After several minutes, Vidal spoke. “Kriven, come over here.”
“Got something?”
“An invitation to go dancing.” With that, he jiggled his hips.
Captain Plassard took in the Montparnasse train station, which opened in 1840 and was renovated in 1852, then rebuilt from scratch in 1969. General Dietrich von Choltitz, the Nazi military governor of Paris, surrendered to General Philippe Leclerc there on August 25, 1944. The newest incarnation was a bustling hub lined with offices and shops and boasted a skyscraper, the Tour Montparnasse. On clear days, the view from the fifty-ninth floor extended forty kilometers in every direction. But Plassard wasn’t there as a tourist.
He and two other detectives from his squad weaved their way through the crowded main hall, which reeked of fast food, sweat, and dust. It reminded Plassard of something Commissaire San-Antonio—the main character in a crime series by French author Frédéric Dard—had once said: “Life is gray, with all these grimy people who look like dripping umbrellas.” Dard, one of France’s bestselling postwar writers, was a favorite of Plassard’s. San-Antonio was also the author’s pseudonym, which he had chosen by closing his eyes and pointing at a map of the world. His finger landed on the city of San Antonio, Texas—which was very far from where they were now.
“You take the gardens,” Plassard said, pointing to one of the detectives. He turned to the other one. “And you scope out the waiting rooms, while I’ll check out the upstairs bathrooms. You both have pictures of Noë Valles. Show them around, and ask questions. Dig up something we can run with.”
Plassard took the escalator, scanning the hall as he ascended. He entered the men’s room. He knew from his time on the vice squad that it was a heavily frequented pickup spot. He stepped into a stall and aimed for the toilet. Good thing Kriven wasn’t around. He’d never hear the end of it. He took his time, studying the wall separating his stall from the next one over until he found the glory hole, an opening used for spying and anonymous blow jobs. He spotted a shadow through it and then a dilated pupil, followed by a finger inviting him closer. As he moved closer, he heard a moan of satisfaction from the other side. He pulled back and held his badge up to the hole. That was a lot less enticing.
“Police. Come on out.”
“Please, I didn’t mean any harm. I’m married. I’ve got kids.”
“Listen, I’m not from vice. I just want to show you a picture of a prostitute who works around here. We need some information. That’s all.”
Plassard and the man stepped out of their respective stalls. The man was wearing a suit and tie and was carrying a briefcase.
“I’ll try to help,” he said, looking sheepish.
“His name is Noë Valles,” Plassard said, holding up the photo. “Does he look familiar?”
“I don’t come here often, you know . . .”
If the man kept treating him like an idiot, he’d have to scare him.
“Maybe you forget faces, but surely you remember cocks. Is that it?”
The man’s face went white. He was ready to talk.
Olivier Pons and Marc Drillan, friends of Eva Keller, were twenty-three and twenty-four, respectively. To impress them, Commander Théron had the gates opened for him, and he parked his vehicle inside the courtyard. It worked. The kids’ legs were shaking as they made their way into police headquarters.
Théron and two other detectives led them to the top floor. He let the chief’s secretary know they had arrived before settling them in the interrogation rooms at the end of the hall. Nico would be there soon. He wanted in on the action. Théron appreciated having a boss who fought alongside his foot soldiers.
It was easy to feel claustrophobic in these tiny and cramped rooms, each of which had only a table, some chairs, a computer, and a camera. Every interrogation was recorded and filmed. It was also transcribed and written up as a report—which was an incredible waste of time. A uniformed officer, called a ghost, was always stationed in a corner during an interrogation. The ghost’s role was to watch and intervene in case the questioning got out of hand.
Vidal held out the invitation. The Palace Jazz Band would be playing at the Paris Bar Association, located in a magnificent building next to police headquarters. Was the invitation meant for them? Was the killer provoking them? Kriven felt his blood start to boil.
“It says June 21. That’s ages away,” Vidal said, reading his thoughts.
“What does he think we’re going to do till then?” Kriven growled. “Twiddle our thumbs?”
“Damn it. It’s the bar association! That’s like setting an appointment in the middle of a wasp’s nest.”
They were sure it was a clue they had missed earlier. They had found the invitation stuck under some plates in the kitchen cupboard. That it was in the kitchen was enough to confirm their suspicions.
“What if our copycat is one of the wasps?” Almeida asked.
Vidal closed the cupboard door. “That would make the world an even crappier place than it already is.”
Nico sat down across from Marc Drillan, the older of Eva’s friends.
“I’m Chief Sirsky, head of the Paris Criminal Investigation Division. I asked my commander to bring you here because I wanted to meet you in person.”
Drillan nodded.
“How long had you known Eva?”
“Since we started at La Fémis two years ago.”
“Did you get together when you weren’t in class?”
“Sometimes we had lunch between classes or went to student events, but nothing more than that.”
“Did you ever go to her place?”
“Yes, to study.”
“And Olivier Pons?”
“The same.”
“Did either of you ever date her?”
“Olivier is living with his girlfriend. He wasn’t interested in Eva.”
“What about you?”
Drillan’s jaw tightened, and he curled his hands into fists—a classic angry reaction, usually accompanied by a faster heartbeat and a rise in temperature. Nico saw his opening.
“You liked Eva, didn’t you? But she didn’t have the same feelings for you, is that it?”
“She had her opportunity, but let’s just say she passed it up.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. He was as taut as a bow.
“Did she meet someone else?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t share that kind of thing with me.”
“What about the documentary?”
Drillan slouched in his chair and crossed his arms in a defensive pose.
“Why did you choose that subject matter? Why serial killers?”
“Why not?”
“Surely there were more pleasant topics to focus on.”
“It was a documentary.”
“Of course. But a rather morbid one, don’t you think?”
“Maybe so. But everyone loves watching serial killers on TV and in the movies. Everybody’s fascinated with psycho killers. People invent bogeymen to scare the hell out of themselves and religion to make them feel safe.”
He spit out his tirade like a half-chewed mouthful. Who did he want to impress? Nico or himself?
“So was it your idea? Remember, we have Olivier right here to confirm what you say.”
The boy was as white as a sheet. He licked his lips.
“That’s not what I said.”
Nico stared at him.
“It was Eva’s idea.”
“And did you think it was a good one?”
“At first we wanted to do something else—The Digital Revolution: What if Cinema’s Losing Its Memory? What does the replacement of film stock with digital technology mean for the art as a whole? It’s a hot topic these days.”
“And a very different one from serial killers. What made you change your mind?”
“We weren’t all that keen on it at first, but Eva was convinced that this was what we should be doing and she talked us into going along with her p
lan.”
“How?”
Drillan squirmed in his chair.
“She was way more talented than us. Brilliant, in fact. She was raised with cameras all around her.”
“In other words, she would guarantee your success.”
“Working with someone like her can open doors.”
“So where were you in your project?”
Drillan blushed. “It was coming along . . .”
“I imagine the deadline isn’t that far off.”
“In three weeks.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Eva was the one who had it,” he said, shifting in his chair.
“Don’t you have a copy?”
“Eva didn’t want anyone else to see it.”
Nico was sure they had let her do all the work. “And you haven’t worked on it since her death?”
“It’s been hard. We’ve all been in shock over what happened to her.”
“I understand. Did you hope to get your deadline extended?”
Drillan lowered his gaze. “Well, the situation would justify it, don’t you think?”
“But the dean of the school has rejected your request. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to continue working on the same topic?”
“We haven’t decided yet. Frankly, we’re a little . . . lost.”
“Is it you or the video recording that’s lost?”
Drillan chewed the inside of his cheek.
“The memory card,” he finally said.
“And you have no idea where it is?”
“I guess at Eva’s.”
“What exactly is on it?”
“Well, our interviews, for one thing. We discussed how serial killers like Hannibal Lecter are depicted as extremely intelligent and manipulative, when, in reality, they’re more ordinary. And in the movies and on television, the police always catch the bad guys, which isn’t actually the case.”
“Don’t you have anything better to show for all the time you spent on this project?” Nico asked.
Drillan swallowed. “Serial killers represent only one percent of the prison population, but with all the media attention they get, you’d think they were everywhere. We were planning to look at the mediatization of the phenomenon. You know—crime sells.”
“Nothing new there. I would have thought that Eva Keller was capable of doing better than that. But perhaps you weren’t?”
“I . . . How can you . . .”
“I can tell a slacker when I see one, young man. Who do you think you’re talking to? Stop playing games right now!”
“Wait a sec! I don’t understand! Just because I don’t know what Eva did with the video—”
“Have you even seen what she did? This is what I think: you’re a first-rate phony, and you’re going to fail because you don’t have anything to turn in.”
“It’s her fault! Eva wanted to control everything.”
“That was convenient, wasn’t it? She did the work, and you were going to share the credit.”
“She wanted to get started on her own, to develop the idea. She said she’d show us soon, once she’d worked out some of the details.”
“A turnkey project produced by William Keller’s daughter. How were you going to explain that to your professors once they found out?”
“Shit! We had a good topic. Then she went and changed it and wanted to do it all herself. She told us she had some juicy information from a first-rate source.”
“Who was that?”
“Some guy she met.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know! She said she needed to protect him.”
“Wilde? Does that sound familiar at all?”
“Other than Oscar, no.”
There he was again. What if her friend’s first name was Oscar, and she’d called him Wilde to keep his name a secret?
“Her informant clearly knew a great deal about criminals. Do you have any idea who it could be?”
“We attended a conference at the university just before Christmas.”
“What kind of conference?”
“‘The Abuse of Truth’—it covered a lot. It explored the interplay of truth and deception in the world of psychology and law.”
“Did they talk about serial killers?”
“Yes.”
“Did Eva participate?”
“She mostly listened, like we all did.”
“Did anyone in particular attract her attention?”
“There was a guy . . .”
“One of the speakers?”
“No, a student from the law school. He kept asking questions.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Not really. Brown hair, brown eyes. Ordinary looking. Oh—he was wearing cologne. It smelled fancy. I can’t tell you anything else.”
“Did Eva talk to him?”
“Yeah, for a while when the conference was over. I asked if she wanted me to wait for her, and she said no.”
“Did you hear anything about him afterward? Or about an Oscar or a Wilde?”
“No, nothing. But Eva was always secretive. When she needed to be, she was as quiet as a tomb.”
That was a bad choice of words.
Louviers was a pretty Normandy port town with a population of eighteen thousand people. Commander Charlotte Maurin and Captain Ayoub Noumen were there to meet with Juliette Bisot’s parents at the mother’s office. They walked there from the train station.
“If we ask the right questions, we may be lucky enough to get a lead,” Maurin said as Noumen opened the door to the building.
“I hope so, Commander.”
Dr. Bisot offered the two detectives some tea, and when they declined, she indicated two chairs where they could sit. Noumen noted that the father seemed to be no more than a shadow.
“Did you meet anyone new in the period leading up to your daughter’s disappearance?” Maurin asked once they were settled in.
“Not really,” the mother said, holding her head high.
“Did any of your patients show unwarranted interest in your private life?”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“And you, Mr. Bisot? Did you have any new customers?” Noumen asked.
“Of course. I run a business, so I meet people every day.”
“You didn’t notice anything suspicious?”
“Nothing. Believe me. I’ve thought about it every day for the last four months . . . until they found Juliette.”
“Did anybody you know take a sudden interest in your daughter?” Maurin asked.
Dr. Bisot let out a weary sigh. “We’ve been asked these questions a thousand times.”
“Do you know anyone who splits his time between Louviers and Paris? Or someone who goes to the capital often?”
“Louviers is only a hundred kilometers from Paris,” Mr. Bisot said, his tone sharp. “We’ve got friends who go back and forth all the time.”
“You also have a nephew at school in Paris, is that right?”
“He’s studying law there,” Dr. Bisot said. “He was planning to specialize in trade law, but now, with what’s happened to Juliette, he’s talking about criminal law.”
“What year is he in?”
“He’s finishing his undergraduate studies and has applied for a master’s degree in law and forensic science. But why all these questions about Etienne?”
“No reason,” Noumen said. “We’re just trying to get the full picture, ma’am.”
“Don’t tell me you came all this way for no reason! I have a hard time believing that.”
“We think that the person who kidnapped Juliette—”
“And murdered her,” Mr. Bisot broke in.
“And murdered her, yes . . . We think that person knows you and had a reason for choosing Juliette. Chief Sirsky already told you that the killer was looking for a very specific kind of victim. We also think that he may
split his time between Louviers and Paris.”
“Which would explain why he committed other crimes in the capital,” Dr. Bisot said.
“Exactly.”
“Even if you’re right, I don’t see what that has to do with Etienne.”
“Perhaps nothing directly, but we have to explore all possible avenues,” Noumen said. “What else can you tell us about the boy?”
“Etienne Delamare is my sister’s son—her only child. He’s twenty, and he’s both brilliant and charming,” Mr. Bisot said. “Juliette’s death has been even harder on him than it’s been on our own son.”
“That’s because your son’s just three years old, right?” Noumen said. “Not old enough yet to really understand. Do your sister and brother-in-law still live in Louviers?”
“Yes, my sister teaches history at the high school, and my brother-in-law is in local politics.”
“And where is Etienne right now?”
“He’s in Paris. His exams are coming up.”
“Do you know anyone named Wilde? Or perhaps an Oscar?”
The Bisots shook their heads.
“A friend of Etienne’s, perhaps?” Noumen pressed.
“Leave Etienne out of this, please.” Mr. Bisot was angry now. “Our family has suffered enough.”
Maurin persisted. “Did he ever mention the name Eva Keller?”
“Good God! How dare you? I myself go to Paris regularly for business! You might as well accuse me while you’re at it!”
“Dear . . .”
“No! I want these people out of here right now! Get them out of my sight, or else—”
“Or else what?” asked Captain Noumen.
“Or else I’ll take care of you myself! I’ve got nothing to lose now.”
Noumen looked over at Dr. Bisot. Tears were flowing down her cheeks.
19
Andrei, Thomas, Lucian, Fritz . . . Each one an inspiration. He had studied their crimes down to the smallest detail. He had copied them perfectly, determined for his murders to be exactly like the original works of art. He would be remembered as a forger who excelled in reproducing crimes. Because he was Louis, the gamemaster—a monster with several heads. He was Cerberus, the monstrous multiheaded dog that guarded the underworld, keeping anyone from leaving. Cerberus was usually described as having three heads—the past, the present, and the future—but the Greek poet Hesiod had given him fifty, while the poet Pindar had endowed him with a hundred. It didn’t matter. He was Andrei, Thomas, Lucian, and Fritz—and so many others—all in one. He was Louis, the gamemaster. Someday he would have many fanatical admirers.
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