Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “If Barel’s bite marks are a match, that would get Delvaux off.”

  “If they’re a match, that would implicate Barel in at least one of the homicides, but it wouldn’t necessarily mean he’s responsible for all of them.”

  “So do you suspect a little arrangement between friends? Barel and Delvaux working together?”

  “They’d have to be seriously perverse, but we have to be open to the possibility.”

  “Why the bite on Noë Valles’s neck?”

  “Why the Still Life with Lemons? What if they felt so superior, they couldn’t refrain from leaving proud little clues—clues that could betray them in the end?”

  “We’d have to prove it. Meanwhile, what’s Etienne Delamare’s role in all of this?” Becker was leaning forward, his hands clasped together.

  “He’s right-handed and wears a size 44 shoe. He goes to the same university as the other two, where he could have crossed paths with Mrs. Ravault. It’s possible he’s in cahoots with Barel and Delvaux. For now we shouldn’t rule anything out.”

  “So who’s the gamemaster?”

  25

  Rich, eccentric, talkative . . . egotistical, indifferent, emotionally disturbed, manipulative . . . He knew each one of his characteristics. He knew exactly when and how to proceed. One operation with no risks, one that he’d repeated a thousand times in his head. He had dreamed of this moment, and now it had finally come. Louis was brimming with anticipation. He would have to master his impatience and his emotions, and even his pleasure. His imitation of Vega would be perfect. If it wasn’t, he’d change his approach, abandon the copycat costume, and go through with the murder his own way. There was no question of stopping. The very thought of striking with a knife, stabbing with a screwdriver, or slicing with a saw brought him to orgasm. To ecstasy.

  26

  Rue de la Huchette started at Place Saint-Michel and was chock-full of pedestrians checking the menus posted outside the street’s restaurants. In the Middle Ages, the street had been known for its disreputable inns and pickpockets. Today it was recognized for its Greek specialties and wide-eyed tourists.

  Nico and Kriven’s squad walked over from their headquarters on Île de la Cité, just across the river, passing the renowned English-language bookstore Shakespeare and Company on their way. After World War I, the shop was considered the center of Paris’s Anglo-American culture—at the time, it was on the Rue de l’Odéon and belonged to Sylvia Beach. Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and James Joyce frequented it. The shop closed during World War II, but after the war, the eccentric American George Whitman opened the store at its current location. Over the years he took in thousands of aspiring writers and offered them a place to sleep in exchange for a few hours of work.

  Nico, Kriven, and the rest of the team stopped in front of Michael Delvaux’s building, glanced around, and entered. He lived in a loft with a view of the Seine.

  “Mr. Delvaux? Police,” Commander Kriven announced. “Open up.”

  They heard muffled noises.

  “If you don’t open right away, we’ll have to break down the door.”

  Kriven was toeing the line, ready to shoot the lock with a 9mmP, a Parabellum military cartridge with an ogive tip that could travel at 350 meters a second. It’s just like Kriven, Nico thought, to be ready to spring into action in a nanosecond. Si vis pacem, para bellum: if you seek peace, prepare for war.

  “I’m coming,” said a male voice from the other side of the door.

  Kriven lowered his weapon, as did Plassard, who was standing against the wall, next to the door. The others stepped back, and Nico waited in front of the door, his hands at his side. The lock clicked, and a tall young man opened up. His hair was mussed, and his chest was bare, exposing six-pack abs. A towel was wrapped around his waist.

  “Sorry for the delay.” He wore a mocking, pretentious smile.

  A half-dressed young woman appeared behind him. She looked scared.

  “Nobody leaves this apartment without our authorization,” Nico said.

  The team entered and secured the premises. The bachelor pad was quite pleasant—no surprise, given that Marianne Delvaux had the means. Judge Becker pushed his way in.

  “Michael Delvaux?” Nico asked for formality’s sake.

  “Yes, that’s me. Why the brass-band entry?”

  Well, he’s an insolent one, isn’t he? Nico thought.

  “You’re half wrong, half right,” Vidal answered. “We’re not musically inclined, but we’ve got brass balls.”

  Delvaux shot the detective an icy glare and then sighed, as if he were granting some victory to a spoiled child.

  “Sit down,” Nico ordered, nodding toward the sofa.

  Becker handed him a notebook.

  “Please write down your contact information,” Nico said, watching him take the pen. Michael was right-handed.

  “Did you know Eva Keller, a student at La Fémis?” Nico asked.

  “William Keller’s daughter? The one who was murdered? It’s all over the news. And my mother played a part in Keller’s most recent movie. Did you see it?”

  The son had inherited a talent for acting.

  “Did you ever spend any time with Eva Keller or date her?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I didn’t even know that William Keller had a daughter until I saw on the news that she’d been murdered.”

  “So you’re saying that you never met her?” Nico pressed.

  “That’s not true,” Becker broke in. “Both of you attended the same conference right before Christmas.”

  “Is that so? Which one?”

  “On the abuse of truth. The speakers included Virginie Ravault, with whom you had a relationship.”

  The mask fell from Michael Delvaux’s face.

  “It’s true . . . I did have a liaison with Virginie. But it’s been over for weeks. You may not know this, but I’m not the only student she had a fling with. She liked younger men. I’m sure she was mostly interested in me because my mother was a star. But why are we talking about Virginie? What does she have to do with Eva Keller?”

  “We suspect that you murdered both of them.”

  “Virginie’s dead? That’s impossible.”

  “You participated in a reenactment yesterday at the Château de Versailles.”

  “I couldn’t stay for the whole thing. I told the organizers that.”

  “You saw Mrs. Ravault there, playing the role of Madame de Montespan.”

  “Yes, but only briefly. I had a secondary role.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “At seven thirty. I was having dinner with my parents. Our guests can confirm that. I arrived around eight thirty, and I was there when the last guest left around one thirty in the morning.”

  “We’ll check on that,” Nico said.

  “Go ahead. I’m telling the truth.”

  It seemed he had an alibi, but they still didn’t know exactly when Virginie Ravault died.

  “Then I went straight to Camille’s.”

  “Camille’s?”

  “The young lady who’s sitting next to me, the one you’ve scared half to death.”

  “Can you confirm that?” Becker asked, turning to the girl.

  “Yes. Mick arrived around two, a bit tipsy. He collapsed on my bed and slept like a baby. We came back here this morning.”

  Kriven walked over to Nico and whispered in his ear, “There’s no freezer or suitcase with wheels. We’re still looking around.”

  Nico nodded.

  “Did you know your mother was having an affair with William Keller?”

  “That’s not the kind of thing a mother usually discusses with her son. TMI.”

  “But you suspected that she had extramarital affairs, didn’t you?” Becker asked.

  “Like I said, we didn’t talk much about that kind of thing. To tell the truth, we didn’t talk much at all. But, in her chosen career, the temptation must have been great.”

  “S
o, her lover’s daughter was murdered, and then Mrs. Ravault. Could that be purely coincidental?”

  “Who knows? I’m not psychic. Spot me ten euros, and I’ll go ask a fortune-teller.”

  “Where were you a week ago Thursday?” Nico asked.

  “I went away for the long weekend.”

  “You left Paris?”

  “I went to London on Wednesday night and came back on Sunday. It was a last-minute getaway.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “The hotel where I stayed . . . And the girl I took with me.”

  Camille turned and glared at her boyfriend.

  He ignored it. “I’ll give you her name and phone number,” he said, jotting down the information in Becker’s notebook.

  “And what did you do the day after you got back, on Monday?” Nico pressed, trying to pin down some connection to the Bois de Vincennes and the hotel.

  “I was in class.”

  “And that night?”

  “I was home, writing an essay. I chatted with a friend. I’ll give you his name, too.” He entered the information in Becker’s notebook. “I imagine that you’ll want to verify everything. It’s like 1984.”

  True enough, Nico thought. The world wasn’t far removed from the one envisioned by George Orwell.

  “Let’s go back in time,” Becker cut in. “Tell us about Sunday, May 5.”

  “I had lunch with my sister and her boyfriend. Afterward, he and I played a game of tennis, and I sprained my ankle. My father took me to the emergency room at four thirty in the afternoon. I didn’t get out until late, the time it took to get an X-ray and see a specialist. I left the hospital around eight. My dad drove me to their place, and I spent the night with them.”

  “And on May 4?”

  “I was home, studying for exams.”

  He had no alibi for the night Juliette Bisot’s body was deposited in Square du Temple, but if his story was true, he was immobilized when Kevin Longin was killed.

  “You need to get dressed now,” Nico said. “We’re going to headquarters, where we’ll see if some of Eva Keller’s friends recognize you.”

  “That would certainly come as a surprise to me!”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Wasn’t she murdered when I was in London?” Nico couldn’t miss the naïve smile.

  “That’s true. But we still need to check some things out before we can clear you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Chief!” It was Kriven, calling from the other room. “We’ve got something.”

  Michael Delvaux tensed up.

  “Plassard, keep an eye on him.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  Nico got up and went into the other room, where Kriven and Vidal were waiting for him.

  Vidal was holding a pair of slip-resistant overshoes. “Rubber soles with composite toes, made for walking in the snow and on slippery ground, adaptable to all types of shoes.”

  “Size 44,” Kriven said.

  “The six cleats look like they correspond with the prints found at Square du Temple,” Nico said. “But the lab will have to confirm it.”

  “That said, I still don’t see the relationship between Michael Delvaux and Juliette Bisot,” Kriven said.

  “Because there isn’t one,” Nico murmured, staring at the overshoes as if they were delivering a message.

  27

  Théron’s squad had undertaken the Herculean task of going through the entire list of Criminology Institute students who had attended the “Abuse of Truth” conference. Maurin and her team were helping out. They were searching for attendees who were connected in one way or another with any of the victims, as was the case with Lucas Barel and Michael Delvaux.

  “Well, damn it all to hell,” Maurin said, breaking the silence.

  The others all looked up at the same time.

  “Listen to you, letting go a little,” Théron joked.

  “What did you find?” Noumen asked.

  “Maybe our Oscar Wilde.”

  When Nico entered the commissioner’s office, she and Deputy Commissioner Cohen were deep in conversation.

  “Ah, Chief, there you are. Explain this mess to us.”

  “Virginie Ravault was the one murder too many,” Cohen said. “The reporters will be at our throats.”

  “We’re holding two suspects,” Nico said. “Lucas Barel is a law student who may have murdered Noë Valles. As it turns out, Barel is missing two canines, and the lab matched his teeth to those of the killer, who left a bite mark on the victim’s neck. The second suspect is Michael Delvaux, who’s working on a master’s degree in criminology. We have reason to believe he murdered Juliette Bisot. We discovered overshoes at his place that match the footprints found in Square du Temple. The lab confirmed it. Both men have solid alibis for the times the other victims were murdered.”

  “Delvaux, the actress’s son! The press will have a heyday with that!” Cohen was glaring, and his jaw muscles were tight.

  “What’s the connection between the murderers and their victims?” Commissioner Monthalet asked.

  “There isn’t any, which is what makes this case so perplexing. But we were able to link Lucas Barel with Juliette Bisot and Michael Delvaux with two of the other victims, Eva Keller and Mrs. Ravault.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “A small group of students, future criminologists seeking an adrenaline rush, get together and decide to kill the same way the masters did it, as a way of showing off what they know. When choosing their victims, they pick people who are close to them. That way they can settle their personal scores at the same time.”

  “Two birds, one stone,” Cohen said.

  “That’s what I think.”

  “And to throw us off their scent, they exchange targets.”

  “Exactly.”

  “An organized gang,” Cohen said. “Article 132-71 of the Penal Code, which means we’re looking at aggravation of penalties.”

  Monthalet interrupted them. “Sirs, I hate to poke a hole in your theory, but you don’t decide to go on a murder spree just because you’re after an adrenaline high.”

  “You’re right,” Nico said. “We’ve got a gamemaster, too, who is skilled at manipulation and knows how to pinpoint his players’ vulnerabilities. They’d have to have some serious emotional deficit or deep personality disorder to reduce their victims to nothing but objects.”

  “I suppose. In any case, we’re still missing some of the protagonists—at least three of them,” Monthalet said.

  “My teams just came across a certain Oscar Van Bergh.”

  “Who may be our Oscar Wilde?” Cohen asked.

  “We’re checking. He’s a law student at the Criminology Institute.”

  “That institute is full of frustrated students,” Cohen said. “They’d rather be dealing with corpses out in the field than sitting through boring lectures.”

  “Our Oscar Wilde’s parents live on the same floor as the Longin family. We’ve sent out a team to investigate.”

  “Interrogate the hell out of these kids,” Cohen said. “I want the names of their accomplices.”

  Commissioner Monthalet stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. “Keep us informed, Chief. And wrap this up quickly. In the meantime, I recommend that we keep Michael Delvaux’s arrest under wraps. Make it clear to his mother where her interests and those of her son lie.”

  “I’ll make sure of it.” With that, Nico left her office.

  Captain Noumen politely sipped his coffee. Kevin’s mother had insisted that he and Commander Maurin have something to drink and a piece of cake. How could they refuse? Kevin’s brother was keeping them company in the narrow kitchen, which reeked of frying oil.

  “Mrs. Longin, we’ve come to talk to your neighbors, the Van Bergh family,” Noumen said, putting his cup down on the table.

  “They’re good neighbors. They help me with the little one, especially now that Kevin is . . . Well, you know.”
/>   “They have a son,” Commander Maurin said softly.

  “Yes, Oscar. He’s a big boy now. He comes to visit his parents regularly.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “I think he has his own studio apartment.”

  “Did he and Kevin know each other?” Noumen asked.

  “Of course. We moved in here when Kevin was born. Oscar was ten at the time.”

  “Did they get along?”

  “For a long time they did. Then they had a falling out.”

  “What was it over?” Maurin pressed.

  “Someone stole Oscar’s bike from the basement, and he accused Kevin of taking it.”

  “But it wasn’t Kevin, was it?”

  “Of course not. The police picked Kevin up from time to time for fighting and tagging buildings, but he never did anything more serious than that.” Mrs. Longin shrugged, and Noumen thought she looked drained. “Even though I didn’t think Kevin took the bike, I offered to pay for it. But the Van Berghs wouldn’t hear of it. They were very nice.”

  “How did Oscar react to that?”

  “He was angry, which I could understand. But to tell the truth, there always seemed to be something off about him. Kevin said he saw him take a bat to a bird’s nest once. And after the bike disappeared, Kevin grew afraid of Oscar.”

  “Did he tell you why he was afraid?”

  She shrugged again.

  “No, he didn’t. But every time I mentioned Oscar’s name, he would freeze up. I just let it go and hoped it would pass.”

  “Was Oscar around the weekend that Kevin died?” Maurin asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How is Oscar otherwise?”

  “Well, like I said, he didn’t have anything to do with us after the falling out. But from what I can tell, he’s quite handsome and the neighbors say he’s charming. He probably has a lot of girls. But why all these questions?”