucian Staniak launched his own. Other similarities with our current killer are that he murdered on public holidays and used a screwdriver.”
Lucian Staniak, Jack the Ripper, and now this guy. It was the stuff of horror movies. Except that this was real and far scarier. If only this were a movie, Nico thought. Better yet, if only he could snap his fingers and find himself next to Caroline and Dimitri at Higuma. Caroline . . . He’d have to figure out what was up with her.
“What happened to Lucian Staniak?” Rost asked.
“He was arrested on January 31, 1967, and sentenced to life in a psychiatric hospital,” Queneau said.
“The writing looks exactly the same, but it can’t be him,” Théron said.
“Indeed, it can’t,” Le Goff said. “However, the writer tried hard to imitate it. I would add that he’s skilled. This is the work of an artist.”
“‘Will you fully appreciate my art? Will you figure out who I am?’ Those were his words,” Nico said.
“He’s playing a game of copycat,” Queneau said.
“This is no game,” Nico said. “Excellent work, men. Now we need to figure out what it means.”
Back at headquarters, Nico passed Commander Kriven’s desk. He was wolfing down a sandwich. Eva Keller’s murder and the Kevin Longin investigation didn’t make the Juliette Bisot case any less urgent, even if another jurisdiction was involved. Nico knew that Kriven would eat all his meals from the vending machines if he had to.
Nico wanted to find out more about this Red Spider. He had attended a European Police College conference organized to encourage cooperation among law-enforcement agencies in different countries a few months before, where he had met a cop from Europol who could probably put him in touch with a Polish liaison officer. As soon as he was back at his desk, Nico called the Europol headquarters at the Hague.
“Roselinde Angermann. How can I help you?” The woman at the other end sounded German, but she spoke in English.
“Nico Sirsky here.”
“Nico! How are you?” she asked, switching to French.
Angermann spoke four or five languages—Germans tended to be good at that. She had teased him about his monolingualism when she met him, but joked that the French kissed better than the Germans.
“I’m great, thanks. Are you still running?” he asked.
“I’m training for the New York City Marathon.”
“I’m impressed. So, have you met your soul mate yet?”
Angermann’s career had always been her priority. But over drinks one night during the conference, she had confided that she feared she would never find Mr. Right. She had taken heart when Nico told her that he was very much in love. She thought it might not be too late for her.
“I’m seeing someone, but it’s too soon to tell,” she answered. “Tall, dark, good-looking, Mediterranean. To what do I owe this call?”
“Are you familiar with the movie director William Keller?”
“Of course. I love his movies. Has something happened to him?”
“His daughter, Eva Keller, was murdered.”
“How can I help you?”
“We could have a copycat on our hands.”
“Who do you think your killer is imitating?”
“Lucian Staniak, a Polish serial killer from the 1960s.”
“You want details from the locals. Is that it?”
“That would help, yes.”
“I’ll get on it right away, and I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
With that, Roselinde Angermann hung up.
10
Saturday, May 11
Nico tiptoed across the room. He felt his chest constrict as he took one last look at Caroline, breathing softly as she slept, before closing the door behind him. He had wanted to make love the previous night, but for the first time since they had been together, she had claimed she wasn’t in the mood. Had he done something? He was too afraid to ask. He just kissed her on the cheek before she turned away.
If only he could wait for Caroline to wake up, he would be able to see whether everything was fine. But he didn’t have a choice. There’d be no weekends off for him as long as there were three murders to solve. Although he insisted that his detectives get their family time, he didn’t live by his own rule.
He drove to headquarters in a funk. As soon as he got in, he called Deputy Chief Rost.
“I’m reviewing the SALVAC questions now,” Rost said.
Commissioner Nicole Monthalet had fought hard for a violent-crime database similar to that of the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Both systems were designed to detect serial crimes by comparing and linking unsolved cases. Nico had ordered Rost and Dominique Kreiss to fill out the one hundred questions on the search form, and they had spent the better part of the night on it.
Nico listened as his deputy chief continued. “Professor Queneau just shared his conclusions regarding the ribbon found in Eva Keller’s hair. I’ll be right there.”
When Rost arrived, he held out a number of enlarged photos and read from the report. “‘The two samples are 100 percent cotton. The chemical composition and dyes are identical. Furthermore, the fibrils have the same axial inclination. Without a doubt, the fiber found in Kevin Longin’s pocket matches the ribbon removed from Eva Keller’s hair.’”
Looking to the Woods Page 6