by ML Longworth
“Yes, I am. But we were childhood friends. I hadn’t seen him in years,” Marine replied. They began walking toward the tables that were set up in the staff room when Pellegrino said, “I just finished my shift and I have to go to the polo club for a gala dinner. I hope this won’t take long—I already missed the annual meeting this afternoon because I had to work.”
Marine noted the resentment in his voice at not being able to change his shift. But she imagined that it must be difficult for a young police officer to play polo with millionaires whose schedules are more flexible.
Marine sat down and motioned for Pellegrino to do the same. As he sat she marveled, once again, at his thin but muscular thighs and arms, and she quickly turned her attention to his blonde hair and tanned face. He seemed quite pleased with his good looks as well. “I’ve been doing some research, on the Internet,” Marine said, trying to sound vague. “You probably heard that François’s brother died last weekend. Could you fill me in a bit about François’s life in Cannes?”
“I played with François for three years. He was a really gifted player, rated a six.” Marine noted that he didn’t seem to care that the two brothers had died during the same week. Pellegrino hadn’t asked anything about Étienne de Bremont and didn’t seem the least bit curious about it. The young officer then said, “I am a seven.” Marine looked puzzled, and then realized that Pellegrino was talking about his polo rating. She liked him less now. She raised her eyebrows and asked, “Is that good?” trying to hide her mocking tone.
Pellegrino nodded and answered, “The best polo rating is a ten, but not many players in France have that.” He waited for Marine to ask more questions, but since she didn’t, he continued, “The best players in the world are in Spain and in South America. They very often have handicaps higher than five.”
Marine nodded, a bit bored. “Were you surprised to hear about François’s death?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he answered, his eyes widening. “Even if François had a lot of enemies, he didn’t deserve to die. He could be a dirty player, as I told Commissioner Paulik on the phone, but he never did anything wrong to me. He had everything—good looks, good humor, and a noble name. He impressed a lot of people in Cannes, especially the Russians. They seem to go in for that sort of thing—nobility, that is. Up until recently, I would have said that he was well liked. But since this winter he’s . . . he had been really edgy, and he tried to rig a polo match last week. Some of the other players say that he had gambling debts.”
“I heard about that game. Do you think he could have been killed over it?” Marine asked.
Pellegrino tilted his head back and laughed. “No, I doubt it. In Argentina maybe, where polo is king, but not in France. Sure, the other players and the management were royally pissed off, but François has been in such a state lately, all nervous and jittery, that the whole thing seemed kind of pathetic. The match was canceled halfway through, and a bunch of us went to the clubhouse bar, but François was told to leave. That was the last time I saw him.”
“And his work with the Russian, Lever Pogorovski? Had the local police been monitoring that?” Marine knew from Paulik that they had been, but she wanted to hear Pellegrino’s version.
“Yes,” replied Pellegrino. “François worked for Pogorovski’s wife, Maria, at her modeling agency, Tribeca. Despite the Russian connection, and her husband’s massive wealth, the agency seems clean. We’ve had them checked out a number of times by undercover agents.”
“You mean that these young Russian girls—”
“And African,” Pellegrino interrupted.
“They really are models?” Marine continued.
“Yes, some are even supermodels. They have their own websites and all that. Legitimate work as far as we can tell—magazine work for Elle and Vogue, here and in New York and Milan. And they do runway jobs for top designers.”
Pellegrino saw the look of disbelief on Marine’s face, and he continued: “Believe me, we tried to make the connection between the models and prostitution, especially when Pogorovski’s oil associates visit the Côte. The models usually accompany the men to dinner, and they all go to the same parties, but we can’t arrest Lever Pogorovski for that. These girls can go to parties if they want to. When we questioned the models, or their dinner partners, it was silence all round.”
Marine frowned and asked, “What’s the name of Pogorovski’s company?”
“Comgaz,” Pellegrino replied matter-of-factly, sliding his chair back a few inches, as if to signal the end of their talk. The policeman’s ambivalence bothered Marine, and so she felt no pangs in asking, “Isn’t it really expensive, playing polo?”
“Yes, it costs a fortune, especially if you keep your own horses, which many of the players do. As you know, I have a civil servant’s salary, so a horse is loaned to me, and I’m paid to play, thanks to my rating. It happens frequently in polo,” Pellegrino replied, starting to walk down the hall. “We also have company sponsorship, naturally,” he added, and he waved good-bye.
With the muscular policeman/polo player gone, Marine went back to the computer and stared at the screen. She thought about what Pellegrino had said and was still surprised that the Russian women really were, from what the Cannes police could tell, models. Perhaps we are too quick to assume that the Mafia is behind every business that makes money or involves glamour, Marine thought. Too many Hollywood movies. One last try, she told herself, as she clicked on Google and typed in “Russian Mafia Côte d’Azur,” this time in English. Various articles came up, many of them involving Russian-bought luxury real estate, and then, finally, on page three of an American web magazine that she hadn’t heard of, she saw a color photograph of a beautiful girl, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and abnormally perfect features, hugging herself, staring straight at the camera. Natassja Duvanov was from Kazakhstan, the article said, but worked as a supermodel in New York. In addition to the photograph of the shockingly beautiful girl, two things caught Marine’s eye: that she was represented by Tribeca Models, Inc., and that in January she had flung herself from of the balcony of her high-rise Manhattan apartment and committed suicide.
Marine was staring at the article, mesmerized by Duvanov’s photo, when her cell phone rang. Seeing that is was Verlaque’s number, she answered. “Yes, Antoine.”
“Hi. We’re leaving Pogorovski’s estate now, and we’re driving up into the hills to the polo club. We won’t be back in Cannes until late, around nine p.m. Can you meet us then, in the bar at the Carlton hotel? It’s only about a ten-minute walk from where you are. Or do you want us to pick you up?” he asked.
“No, a short walk would clear my head,” Marine answered. “I’ve found some interesting articles on the web. I’ll just stay here for a few more hours until you’re through questioning the players.” She’d need that walk to stop thinking about Natassja Duvanov. She hung up and quickly ran upstairs in hopes of finding Pellegrino still in the building. She found him easily—he had obviously showered and changed in the officers’ changing room and was just putting on a navy blue velvet jacket and walking toward to exit. Running down the hall, she got to Pellegrino as he put his hand on the door handle. She placed her hand on his shoulder, saying, “One last question. Can you come and look at something on the computer in the staff room?”
“I really don’t have time.”
Marine used her charm, smiling and taking the officer by his big, velvety shoulder. “It will take just a minute, I promise!”
He shrugged, and she led him quickly to the staff room. He followed her, checking messages on his cell phone. She leaned over the computer, whispering, “Did François de Bremont ever talk about a Russian model named Natassja who lives in New York?”
Pellegrino bit his bottom lip, thought for a few seconds, and said, “He did have a model friend who moved to New York, but I can’t remember her name. To be
honest, I used to get the Irinas and Natassjas and Anastasias mixed up.”
Marine showed Pellegrino the photo. “Oh yes, I recognize her. She came to some of the matches, and she accompanied François to some of the executives to dinners and parties.”
“Were she and François dating?” Marine asked.
“Hard to tell. François would brag about a lot of things, but never about women.”
“Or girls,” Marine suggested, tapping the photograph with her finger. “She committed suicide in January. She was twenty.”
Pellegrino looked stunned. “I had heard that one of their models died in New York, but I didn’t know which one or how. That could have put him in that edgy state, that’s for sure.”
“But you’re not sure if they were dating.”
To Marine’s amazement Pellegrino actually stifled a yawn. “I could care less.”
“Thanks,” Marine said, adding, “have fun at the party.” Pellegrino mumbled a good-bye and walked quickly out of the staff room, checking his watch.
Chapter Twenty
Marine walked over to the coffee machine and bought an espresso and a chocolate bar, which she had meant to do before running into Pellegrino. Her fatigue was catching up with her. She got back to her makeshift desk and looked again at Natassja’s photo. She saved it and then spent an hour looking up articles on the Internet about Russians in the Côte d’Azur. She came across an article in Le Monde on the purchase of the Villa Nina by Pogorovski and a half dozen other articles on his business dealings and property purchases. What she couldn’t find were articles featuring Pogorovski at social events—that was something Marine assumed billionaires did, something that went along with the “job”—black-tie parties and the almost-weekly obligatory fund-raiser. She spent the second hour looking at the Cannes polo club’s website, which was surprisingly detailed and obviously professionally done in both French and English. She immediately looked up the players and their ratings—both François and Officer Pellegrino were there, as were their handicaps, just as the officer had said: six and seven. The club’s website also mentioned that Eric Pellegrino was a polo teacher at the club, something he hadn’t told Marine. Perhaps he thought it wasn’t relevant. She clicked on Pellegrino’s photograph and admitted to herself that he really was quite handsome.
At a little before nine she worked her way, after about five minutes of walking down hallways, out of the building and into the balmy Cannes evening. She couldn’t stop thinking of the young beautiful Russian committing suicide. Wasn’t that the dream job of millions of girls around the world, regardless of their nationality, religion, or education? Something had bothered Marine about Pellegrino too. It might have been the self-confidence that athletes, especially young, handsome ones, always seem to have. But why did she get the feeling that he answered only the bare minimum of questions? He hadn’t seemed too interested in the Russian models, either. What kind of southern male was he? She thought of Antoine’s cigar friends at Le Mazarin and how they would fawn over pretty girls, let alone a top model. She laughed out loud, then thought herself a little foolish—she was already missing Aix after less than ten hours away from it. But it always happened like that, even when she visited Paris. The cours Mirabeau and the voices and faces she knew would stay with her, like part of her baggage, for at least a day.
Up ahead Marine could see the dark silhouettes of palm trees and colored lights on the sleek turn-of-the-century white walls of the Carlton hotel, and she began to feel happy to be away, away from the university and her parents, and even Sylvie. She knew she needed Sylvie, and yet often needed a break from her too. Marine skipped up the steps, saying bonsoir to the doorman as she passed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. Live piano music wafted through the lobby, and Marine followed it to the wood-paneled, dimly lit bar. There she saw the huge bulk of Paulik, and the back of his bald head, and, facing him, Antoine, who winked when he saw her, causing her heart to race. Paulik got up and pulled out a chair for Marine, and the three quickly began talking of their impressions of that long day. “Where are we sleeping tonight?” Marine suddenly asked, causing Paulik to laugh and add, “Yes, where?” They both looked at Verlaque, who was in the middle of taking a long puff on his Partagas corona. “Here,” he answered, slightly closing his eyes to the cigar smoke that enveloped him.
“The Carlton?” Marine shrieked. “Are you nuts?”
“I showed my badge to the front desk, and told them we were working with the Cannes police on a homicide, and they gave us a cut rate, three rooms, in the back. No view, I’m afraid,” Verlaque said.
“I’m too tired for a view,” Paulik said, and Marine nodded in agreement. She had also heard, very distinctly, three rooms, not two. As it should be, she mused. Verlaque gestured for the waiter and then looked at Paulik and Marine and said, “Why don’t we just order bar food for dinner? This is the Carlton—I imagine their bar food is quite good.”
“Fine with me,” Paulik replied, then turned his head toward Marine to get her opinion.
“Yes, fine, fine,” she answered, forcing a smile. She would have preferred to have eaten in the dining room, but as usual Verlaque had decided for everyone. Realizing that she hadn’t told the two men about Natassja Duvanov, she mentioned what she had learned on the Internet and by talking with Officer Pellegrino. Almost immediately Paulik asked how the girl had committed suicide, and both men winced when she told them of the Manhattan high-rise.
“So they were friends, this Natassja and François de Bremont?” Verlaque asked.
“Yes, and Officer Pellegrino said that François had been out of sorts for a few months. It could have been because of his debts or that combined with Natassja’s death,” Marine offered.
“Were they a couple?” asked Paulik. Marine looked up from her drink and saw Verlaque staring at her over his reading glasses.
“Pellegrino didn’t know,” she said. “Apparently François was quiet about his lovers.”
“Weird,” Paulik said.
Verlaque rolled the tip of his cigar around in the ashtray, letting the ashes slowly break off. Marine and Paulik watched, as if mesmerized. Verlaque then said, “Maybe François wasn’t permitted to date any of the models. I can see Pogorovski setting a rule like that. Perhaps their relationship was hidden. Who would know if they were romantically involved?”
Marine thought immediately of her friendship with Sylvie and said, “Her best friend.” She paused and then added, “Or her mother, but her mother lives in Kazakhstan.”
“We’ll go to the modeling agency tomorrow morning,” Verlaque said. “Perhaps there you can find out who she was close with. How did you find Officer Pellegrino?”
“Next to the coffee machine,” Marine replied.
Verlaque sighed. “No, I meant how did you find his mood, his character?”
“Oh, sorry,” Marine replied, putting her fork down. “He’s an egomaniac, for one thing, and was more worried about getting to the polo club on time than interested in talking about François’s death. And, come to think of it, he didn’t even make a remark when I reminded him that Étienne also died this week. He’s cold, I’d say. Or maybe just a bit thick.”
“That’s the way I found him, when I talked to him at the club.”
“How can he afford to play?” Paulik asked.
“He’s actually paid to play, because of his high rating,” Marine offered. “Plus they have company sponsorships.”
“When I spoke to him at the club, I noticed a fair amount of . . . how can I describe it? Jealousy? He had a chip on his shoulder because of his civil servant’s status among all those high rollers at the polo club,” Verlaque said.
“I noticed the same thing,” Marine replied. “And when I asked him if he thought François had been dating Natassja, he said that he could care less.”
“He’s frank at least,” Verlaque
said.
The three sat in silence for some time. “This wine is delicious,” Marine said to Paulik, aware of an awkward silence in the conversation. But she had noticed that the wine was unusually good, and she swirled the last of it around in her glass.
Paulik smiled. “It’s Marc’s.”
“How cool is that!” Marine said, proud of her newly acquired taste buds.
“Pellegrino gave me his alibi,” Verlaque said. Turning to Marine, he asked, “What did he tell you about the morning of François’s death?”
“He mentioned that he was on day shift that day. That would have made it impossible to get from Cannes to Saint-Antonin,” Marine offered.
“Shift?” Verlaque asked. “Did he use that exact word?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it. I remember because I imagined, for some reason, policemen walking up and down the Croisette, in their uniforms, under the palm trees.”
Paulik swirled the wine in his glass and asked Verlaque, “What did he tell you?”
“He said that he was working, and it was clear that he wanted to leave. When I pressed him about it, he admitted that he wasn’t patrolling but attending a computer-training session,” Verlaque said. “So he wasn’t entirely up front with Marine. You’ve taken those classes, haven’t you, Bruno? Do they take attendance?”
Paulik thought. “Sometimes.”
“François was killed by someone he knew,” Marine whispered. Both men turned to look at her. “That’s what both of you said.”
“Bruno, let’s call the Cannes police tomorrow and find out who was running the computer session that day,” Verlaque replied. Was jealousy or envy a motive for murder? Verlaque thought to himself. He remembered Pellegrino’s words when they had stood on the terrace of the polo club, surrounded by tanned men and women draped in jewels: “I’m paid to play. Did you see the cars in the parking lot?”