Nico moved into the living room and continued his silent examination for several minutes until he stopped in the middle of a wall.
“Take a look at this,” Nico said, motioning to Kriven and then pointing to a painting. “There was another painting on this wall before that was bigger. The space all around this painting is lighter than the rest of the wall.”
“Guys, see if you can find the painting that was here!” Kriven called out.
Nico took the painting down and read the title on the back. “View of Santander by Joris Hoefnagel. Looks Flemish.”
“Santander—it’s an old Spanish port city,” Kriven said.
“The bigger painting is in the office,” Almeida called from the other room. “It’s a Bernard Buffet—an original. Undressed women.”
“That seems more like her style,” Kriven said. “She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d switch a Buffet original for a cheap reproduction of an old port town.”
Nico turned to Kriven. “Go ask Almeida if Santander means anything to him.”
Nico didn’t think this was some whimsical move. Virginie Ravault was clearly an orderly and meticulous woman. He could have eaten off her floor. The woman’s tastes ran to things sensual and expensive, and she had the means to satisfy her appetite.
Kriven came back into the living room. “Santander’s in Cantabria, in northern Spain. There’s a beach close to it called El Sardinero with waves high enough to surf. Almeida’s been there.”
“Virginie Ravault and Spain—what’s the connection? Ask Rost to look into it. Look for what doesn’t belong.”
“Exactly. Just like Van Gogh’s painting Still Life with Lemons. Does it ring any bells?”
Kriven frowned.
“There was a reproduction at Etienne Delamare’s place. The sun was lighting up the lemons like lightbulbs.”
Kriven whistled. Then he grabbed his phone, which was buzzing, and Nico heard him talking to Rost.
“He wanted me to tell you that he’s meeting Marianne Delvaux at headquarters this afternoon, and Juliette Bisot’s father is coming in first thing tomorrow morning,” Kriven said.
“Perfect. You can finish up here. I’m going to go have a talk with Etienne Delamare. He needs to explain his Still Life with Lemons.”
Nico met Becker on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, near the Latin Quarter and the Rue Mouffetard, where his paternal grandparents had once owned a shop. They were Polish Roman Catholics who attended Saint Médard Church. Anya, on the other hand, had been raised in the Orthodox tradition.
“Is he in class?” Becker asked, without so much as saying hello.
“In a lecture. I wasn’t keen on the idea of calling in backup and storming the place.”
“But the kid may be a serial murderer.”
“Yes, but a more subtle approach will work just as well. I’ll go in, push my way past a few students, and sit down next to Etienne. Then I’ll flash him a sharkish grin.”
“He’ll fall apart in his seat.”
“Poor fellow.”
The two men entered the Panthéon-Assas University.
“You may go through the main door when you arrive on time, and the side door when you’re late,” a secretary said.
Nico nearly laughed and headed straight for the main entrance of the fifteen-hundred-seat amphitheater. He searched for Etienne, a task that proved easier than expected as the room was far from full. Becker stopped in the center aisle and stood impassively at the end of the row while Nico made his way toward the young man. Down below, standing behind a desk and a microphone, the professor rambled on. He hadn’t noticed their arrival.
Nico made it clear to Etienne’s neighbor that he needed to move down a seat, and he settled down, smiling like a carnivore.
Etienne swallowed hard. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he stammered.
“I have a few questions. About Vincent Van Gogh.”
“Excuse me?”
“I understand you’re a Van Gogh specialist. In fact, you’re the go-to guy on the subject, isn’t that right?”
Etienne moistened his dry lips. His hand was shaking.
“You should gather your things and follow me. This is not the right place to talk about art.”
“But my class . . . I have an exam soon and . . .”
Nico leaned over.
“And I’m looking for Juliette’s murderer,” he whispered in the boy’s ear.
Etienne stood up, ready to do what Nico asked.
“It appears that some of my students think they already know everything,” the professor said, staring at them. “I wonder whether they really believe they can pass the exam without attending my class.”
Nico smiled at the professor and closed the lecture-room door behind them.
“We could take you to headquarters, but I don’t want to waste any time,” he said.
“What about the Luxembourg Gardens?” Becker suggested. “There are some out-of-the-way benches there.”
“Sounds good,” Nico said, grabbing Etienne’s arm and hustling him down Rue d’Assas into the gardens. A few minutes later, they were seated on a secluded bench.
Nico sighed. “So, Van Gogh . . .”
He and Becker were sitting on either side of Etienne, their thighs nearly touching his.
“Vincent Van Gogh was a prolific creator of still lifes,” Becker said. “He used them to experiment with colors and techniques, especially after his move from the Netherlands in the late 1800s. It was here in Paris that his approach became more expressive.” He’d obviously done his homework. “Personally, I prefer The Starry Night, but that’s a matter of taste.”
Etienne Delamare didn’t say anything, but both of his hands were shaking now.
Nico took over. “Clearly, you like lemons.”
“I don’t understand,” Etienne murmured, his voice hoarse. “Please, I don’t understand.”
Nico looked at him without saying a word. The boy was a good actor.
“Still Life with Lemons,” Nico finally said. “Does that mean anything to you? There’s a reproduction of it at your place.”
“That’s why you—”
“Where did it come from?” Nico asked, cutting him off.
“It was a gift.”
A mother and a toddler were walking past them. The youngster was so wobbly, it looked like she had taken her first steps only a few days earlier. She was grinning, clearly pleased with herself, and her mother was watching every step. Then, in the blink of an eye, she tripped and fell. Before she could even squeal, her mother swooped down and picked her up.
“There you go,” the mother said, kissing the little girl and putting her back on her feet. The toddler was smiling again, and off they went.
“Who gave it to you?”
“A friend, as a thank-you.”
“What friend? As a thank-you for what?”
“For . . . for inviting him to my place.”
Etienne seemed completely disoriented.
“Inviting him over for dinner?”
“No . . . to Louviers.”
“To your parents’ place in Louviers? Is he the student you mentioned before? The one from last year?”
Etienne nodded. His eyes were wide, and he was shaking all over. Farther down the tree-lined path, an old woman was tossing bread crumbs to the pigeons.
“His name is Lucas Barel. He’s studying law, too.”
“Is he in the lecture room now?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“That’s an odd gift, don’t you think?” Becker said.
“That’s what I thought, but since he used to come over to the apartment a lot, I didn’t want to offend him.”
A little boy ran past them, a toy sailboat in his hand. When Nico was a child, he had pushed his own toy sailboat around the park’s Grand Bassin pond. Nico had brought Dimitri here when he was six or seven. Would Dimitri’s little brother or sister have a toy sailboat someday, too?
Nico suppresse
d a smile and turned back to Etienne. “When was the last time Lucas Barel was at your place?”
“My answer is the same as it was yesterday: we don’t see each other anymore.”
“So why didn’t you take down the Van Gogh?”
“It’s become part of the décor.”
“How did such a fine friendship come to an end so suddenly?”
“No special reason. Time goes by, and people change.”
“Him or you?”
“Him or me what?”
“Which of you changed?” Becker asked.
“Both of us, probably. He was always hanging around, and it was starting to get on my nerves.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. He was just weird.”
“Did Lucas Barel ever come on to you?” Nico asked, lowering his voice.
Etienne Delamare blushed.
“That’s it, isn’t it.”
“That’s what it seemed like.”
“Do you know a lawyer by the name of Virginie Ravault?”
“No, not at all.”
“Ravault, a criminal lawyer,” Becker said.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Nico figured they had gotten as much information as they were going to. He gave Becker a nod.
“You are not to leave Paris,” the judge said.
“You mean I can’t go home to Louviers?”
Nico glanced at Becker and looked back at the boy. “That’s the only place you’re allowed to travel to. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
They stood up, and the boy followed suit.
“You’re free to go, but remember what we’ve told you,” Becker said, his tone firm.
Once they were out of earshot, Becker turned to Nico. “This Still Life with Lemons is really kind of astonishing, don’t you think?” he asked.
Yes, it was astonishing. But for the first time, Nico was seeing beyond their investigation. He was going to be a dad again, and that was more mind-blowing than anything else.
24
You still have a little time to think it over, Caroline had texted him.
A little time before what? Before she ended the pregnancy? Before he told her he wasn’t up for having another child, and she’d have to do it on her own? How could she even suggest such a thing? Hadn’t she seen the happiness in his eyes? How could she doubt for a second the love he felt for her—and their child? He had held her tight after she broke the news. But he had been so overcome that he couldn’t express exactly what he was feeling. His feelings were too big for words. There was no way he could summarize them in a text message.
Let me take you out for dinner tonight, he texted back. The whole world could go to hell tonight, but he wasn’t going to hell with it.
He turned to Deputy Chief Rost and his three squad commanders. “What did you find out?”
Becker was giving him an odd look. The judge was clearly satisfied to see the warrior back at work, but the friend was wondering what was up.
“It’s heavy stuff,” Rost said. “You won’t be disappointed. First . . . Santander.”
He paused and repeated “Santander” softly for effect. It reminded Nico of the way Charles Foster Kane had murmured “Rosebud” on his deathbed in Orson Welles’s film classic Citizen Kane.
Rost raised his voice again and continued, “In 1987 and 1988, at least sixteen women between the ages of sixty-one and ninety-three were raped and killed in and around Santander. The culprit: José Antonio Rodriguez Vega, a.k.a. the Old Lady Killer. He was born in Santander and began his criminal career when his mother kicked him out of the house after he had beaten up his terminally ill father. He was sent to prison on rape charges in 1978 but was released early for good behavior. It’s believed that’s when he began his homicidal spree. He was arrested again in May 1988 and sentenced to four hundred and forty years in prison. But he didn’t last that long. Two inmates stabbed him to death in 2002.”
Had something precious been taken away from José Antonio Rodriguez Vega, just as Charles Kane’s parents had been ripped from him? Childhood traumas had a way of never healing.
“Vega was considered an honest and hard-working man,” Rost said. “He would observe his prey from afar, use his charm to gain their trust, and get himself invited into their homes. Then he’d rape and suffocate them. Sometimes he’d also beat them.”
Kriven was pacing. “How can we possibly guess who his next victim will be? It’s impossible, because nothing links Juliette Bisot, Kevin Longin, Eva Keller, Noë Valles, and Virginie Ravault.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Ravault,” Nico said.
“She was a criminal lawyer in a high-profile firm. We’ll be questioning her two associates, of course. She handled a few tough cases and knew some real bastards. Divorced, mother of two teenagers. She had a hobby—role playing—and she loved murder parties. She was part of a group that organized a reenactment yesterday afternoon at Versailles. That’s why her ex was taking care of the kids, and it also explains the gown we found in her apartment. Mrs. Ravault was playing Françoise-Athénaïs, Marquise de Montespan, a mistress of King Louis XIV, who, it was rumored, poisoned one of her rivals. The scene they were reenacting yesterday was a promenade.”
“Contact the organizers,” Becker said. “When did she leave? Was she alone? Why didn’t she come to the door when her ex-husband tried to drop off the children or answer the phone when he called?”
“We’re on it,” Rost said. “But we’ve saved the best for last. Maurin, will you do us the honor?”
“Mrs. Ravault taught at the Criminology Institute, and she participated in that ‘Abuse of Truth’ conference.”
“Well, shit!” Kriven blurted out.
“So we have a connection between Eva Keller and Mrs. Ravault: both of them were at the conference,” Nico said. “Théron, did you dig up anything on Lucas Barel?”
“He’s studying law with Etienne Delamare, as you know. He’s the one who visited Etienne’s family in Louviers last year. And guess what? He was also at the conference, even though it was primarily for students majoring in criminology.”
“Bring him in,” Nico ordered. “Let’s find out if he’s right-handed and wears a size 44 shoe. I want to know if he’s our Oscar Wilde. Also, bring in the students who were working with Eva Keller on that project. They might be able to identify him. Let’s see if he’s missing his canines, too. Has Virginie Ravault’s autopsy started?”
“A while ago. Vidal is there,” Kriven said.
“Marianne Delvaux will be in soon,” Rost said. “Who gets the honor of talking to her?”
“You and I will handle that—with a little less diplomacy than we used at Ladurée,” Nico said.
“I can’t wait.”
“The head and upper third of the torso are relatively well preserved,” Professor Vilars observed. “I imagine the victim was in a half-seated position. Do you see these burns on her lips and chin? There are some in her mouth, too. I can deduce that the attacker forced her to drink the poison, and she spit out the first mouthful. These lesions are antemortem. My examination of what remains of her air passages will confirm that.”
“So he only shot her afterward,” Vidal said. “He wanted her to know how she was going to die and what he would do to her remains.”
“I believe that diverges from the Acid Bath Killer’s modus operandi.”
“Sick bastard! He deserves to fry in hell.”
“Captain, it’s not our job to pass judgment, so let’s avoid that kind of comment here,” the professor scolded.
“Still, I wouldn’t mind hurrying along that trip to hell,” Vidal said. He was pushing back, but oddly, the thought calmed him down.
Franck Plassard knew absolutely nothing about the world of role playing. The whole thing seemed frivolous. He had the real deal every day.
“In the seventeenth century, the Marquise de Sévigné hosted mystery parties,” explained the director of the association that Mrs. Ravault
belonged to. “The idea that the English came up with the idea is absolutely wrong. All that country did was revive the concept in the 1960s, which is when it also caught on in the United States.”
Plassard almost rolled his eyes.
“I started participating in 1984, and we’ve had a good run, despite a suicide in the nineties. We have thousands of members.”
“Including Mrs. Ravault.”
“Yes . . . Virginie! She loved it. But why do you mention her in particular? Our association has so many members.”
What did the man think? That he was here for a history lesson?
“Where were you yesterday?”
“I was with the players. The organizers always participate in the party, playing characters to help guide the game. The idea is to be interactive. It demands observation and creativity.”
Plassard could tell the director wanted to keep going—and going. He stopped him. “How many participants were there?”
“About sixty.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Our membership fees are high, so most of them are well off. They tend to be professionals, upper management of large companies, business owners, and so on.”
“Not everyone can be part of the Sun King’s court, I suppose,” Plassard said, feeling cheeky. “I’ll need a complete list of the people who were involved yesterday.”
“I’ll print it out right away. Did something happen?” he asked, launching the printer.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is it serious?”
“Rather. What time did the party end?”
“Around ten. We went on a bit longer than usual.”
“Did Mrs. Ravault stay until the end?”
“Actually, she didn’t, and that was highly unusual. Our participants almost always do. We had to improvise because she left early.”
Judging by the look on the director’s face, Plassard gathered that the organizers liked only so much improvisation.
“Did she tell you she was leaving?”
“No, in fact, she didn’t. A valet slipped her a message, and she vanished.”
“A valet?”
“Someone playing the role of a valet. You know, like a butler.”
Looking to the Woods Page 16