Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  “Not yet,” Plassard answered. “Kriven’s working him right now.”

  “He should keep at him and not let up,” Nico said.

  Plassard nodded. “So here’s another piece of news: Alban Lancia drives an Audi A3.”

  “Which he lent to Michael Delvaux?” Becker asked.

  “We’ll have to check, but it would seem that he did. There’s something off with the Bisot case, though.”

  “Why wouldn’t Barel have killed Etienne Delamare instead of his cousin?” Nico said.

  “Malignant narcissism suggests someone who satisfies his desires and urges at the expense of others, whom he manipulates,” Becker said.

  “I see that Dominique Kreiss’s lessons have been effective,” Plassard said.

  Becker smiled. “Only fools never change their minds.”

  “There’s a detail we should keep in mind: Louis,” Nico said.

  “Why did Lucas Barel use that name when he was accusing Alban Lancia?” Becker asked.

  “What if Louis is the gamemaster?” Nico suggested.

  “That would explain Barel’s blunder. Ask Kriven to pound away on this Louis thing,” Becker said. “We need to know who he is. And arrest Alban Lancia right away.”

  Alban ran and ran until his lungs felt like they were being ripped out of his chest. The hoarse sound of his breathing echoed in his head, and his belly hurt. He could hear them catching up to him. He was afraid . . . But the murder was justified. He had imagined killing Noë with his own hands a thousand times. But in the end, the exercise had given him even more pleasure. Kevin . . . Getting to know the kid over a period of several weeks without being noticed, luring him into a deserted classroom to smoke a joint, his butcher’s knife sharpened like a master chef’s . . .

  They were closing in. He ran faster. His lungs burned. He couldn’t outrun them. Alban would tell them. He would tell them about the hell he had endured with Noë.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. He tripped. A man jumped on top of him, tackling him. A cop . . .

  Nico knocked and walked in. Kriven started to stand up.

  “No, that’s unnecessary, Commander.”

  Nico grabbed a chair and set it down near Lucas Barel. Something wasn’t right.

  “I’m chief of the Criminal Investigation Division,” he said. “Thanks to you, we’ve arrested Alban Lancia. Louis is now the only one who’s still free . . .”

  Kriven had been at it for hours, but Lucas hadn’t given Louis up. Maurin and Théron were applying pressure to Michael Delvaux and Oscar Van Bergh, but they hadn’t offered up the slightest clue, either. They were all protecting the gamemaster. Nico was sure of it. Louis was their leader, and lowlifes took loyalty seriously, because it was strengthened by fear. They needed another approach. Delvaux got his revenge through Eva Keller. Van Bergh gave up Kevin Longin, and Alban Lancia wiped Noë Valles from his life. But was it Lucas Barel or Louis who had been after Virginie Ravault? And what about Juliette Bisot?

  “Etienne Delamare rejected you, despite that promising weekend in Louviers,” Nico said.

  “Juliette dovetailed perfectly with the profile of Andrei Chikatilo’s victims,” Kriven said. “So you used her to get revenge on Etienne.”

  Lucas’s face flushed with anger. Nico could see that he was at the mercy of an incendiary mix of contradictory emotions. If he kept fighting them, he’d explode.

  “I didn’t give a shit about that girl!” Lucas howled.

  “Who provoked you? Who humiliated you to the point of deserving a good lesson?” Nico thundered.

  “That slut laughed at me! Told me I was useless. And she was an expert at sex, that’s for sure.”

  “Who? Mrs. Ravault?”

  Lucas closed up like an oyster. Nico rose from his chair and nodded to Kriven, indicating they should step outside.

  “What do you think?” Kriven asked once they were in the hallway.

  “Come with me.”

  They headed off to Nico’s office, where Caroline had fallen asleep.

  “Oh,” Kriven said. “What happened?”

  “We were supposed to go out for dinner,” Nico said.

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  Caroline woke up and stretched like a cat.

  “Hello, doctor,” Kriven said.

  “Hello. So where do things stand?” There was no sign of impatience in her voice, just genuine interest.

  “The chief was just about to share one of his flashes of insight.”

  “Kriven, don’t get started,” Nico warned, going through his papers.

  Caroline giggled, and Nico felt like he was sprouting wings.

  “Voilà! I knew I’d seen it somewhere.”

  Caroline stood up.

  “Etienne Louis Delamare.”

  “So Delamare is Louis?” Kriven asked.

  “Who else would have wanted to kill Juliette Bisot? Who had no motive in Mrs. Ravault’s killing, nor any connection to her? Who knew about Still Life with Lemons?”

  “Delamare.”

  “He’s the only one I can see. He played the victim when he was undoubtedly the gamemaster.”

  “Why have Juliette killed?”

  “Because he hated his uncle? Because he was jealous of his aunt? Because he couldn’t stand his stepcousin Juliette, an outsider to the family? We’re going to ask him.”

  He looked at Caroline. “We’re almost there, sweetheart. I’ll have an officer take you home. You need your sleep.”

  Someone rang the bell and then banged on the door. It was 2:53 in the morning. They were going to wake up the whole building, but there was no need. He had been waiting for them. Louis had predicted their arrival, and Louis’s word was sacred. Their carefully assembled structure was collapsing like a house of cards. It was his fault; he hadn’t been vigilant enough, and he had to be punished. Louis had said so.

  “This is Chief Sirsky. Open up.” The voice was calm, determined.

  He could provoke them, force them to shoot. But did he really want that?

  “We’ll break down the door if we have to.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Do you have a weapon?” somebody else asked.

  A comedian. He didn’t bother replying and unlocked the door. Several men, guns in hand, stood ready to shoot.

  “Etienne Delamare?” the chief asked.

  He trembled. The man had already been here, so why was he asking?

  “Etienne Louis Delamare?”

  He felt dizzy. Nauseated.

  “Louis, the gamemaster?”

  The gamemaster . . . He came back to himself.

  “Yes! It’s me,” he declared, full of pride.

  30

  Friday, May 17

  “I just filled the commissioner in. That’s quite a hand you played,” Cohen thundered, all jolly and enjoying a smoke next to his open window.

  “We still have some loose ends to tie up,” Nico said.

  “Formalities, right? Let me know when you’ve crossed the finish line. I’m not going anywhere this morning.” Cohen gave Nico a salute, and Nico got up and left his boss’s office.

  8:45 a.m. Thirteen days earlier, they had discovered the lifeless body of Juliette Bisot. A little girl like so many others, who had loved ballerinas and tutus and playing princess. What if Caroline was having a girl? Would she like to dance, too? Would he have to worry about her? Would he have to watch for predators? Predators who could be anyone, even law and criminology students who seemed upstanding in every way.

  “He’s here,” Nico’s secretary said.

  Nico welcomed the man into his office.

  “Mr. Bisot. Please sit down.”

  “Why did you summon me?” Juliette’s stepfather asked, looking suspicious.

  “We arrested your daughter’s murderer,” Nico said as gently as possible.

  The man slumped in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept. Nico felt his heart tighten.

  “Who was it? Why di
d he do it?”

  “It’s a complicated story, which, I’m sorry to say, will be another hard blow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your nephew Etienne is an accomplice in Juliette’s murder.”

  “An accomplice? That’s impossible!”

  The man’s face flushed with anger. The news was clearly too much for him. Nico explained, knowing he had to be quick or Juliette’s father would lose it.

  “How will I ever be able to tell my wife? And my sister will never accept it! My family is ruined.”

  He was sobbing now. Snot dripped from his nose, and he did nothing to stop it.

  “Sir, please try to calm yourself, or I’ll have to call the paramedics. Your blood pressure must be skyrocketing.”

  Eventually the sobs became muted. Juliette’s father wiped his nose and looked up.

  “The bastard,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill him with my own hands. And the one who hurt my little girl . . . my little princess.”

  The five students had ended up confessing. The scandal would break the next day: a real-life murder party with a celebrity’s son in the mix.

  “He used the name Louis . . .”

  “Louis?”

  For a fraction of a second, Nico saw contradictory feelings on the man’s face: surprise, disgust, and anger.

  “Why do you think he did that?”

  “It’s his middle name,” Bisot said.

  “Did he use it often?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The man had once again assumed a mask of pain.

  “Where does that middle name come from?” Nico suddenly asked.

  “His maternal grandfather . . . My father.”

  Etienne Delamare had named the killer who inhabited him Louis. But why?

  “What was their connection?”

  “Etienne was little when he died. I don’t even know if he remembers him. My God . . . Juliette.”

  Nico called his secretary, who arranged to have an officer drive Mr. Bisot to an emergency room. He was worried that the man might have a stroke or a heart attack. Better to have a doctor take a look. Now Nico had one more promise to keep. It was to William Keller.

  Nico admired the cloudless blue sky as he left police headquarters. He loosened his tie and hit “Play.” The compelling voice of Serge Gainsbourg filled the car. He was singing about heartbreak, love, and boomerangs, a song that could have been about Caroline and himself. A few days ago he had been heartsick over the prospect of losing her. Today he was giddy with love.

  He turned the volume down and called his mother.

  “Mom?”

  “Nico! I’ve been hoping you’d call.”

  “Work’s been busy.”

  “So I gathered. I heard it on the news. And how are things with Caroline? Did you manage to talk to her?”

  “Yes, and I have some great news.”

  “I knew it! Tanya told me she was pale and didn’t eat a bite when they had lunch together.”

  Nico grinned. Anya was so smart. She had seen what was right before his eyes even when he had been totally oblivious.

  “I gave her the ring, Mom.”

  There was a pause. “I knew that ring would go to her one day,” Anya finally said. “She’s always been the one.”

  He ended the call and spotted the sign for Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where Eva Keller’s parents lived. Nico felt the weight of the news he was about to deliver. William would soon have to come to terms with his role in what had happened. Delvaux’s mental illness and criminal nature wouldn’t matter. It was William’s relationship with Marianne that had triggered the chain reaction. Without it, Eva would still be alive today.

  Nico heard Gainsbourg’s voice again in the background: “If . . . I shoot myself, it will be because of you.”

  Nico slammed on the brakes and pulled off the road. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, and he felt like he was drowning. He was sucking in water. Don’t panic. Concentrate. Relax. He took a few deep breaths. Then he started the car again and turned around. Keller would have to wait. He reached his secretary.

  “What hospital was Juliette Bisot’s father taken to?”

  “I’ll find out, Chief.”

  “Put Commander Maurin on.”

  “Right away.”

  There were a few clicks.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “Do you have your notes on Juliette Bisot?”

  “Right here.”

  “Can you check our family information for Martin Bisot’s father?”

  “Here it is. Louis Marie Joseph Bisot. Two children: Martin, Juliette’s stepfather; and France, the eldest, Etienne Delamare’s mother. Annie Bisot, his widow, is still alive.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She lives in Louviers.”

  “Hold on, Maurin. I’ve got another call.”

  “Chief? Martin Bisot can’t be found. He left the hospital without telling anyone.”

  “Good God. Thanks for telling me. Maurin? You still there?”

  “Yes, Chief. What is it?”

  “I’ll give you fifteen minutes to meet me at the Porte d’Auteuil with a member of your team. Bring Becker, too. I’ll explain on the way. I’ll need the case file. Hurry!”

  Nico turned on his siren and left a message for Kriven.

  Becker sat in front. Maurin and Noumen were in the back.

  “So, you’re taking us to Normandy?”

  “Martin Bisot’s disappeared. I told the local police to put out an all-points bulletin on him. Maurin, what’s the name on Martin Bisot’s birth certificate?”

  “Martin Louis Bisot.”

  “What are you thinking?” Becker asked. He was clutching the roof handle, as the car was going very fast. Careening, in fact.

  “When I mentioned the name Louis, Bisot tensed up, and his face changed. The pain left his eyes, and I saw something deeper and violent. It wasn’t about Juliette anymore. It was as if I saw his real face for the first time. And when he told me the origin of the name Louis, I saw fear.”

  “That doesn’t sound like enough to call in the cavalry.”

  “I have more: castles, a tree, a boat, and a bull. I mean . . . I think . . .”

  His phone rang. It was Kriven. He hit speakerphone.

  “You’re right! It’s the emblem of the University of Cantabria: an oak tree, a boat on three waves, and an Altamira bison—a cave painting from a grotto that bears the name. They’re surrounded by four golden castles. During her studies, Dr. Bisot spent some time at the Marqués de Valdecilla Hospital in Santander, which is part of the university. She and Martin spent their honeymoon there.”

  Becker whistled. “And where did you see the emblem?” he asked.

  “Around Dr. Bisot’s neck when they identified their daughter at the morgue.”

  “I was there, and I can confirm what the chief saw,” Kriven said over the phone.

  “That brings us back to Santander,” Nico said. “To José Vega and the sixth victim.”

  “The link between the Bisot family and Santander has been established, a connection that Etienne Delamare must have been aware of as gamemaster,” Becker said.

  “Etienne Delamare doesn’t have the makings of a gamemaster. He’d like to be one, but he isn’t. Rost, are you there?”

  “Yep,” Rost answered over the speaker.

  “Why Louis? That’s the knot I need to unravel. Call back when you have something.”

  They sped along the highway that linked Paris to Caen. Destination: Normandy and Louviers, a name from the Latin word luparia, “a place haunted by wolves.”

  The family home, a sprawling plot of perfectly maintained land, was a five-minute walk from downtown. Dr. Bisot opened the door, looking dumbfounded. They walked in without giving her time to gather her wits, and Maurin and Noumen started their search.

  “Take us to the back,” Nico ordered.

  She led them, trembling as she walked. The kitchen ha
d a door to the backyard. She had been preparing lunch.

  “Where’s my husband?” she asked.

  “He left Paris, but he should be here soon.”

  “He was in Paris?”

  “I called him in to headquarters this morning.”

  “But why?”

  “Before I explain, we have a few questions for you, Dr. Bisot.”

  “Of course. I’m listening.”

  “What kind of relationship did your husband have with his father, Louis Bisot?”

  “Louis? From what I know they didn’t get along very well.”

  “Do you know why?” Becker asked.

  “What’s the point of digging up the past? Martin doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  The detectives had found a black hole: Martin Bisot had missed an entire year of school. He was twelve at the time. The lapse had been uncovered during the initial investigation of his stepdaughter’s disappearance, but it hadn’t seemed important at the time.

  “It’s never easy for a victim to confide in others,” Nico said.

  The blood drained from Dr. Bisot’s face.

  “What happened to him?” Becker pressed.

  “From what I know, Martin was sexually abused as a child,” she said.

  “By his father?”

  The make-or-break question.

  “Yes, what happened to him was awful. His father stopped when he got older and sent him to boarding school in Switzerland.”

  It was a textbook case: when the boy’s voice changed and his chest started sprouting hair, he no longer pleased Louis Bisot. So the father sent the son away for a full year to make him understand that their intimate relationship was over. What had gone on in the adolescent’s head during that time? Once he returned home, contradictory feelings of relief, hate, and rejection had probably eaten away at him. Perverse as it was, he may even have regretted that his father was no longer lavishing attention on him.

  “And his mother? What part did she play in all of this?” Nico asked.

  “She denied it. I tried to talk to her about it once, but she just got angry. She said Martin had invented the whole story, that he had psychological problems.”

  “How did Martin behave with Etienne?” Becker asked.