“He was Martin’s only nephew. Martin loved him. Our son came along much later.”
“Did they spend time together?”
“Yes, of course, but . . .”
“Etienne used the name Louis. Why is that name so significant to him?”
“My husband’s middle name is Louis, and they used to play what they called the Louis game.”
“What kind of game?” Becker asked.
“Well, they played the king and his dauphin, something like that.”
So that was it. All this time, Etienne had been eager to succeed the king. That was why he was so quick to claim he was gamemaster when he was arrested. He wanted to be the gamemaster. But the king was not dead, and Etienne was just a valet, someone who followed the king’s orders. And the saddest part of all: Martin Bisot had probably defiled his nephew for years, forming a sordid bond between victim and torturer.
The question remained as to why Martin Bisot had switched to murder. What had triggered the onslaught of violence? What important life event had prompted this psychopath to act out? Had it been the birth of his own biological child? Did his stepdaughter no longer belong in the family portrait? Had he decided to push her out to create the perfect family with no child by another man? What kind of twisted thinking was that? Nico shuddered.
Right now, however, there was a more urgent question.
“Where does your mother-in-law live?” he asked, his tone full of authority.
Seventy-four-year-old Annie Bisot was the next victim on the list, Nico was sure of it. She would be raped and smothered—killed à la José Vega. Martin Bisot had to hate Spain and Santander, the symbols of a sham marriage and family that he had bought into but never embraced. His childhood family had long ago made him a psychopathic killer with a perverse agenda.
Judge Becker stayed in the car while reinforcements surrounded the cozy home. Noumen nodded, and they crept in closer. Muffled sounds were coming from the second floor, and they rushed in, with Maurin protecting their backs.
“No!” a woman cried out.
Nico glanced at Noumen and donned his invisible armor. Noumen shoved the bedroom door open, and Nico rushed in, with Maurin on his heels. Martin was leaning over his mother, her ice-blue nightgown bunched around her waist. She turned her head toward Nico, a pleading look in her eyes.
“Police!” Nico shouted.
Martin let go of his mother and stood up, his eyes filled with incandescent rage and a trail of spittle hanging from his lips. He looked like a famished wolf interrupted in the middle of a meal. As his mother shrieked, Martin dove behind the bed. Nico followed, landing on the suspect’s back, splaying him, and knocking his gun out of his hand. Maurin rushed over and kicked the weapon across the room. Nico grabbed the man’s arm and elbow-locked him. Noumen cuffed him.
Now Martin Bisot was nothing more than a pathetic little boy, his hands behind his back, his glazed eyes on the cabbage-rose rug beneath his feet. Nico looked at him and shook his head.
“Game over, Martin.”
31
“Congratulations, Chief,” Commissioner Monthalet said through the speakerphone. “I believe it’s over now.”
“The investigation is closed. Now it’s up to the justice system.”
“You and Judge Becker make quite a pair.”
They heard Cohen’s laugh echo in the car, which they were driving back to Paris, carrying the suitcase that had been used to transport little Juliette.
“It’s no good for promotions. We know all about that, don’t we, Commissioner?”
“Don’t listen to him, Chief,” Monthalet said, serious, as usual. “Again, congratulations. Drive carefully.”
Nico smiled, turned on the siren and flashing lights, and pressed on the accelerator.
Becker grabbed the roof handle again. “Would you tell us, once and for all, why you think you’re Superman? Why you’re acting like bullets can’t hurt you?”
Nico just grinned.
“So, spill the beans.”
Even though his friend was teasing him, Nico could tell he was worried. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Maurin and Noumen pretending not to listen.
“I’m luckier than Superman ever was. I’m going to be a dad again!”
There was a long silence. Noumen was the first to break it with an ear-busting whoop. He high-fived Maurin.
Becker put a hand on his shoulder. “Caroline is pregnant?”
“That’s exactly what I said, Monsieur le Juge.”
“We needed some good news. And this is the best,” Becker said. “Let me know when you want to put the crib together. I’ll be right over.”
Nico grinned as he saw himself rocking his baby to sleep. And another folk song came to him. It was one Anya had sung to Dimitri.
The dream passes by the window,
And sleep by the fence.
The dream asks sleep,
“Where shall we spend the night?”
Where the cottage is warm,
Where the baby is tiny,
There we will go,
And rock the child to sleep.
He couldn’t wait to get home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Jean-Luc Petit
Writing has always been a passion for Frédérique Molay, author of the award-winning, internationally bestselling Paris Homicide series. She graduated from France’s prestigious Sciences Po and began her career in politics and French government administration. She worked as chief of staff for the French National Assembly and then worked for the local government in Burgundy, ran in the European elections, and was elected in Saône-et-Loire.
Meanwhile, she spent her nights pursuing a passion for writing she’d nourished since she wrote her first novel at the age of eleven. At the height of her brilliant political career, Molay won France’s prestigious crime fiction award, the Prix du Quai des Orfèvres, for The 7th Woman. She took a break from politics to continue the series and raise her three children.
Looking to the Woods is the fourth book in the Paris Homicide mystery series, featuring chief of police Nico Sirsky. Molay is currently at work on the fifth. Her passion for her career never left her, so she returned to politics as chief of staff for a senator. She now splits her time between Paris and Burgundy, between police procedurals and politics.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Anne Trager loves France so much she has lived there for more than a quarter of a century and just can’t seem to leave. What keeps her there is a uniquely French mix of pleasure seeking and creativity. After many years working in translation, publishing, and communications, she woke up one morning and said, “I just can’t stand it anymore. There are way too many good books being written in France not reaching a broader audience.” That’s when she founded Le French Book in order to translate and publish some of those works in English. The company’s motto is “If we love it, we translate it,” and Trager loves crime fiction, mysteries, and detective novels.
Looking to the Woods Page 21