Death at the Château Bremont

by ML Longworth

  “What’s it like dealing with these people?” asked Verlaque.

  “Not very pleasant. Real estate is like a game for them. They’re always trying to outbid each other on pricier and pricier homes,” Dupont said, confirming the information that Verlaque had read in the police reports. The estate agent continued: “If you don’t have a house to show them that’s at least fifty million euros, they throw you out. And not very nicely, either. I haven’t dealt with them in a while because I haven’t had anything available in that price range. Homes like that just don’t appear on the market that often. I do have a yacht, though, designed by Philippe Starck, if you’re interested.”

  Antoine laughed. He had a very poor opinion of realtors, his brother included, but M. Dupont was growing on him. “Philippe Starck? The designer?” Antoine asked.

  “Yeah, it’s the big thing now, to have a superstar designer or artist design your boat. Jeff Koons did one too.”

  Verlaque winced; he loved sailboats and couldn’t imagine one designed by Jeff Koons. “How much for the Starck?” he asked.

  “Forty-six million. The gas in one of those things costs about two thousand euros for a trip between Nice and Cannes.”

  Verlaque looked into his phone, stunned. “Nice and Cannes are about fifteen miles apart.”

  “That they are, Judge. Is there anything else you needed?”

  “No, but thanks,” Verlaque answered. “Unless you have any words of advice regarding Pogorovski.”

  “Just enjoy looking at the girls, if they’re around,” Dupont replied.

  “Russian girls? Tall, young, and blonde?”

  “Yeah, models.”

  Verlaque laughed again. “Models, my foot.”

  Verlaque hung up and looked over at Paulik. “Tell me what you learned while I was on the phone.”

  “Nothing,” Paulik replied.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sir. I can’t read in a car. I get carsick.”

  “Seriously?” Verlaque asked, looking puzzled.

  “Yes, seriously. Being a policeman doesn’t make me immune to car sickness,” Paulik said, his voice sounding a little bit on the defensive. He then added, “My wife and daughter get it too. We can’t even read maps when we’re in the car.”

  “That must make family vacations fun,” Verlaque joked.

  Paulik smiled, feeling less ill at ease, and said, “We have to look at the map and figure out our route before we get in the car.”

  Half an hour later their unmarked police car stopped, and they were facing a stone wall with a black solid-iron gate. Two guards, smaller than Verlaque had imagined Russians, or Georgians, wearing earphones and bulletproof vests, walked up to the car and peered in. Police badges and IDs were shown, and the guards stepped away from the car, spoke on their headsets for about fifteen seconds, and then the gate slowly opened. The driver put the car in gear, and they slowly began their ascent up a drive lined with cypress and olive trees as far as the eye could see.

  “I couldn’t place their accent,” Verlaque said, speaking of the guards down at the gate. “It didn’t sound Russian to me.”

  “Israeli, sir,” the driver said, looking in his rearview mirror so that he could make eye contact with the judge. “It’s fairly common around here,” he added.

  After an ascent that seemed to take forever, the grounds began to level and Verlaque sighed at the riot of colors before him—a hundred variations of green appeared in the plants, from the silvery green of olive trees to the dark green of rosemary. All of this was offset by the brilliant oranges and pinks of the bougainvillea flowers that seemed to drape every vertical surface in sight. Paulik had evidently been enjoying the same scene and said, “Too bad Aix is too cold for bougainvillea.” Verlaque smiled to himself, thinking how amazing it was that he had been teamed up with a commissioner who could guess the dates of wines and who openly loved plant life. Verlaque nodded and said, “Yes, the climate in Aix would kill those flowers. When I moved to Aix from Paris, I bought a lemon tree for my terrace, but it didn’t even make it into the winter.”

  A large stone house appeared, and Paulik leaned forward and said, “Here we are.”

  The driver coughed and said, “I believe that this is only a staff house, Commissioner.”

  Paulik leaned back and grunted.

  They drove a few hundred more meters, past another stone house and various garages and outbuildings, all immaculate, until they arrived in front of Villa Nina, an immense multiturreted stone house, a small castle really—built sometime at the turn of the century, Verlaque guessed. Various aspects of it reminded him of his grandmother’s now-empty house in Normandy, including the size, but he kept quiet. Besides, Normandy real estate was nothing like the outrageous prices paid in the south, or in Paris, he reasoned with himself.

  Two more guards appeared and opened the rear doors of the car for Verlaque and Paulik. It was assumed by everyone that the driver would stay in the car, which he did, pulling the sporting newspaper L’Equipe from the glove box before the two men had even got out. Verlaque and Paulik were ushered into the front hall, the size of a ballroom, which was dominated by an immense crystal chandelier, about two meters in diameter. Both men naturally looked up at it, and were still doing so when a handsome man in his midfifties walked out of a room and came toward them, his hand outstretched.

  “Gentlemen, welcome. Do you like it?” he asked, also looking up to the chandelier. The Russian spoke flawless French.

  “Very much,” Verlaque answered, shaking the Russian’s hand and introducing himself and Paulik.

  “It’s Russian, not Venetian, as most of my visitors think. Come, let’s talk in the living room. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”

  “It was, actually—as usual,” Verlaque replied.

  “Ah, a pity. I go everywhere now in a helicopter. It’s the way to go. I’m so hooked that I bought the company.”

  Pogorovski opened a set of double doors that obviously led into the living room. Nothing could prepare Verlaque and Paulik for the view from its windows. The turquoise sea spread out before them, there was little else in view save for a bit of lawn. Still standing, the Russian turned to Verlaque and said, “So you would like to ask me questions about François de Bremont? Your offices called me this morning, telling me of Bremont’s death.”

  “His murder,” Verlaque replied coldly. “What exactly were your business dealings with the count?” Verlaque asked.

  “He rented out flats to our models who come from Russia, showed them around town, got them settled in—that sort of thing,” replied Pogorovski.

  “You own a modeling agency?” asked Paulik, ready with his pen and notepad to write down the Russian’s reply, although he already knew the answer.

  “Yes, but you must have known that,” the Russian replied, winking. “Actually, it’s in my wife’s name. My business is oil, Comgaz, but I am sure you know that too.” Pogorovski smiled at the two men.

  “Were you aware of Bremont’s debts?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes, and I had encouraged him to start paying them off, but to do so he tried to gamble, each time sinking further and further into debt. And then I’m sure that you’ve heard about the polo game.”

  Verlaque nodded. “Had his life been threatened?”

  Pogorovski grunted. “Many times, by everyone from casino owners to pissed-off fellow polo players. He annoyed everyone. Fine sailor and polo player, though.”

  “You don’t seem to show any remorse, Mr. Pogorovski,” Verlaque said.

  The Russian shrugged. “Should I?”

  Verlaque remained silent, looking at Pogorovski. When the Russian realized that the judge wasn’t going to speak, he continued: “Listen. I deal with many, many people. I have seen people die, here and in Russia. My brother died of cancer when he w
as twenty-two years old. Life goes on.”

  “Are you a big polo fan?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes,” answered Pogorovski. “I still play from time to time, but just for fun.” As he said this, the Russian patted his flat stomach and grinned, and, ever so slightly, glanced down at the judge’s bulging belly.

  “Where is your wife’s modeling agency located?” Paulik asked, changing the subject.

  Pogorovski folded his arms and looked out the window, and then replied, still looking at the sea, “There are offices in Nice and Paris and Milan. You’ll find it easily. Tribeca Models, Inc.”

  Verlaque, who had been looking out the window while Pogorovski spoke, now turned to him and asked, “Do you have an alibi for Wednesday morning, between six and nine?”

  The Russian replied, “Of course. I was here, working in my office. You can ask any of the servants, or my wife, Maria, who is working right now at Tribeca’s Nice office.”

  Verlaque didn’t want to leave just yet and took a chance on giving away Inès’s identity by saying, “Rumor has it that you were going to send François to Spain for work.”

  Pogorovski looked at Verlaque and narrowed his pale blue eyes. He wasted no time in saying, “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Verlaque replied. “Why Spain?” he continued.

  “Comgaz has holdings in Gibraltar,” Pogorovski said. “François was in trouble here, and he wasn’t managing to sort himself out. I thought I could help him by sending him to Spain—a fresh start, you know?”

  Verlaque highly doubted that the Russian would care about helping anybody, especially François. He also knew that in Gibraltar legal companies were easily created by anonymous owners, who then bought luxury real estate on the peninsula in the name of their company. All of this information came from a recent dinner with his brother, Sébastien, who had also told Verlaque that Spain was becoming the new Côte d’Azur for money laundering—helped by five flights a week between Moscow and Málaga on Aeroflot. An Air France pilot-friend of Sébastien’s had reported that Russians disembark from the planes with plastic shopping bags full of cash, which they openly present to the Spanish customs officials along with a certificate from the Russian government authorizing the departure of this capital from Russia. The more discreet ones, Sébastien had said, opened businesses in Gibraltar. While listening to this story, Verlaque had eaten a five-course meal and Sébastien had merely played with his food and drunk a bottle of red burgundy on his own. What disgusted Sébastien most about the story, it seemed to Verlaque, was not the dirty money but the plastic bags. Paper bags from Le Bon Marché would have better suited his brother. Better yet, leather from Louis Vuitton.

  “Could you please tell your wife to be at the agency tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?” Verlaque half asked, half demanded.

  “Yes, of course,” Pogorovski said. Verlaque turned to leave, and Paulik followed, after shaking hands with Pogorovski. The Russian accompanied them to the massive front doors, and as they walked to the car he said, still standing in the entrance, “You’ll let me know as soon as you find out who did this to François, non?”

  Verlaque said nothing, but nodded and got into the car. The driver threw his L’Equipe on the passenger seat, and Verlaque told him to take them to the Cannes polo grounds. “We’re lucky that all the players are there this evening,” he said, looking at Paulik.

  “Yeah. They just had their annual meeting, and the gala dinner is this evening. The president of the club has warned them that we are coming, and has told them that we will be as discreet as possible. Their wives will be present, and he didn’t want to upset them, but, the sponsors will also be there.”

  “The sponsorship of a polo club is a big deal, I take it.”

  Paulik nodded. “Fréd told me that the polo club in Cannes has some amazing sponsors—private jet companies, movie studios—the big players.”

  They began their descent down through the olive groves and gardens.

  Paulik turned to Verlaque and said, “That guy’s as honest as a donkey walking backwards.”

  “I agree, but we can’t do anything unless we can prove that he hired a contract killer, and that will be very difficult to do,” Verlaque replied. He then smirked and said, “A donkey walking backwards? Where did you come up with that expression?”

  “It’s an old saying from the Luberon,” Paulik replied. The mention of the Luberon reminded Verlaque that Paulik hadn’t always been a commissioner, or a wine connoisseur, or an opera buff. “In the Luberon,” Verlaque asked, “did you have opera? How did you become such an opera fan, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It was a school trip, when I was ten,” Paulik replied, leaning back. “We had a teacher who organized a field trip for us to see a matinee at the Aix opera festival. Funded by the government. You know—invite the country kids to get some refinement. I loved it. I was speechless. When I got back to the house, I would hum some of the bits I had memorized, and my older brothers teased me that I was in love. I guess I was. After that, any pocket money I made working on neighbors’ farms I spent on opera records or for the festival. Plus on my moped, naturally,” he added, smiling.

  “You’re an amazing person,” Verlaque said, looking at Paulik’s big, burly body; his face with its pug nose and soft brown eyes; and his scarred bald head. Paulik shrugged. “We all are,” he replied.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Her pencil moved quickly across the paper, hatching, in small straight lines, to form a high-pitched roof. Almost never leaving the paper, the pencil began to work on the other side of the old house, where there stood rows of vines. Marine added three tall, straight cypress trees and then sat back and studied her drawing. She had been sketching old stone buildings for years and now could do a fair job by memory. It was a habit she had started in high school, when her mind drifted away from the pages of her textbook. But what had begun, in her head, as Château Bremont in Saint-Antonin, was now, on paper, Marc Nagel’s winery.

  Marine had been working in the staff room of the Cannes police headquarters for two hours, and doodled while waiting for the dinosaur computer to download the web pages she’d requested. The Internet at the Carlton hotel was temporarily down, and since Verlaque and Paulik had to go to the police station to pick up their car and driver, Verlaque had called to ask if Marine could work there. “She definitely can’t work on one of the staff computers—there’s too much sensitive information on those,” Inspector Boutard told Verlaque over the phone. They had worked together on a drug bust the previous year, and Boutard was, Verlaque thought, an idiot. “Yes, of course,” Verlaque agreed, yawning.

  “But there is an old computer in the staff room. It’s only hooked up to the Internet—it’s not on the police station’s network,” Boutard continued, wanting to be helpful. In the early days of computers, French employers were worried that employees would, if given the chance, surf the Internet while at work, and so many of the staff workstations in public institutions had no Internet connection: one or two computers would be set aside, often in a staff room or an empty office, for searching the Internet. The employers claimed that it was a security issue.

  Marine had made space for herself in front of the dusty computer, and had been taking notes on a pad she always carried. The printer was ancient; besides it had no paper, nor ink. It looked like one of the first printers that appeared on the market, like the one she had when she was doing her law degree, whose carriage loudly banged back and forth, back and forth, while printing.

  She had found some newspaper articles on the web confirming what she had heard about Russians in the Côte d’Azur and their real estate acquisitions. She was about to look into Mme Pogorovski’s modeling agency when she stretched, realizing that since Étienne’s funeral the day before she had been moving nonstop. She had buried a childhood friend, whose brother had since been killed; she had
spoken to another whom she hadn’t seen in years; had received a thrashing—much deserved—from Sylvie; and had heard the words she so longed for from Antoine. She got up and walked to where the staff vending machines were kept, in search of a much-needed coffee. She came quickly around the corner only to stop in her tracks as she saw a young uniformed officer at one of the machines. He seemed surprised to see someone he didn’t know in the staff room, but politely smiled and said hello. Marine returned his greeting. When he reached down for his change, she couldn’t help admiring his tanned, muscular arms and wide shoulders. As he was taking his espresso out of the machine another policeman came into the room and bellowed, “Hey, Pellegrino! You’re going to be late for your chichi party!” The young officer turned around and replied, “I was on the beat all day. I need some caffeine before I hit the champagne!”

  “Ah, you poor devil!” his friend yelled back.

  Pellegrino, Pellegrino, Marine tried to remember. Paulik had been just talking to him.

  Marine smiled and said, “Excuse me. Are you the officer who plays . . . or played . . . polo with François de Bremont? You’ll have to excuse me . . . I overheard that other officer call you Pellegrino. You see, I’m a law professor from Aix-en-Provence, and I grew up with François and Étienne.”

  “You’re kidding?” He stared at her, and then asked suspiciously, “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m in Cannes with Aix’s examining magistrate . . . on . . . er, other business.”

  “Antoine Verlaque?”

  “You know him?” Marine asked.

  Pellegrino shook his head back and forth. “Only by reputation.”

  “Would you mind if we spoke for a few minutes about François?”

  “I guess not, if you say that you’re here with Judge Verlaque. I’m still in shock at the news, as are all the polo players.” Marine thought he sounded as sincere as her students who tried to make excuses for late papers. The polo player then added, as if it were an afterthought, “You must be too, if you were friends with him.”