The City of Blood

by Frédérique Molay

  “Should I offer them a drink?” Moumen asked, pretending to be naïve. He was enjoying the situation.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Nico said curtly.

  He watched as the second-in-command from Maurin’s group swayed across the dance floor to get the two men. Nico found a couch. He was exhausted. He took out his cell phone and sent Caroline a text. “At a club, a place where you’d never get in. Just want to hug you now. Miss you.” Her reply was immediate. Caroline had a hard time sleeping when he was out. “Miss you too. Be careful! Hugs back. And more if you want.” He felt warmth spread through him.

  “I’m Gianni,” one of his admirers said in a deep voice.

  Nico doubted that this was his real name. It seemed more like an assumed name for his nighttime activities. Gianni was sitting next to him already. Nico felt the man’s thigh pressing against his.

  “And I’m Théo,” the other man said. This one had turned his attention away from Nico and was now ogling Moumen.

  They had both found their special someones.

  “I saw you when you came in,” Gianni said.

  His black fishnet T-shirt showed off his flawless muscles. Nico guessed that Gianni had a matching thong.

  “I know,” Nico replied.

  “Are you free tonight?”

  His thigh was pressing even harder against Nico’s. And now Gianni’s hand was on Nico’s thigh. Best to be forthright.

  “Not tonight,” Nico said with a smile.

  “Another time? You’re my type.”

  “You’re too kind, but… I’m in a relationship.”

  “Oh, you’re faithful?”

  “Indeed.”

  “That’s so refreshing!”

  “With a woman,” Nico said.

  Gianni frowned. “Are you messing with me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “There’s no swaying you?” he asked.

  Moumen was trying to extricate himself from Théo, who had managed to plant a kiss on his cheek. Gianni, at least, had shown some restraint.

  “No, I’m in love with her.”

  “I hope she’s worth it.”

  “She absolutely is.”

  “Even in bed?”

  Despite the dark passageways and rooms, there was no privacy in this place. Nico realized how easy it would be to pick someone up. The target of a predator, Clément hadn’t stood a chance.

  “Yes, no one could be better,” Nico said with a sly smile.

  “What are you doing here, then? Are you a cop like Ayoub?”

  “Chief of the Criminal Investigative Division, in fact. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Nico held out his hand.

  Gianni shook it. “I’m a lawyer. I travel between Paris and New York. Coming here is my way of relaxing. My straight colleagues cheat on their wives, and they have no problem with it. They do have a problem with any colleagues who might be gay. But we’re working on it. Attitudes are changing.”

  The DJ started playing Dido’s “Here With Me.” Nico liked the blend of soul and Celtic influences.

  “We’re here about Clément. He was attacked after visiting the club last night. Somebody was with him.”

  Nico took out the picture of Timothy Krall.

  “Don’t recognize him,” Gianni said. He passed the picture to Theo, who also shook his head.

  “Tell me about the guy who left with him,” Nico said.

  “Clément came alone, so they met here,” Gianni said.

  “And what was your impression?”

  “Not my type. He was too skinny. I like men about my size. Like you.”

  They were shouting into each other’s ears; the music was deafening.

  “Clément didn’t have the same taste in men?”

  “He’s attracted to mysterious guys. This one nabbed Clément but wouldn’t kiss him. That’s pretty much how he nailed him. He’d tease and deny. Some guys like that.”

  “Do any of these photos look familiar?”

  Laurent Mercier and Daniel Vion were looking at the camera in the photos Nico showed Gianni.

  “This guy had blue eyes. Not as pretty as yours, of course. He was wearing a white and gold crew neck. And he had chestnut hair and a beard. It could have been a disguise. He might have been one of the two men, but don’t take me at my word. Sorry I can’t be more helpful. I know it’s important to you and Clément.”

  “And you didn’t notice anything else that was unusual about the way he was acting?”

  “I’m trying to remember. Why don’t we dance? I have to think, and sometimes I can do that best when I’m on my feet. Don’t worry. It’ll be entirely innocent. I’m not an idiot.”

  Nico was starting to like this man.

  “Well?” Gianni said.

  “If Ayoub agrees to a dance with Théo, then I’ll dance too.”

  Gianni gave Théo a thumbs-up. Théo smiled and puffed his chest at a plainly stunned Moumen. Nico couldn’t help laughing.

  “I like your attitude,” Gianni said. “There’s no harm in sharing a dance.”

  “Could I ask a question?” Nico said. “You said the man Clément was with was skinny. Could you tell me a little bit more about his looks?”

  “Oh sure. Like I said, he was a bit thin for my taste. And the way he moved was too prissy for me. Like a little girl.”

  “A girl? Anything you can add to that?”

  “Hmm, I remember now: he had this tic when he talked. He rubbed his finger over his lower lip the whole time. Not the tip of his finger, but the middle part of his finger, like this…”

  He imitated Clément Roux’s attacker.

  “Well, that’s actually a very useful detail,” Nico said. “Does anything else come to mind?”

  “That’s all I have. Shall we dance? Don’t worry. I won’t rub up against the chief of police.”

  “Yes, we’ll dance.”

  Gianni’s eyes sparkled. But Nico’s thoughts were on the Butcher of Paris and that tic, which could reveal who he was, despite any disguise. Better yet: Gianni had said he was like a “little girl.” It was valuable information well worth a dance.

  29

  Daylight had hardly broken when Nico parked his car in the hospital parking lot. After leaving the nightclub with Captain Moumen, he should have gone straight to headquarters, but he knew he would regret it if he didn’t see his mother before she went into the operating room.

  He ran all the way to his mother’s unit. The nurses were going from one bed to the next, their faces serious and their smiles practiced. It made Nico think of flight attendants handling passengers during an engine failure.

  “Chief Sirsky?” one of them said.

  He had asked Caroline to intercede. Visiting a patient so early in the morning was usually forbidden. But nurses always deferred to doctors, even if they practiced at another hospital.

  “Nico, how are you?” Anya murmured when she saw him.

  Mothers were all the same, protective of their children, even at the oddest moments.

  “I’m well, Maman. How are you?”

  He sat by the bed and held her hand in his.

  “I’m so glad this is going to be over soon, and I will be able to go home. I’ve had enough of this circus.”

  “I saw the priest at Saint-Serge,” he said quietly.

  She smiled indulgently.

  “I know, Nico.”

  He stared at her.

  “We Russians are everywhere—even in this hospital. A nurse has been bringing me messages from everybody in the community. And the priest has been here to visit. He hopes that you’ll introduce him to Caroline. He’d love to meet her.”

  “He doesn’t know Dimitri, does he? He seemed to imply that he did.”

  Anya’s smile grew wider, and her eyes shone, despite her pallor.

  “That’s a little secret between Dimitri and me. He’s eager to learn our history. You’re aware of that. We’ve been meeting with Father. Oh, I haven’t done anything that you might object to. I kn
ow that any religious instruction must be your decision. But I hope that someday you’ll allow him to attend Mass with me.”

  She ran out of breath.

  “Maybe I’ll make a good Orthodox boy out of him! It wouldn’t hurt you to attend a few Masses yourself, Nico,” she added with a wink. “Considering your job, you could use a little religion.”

  “Maybe I will, Maman.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  “The procedure will go well. Don’t worry.”

  Nico wasn’t quite sure, right then, which of them had said the words.

  “I’m sure of it,” he said.

  30

  Nico returned to his office, more nervous than ever. He had asked Caroline to go to the hospital and stay there until Anya woke up. Caroline, as understanding and generous as ever, had agreed. Nico couldn’t bear the thought of not being at the hospital when his mother went under the knife. But she would understand. He couldn’t do anything for her at the hospital anyway. But he could do everything in his power at headquarters to apprehend Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murderer and the Butcher of Paris. He had to keep his promise and honor his end of the deal.

  Nico went up Stairwell A. On the fourth floor, Moumen was leaning against the department’s symbol on the wall—a thistle and the motto “Brush against us and you get stung.” Nico was every bit as prickly. Nobody would dare to needle him this morning.

  “We’re all here, Chief,” Moumen said, standing at attention.

  “Everyone in my office now. Is Becker here?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  Moumen was happy. His little trip with the boss had swelled his head.

  Nico was already on his way down the narrow corridor to his office. Moumen left to round up his colleagues.

  Clare Le Marec brought warm croissants to the meeting; their aroma filled the room. Jean-Marie finished a text to his wife. Kriven and Plassard set their cups of hot coffee on the table. Moumen pulled the chair out for Commander Maurin, who smiled with a bit of exasperation. Alexandre Becker set a thick folder on the table—the one about Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murder. Then he pulled an accordion folder with a strap and metal clasp out of his briefcase. It had a compartment for each of the recent victims. Becker was now on top of these cases too, which meant that Nico’s suspicions were being taken seriously.

  “You’ve spent all night at the clubs, so we’re eager to hear what you’ve turned up. That is, if you’re comfortable telling us. It might be too personal,” Becker said, winking at his friend.

  “We picked up some juicy stuff, all right,” Nico retorted. “Didn’t we, Ayoub?”

  “The boss is right.” Moumen looked around the table. “He had to sell his body for a few leads. But they were high-quality leads.”

  “Really? Do tell us,” Kriven said.

  “We met Gianni and Théo, two regulars at the nightclub Clément Roux usually goes to,” Nico said, getting serious again. “The young man met an older guy, according to the bartender. And it wasn’t Timothy Krall. On that point everyone agreed. According them, Clément Roux would have never been attracted to a guy like Tim.”

  Maurin raised her hand.

  “Timothy Krall has an airtight alibi for Wednesday night. He was photographing an anniversary party until two in the morning. I called his clients, and they backed up his story. And Sunday night, he was at his computer, working on a series of prints to hand in the next day. The edit times on his machine, as well as two e-mails he sent correspond with what he told us. It doesn’t appear that he had anything to do with the recent attacks.”

  “That doesn’t clear him of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s murder,” Magistrate Becker said.

  “Tim’s a pretty typical loser. That’s true,” Kriven said. “But I can’t really see him as a murderer.”

  “In a moment of anger, perhaps?” Becker asked.

  “I have trouble imagining him killing his sister’s fiancé and then burying him in the park,” Kriven said. “He doesn’t have the sangfroid for it. I don’t even know if he has the smarts for it.”

  “Well, we do know that he’s homophobic,” Becker said. “Maybe he couldn’t tolerate the fact that his sister was about to marry someone who was gay. That’s a plausible motive.”

  “He used the word ‘faggot,’ but deep down, I don’t think it’s much of an issue for him,” Rost said. “I don’t even think he cared enough about his sister to keep her from marrying a man who, in the end, wouldn’t make her happy. He cared about what he stood to gain. And Jean-Baptiste was the goose that laid the golden egg.”

  Becker let out a deep breath.

  “What do you think?” he asked Nico.

  “I’m inclined to agree with them. Tim Krall didn’t do it.”

  “Franck? Are you done with all the banquet and excavation VIPs?” Nico asked.

  “Yes, Chief,” Captain Plassard said. “We saw the final witnesses last night. There’s nothing to add.”

  “Okay, let’s get to our scoop from the club,” Nico said. “I’m sure Ayoub can’t wait to tell you.”

  “Yes, let’s,” the magistrate said. “The investigation has exonerated Timothy Krall a priori.”

  “Gianni actually had some intriguing details to share—”

  “And he only had eyes for the chief!” Ayoub interjected.

  “Gianni definitely saw Clément Roux’s attacker,” Nico said, moving the conversation along. “He didn’t especially like the man and thought he was manipulating the kid. But that’s not the most interesting part. To describe him, Gianni used a term that struck me, because I heard Jean-Marie use the same term.”

  Everybody around the table was quiet. Nico had their attention. “Jean Marie, you described Mercier as a kind of pretty boy who wanted to come off as much younger than his fifty-two years.”

  “Yes, that was my impression,” Rost said.

  “And you called him a—”

  “A little girl,” Ayoub interrupted, looking at his boss.

  “That’s exactly the term Gianni used. We must find out if Mercier and the man Gianni saw at the club are one in the same.”

  Nico banged the table to emphasize his words. He was usually calm during these meetings, but not now.

  “There was something else that struck me about the guy,” Jean-Marie Rost said. He seemed to be thinking out loud.

  “His voice,” Becker suggested. “It was reedy, a bit higher-pitched.”

  “But someone’s voice can be controlled and modified,” Claire Le Marec pointed out. “That’s why people take voice lessons. Furthermore, exhaustion and illness, the tone of a conversation, even switching from one language to another can change the pitch, volume, timbre, and tempo of someone’s speech.”

  “It’s still an integral part of our identity,” Becker said. “Researchers have made progress there, with ways to do electronic voice recognition. Courts accept it as a form of identification. But we need some kind of comparison. If we had a recording of the attacker, the lab could compare his vocal imprint with Mercier’s.”

  “But we have something else,” Nico said mysteriously.

  Everyone turned his way.

  “A tic. Clément Roux’s attacker kept rubbing his lower lip with the middle part of his finger. According to Dominique Kreiss, this kind of gesture is a very telling form of nonverbal communication. She’s gone over this with us before: the face has seven key points, including the mouth, and caressing the lower lip is suggestive of a sexual impulse.”

  “I didn’t notice that sort of gesture when I interviewed Mercier,” Becker mused.

  “Me either,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

  “There’s only one conclusion I can draw from that,” Kriven said. “You aren’t Laurent Mercier’s type.”

  “And right you are, David,” Nico said, laughing.

  “Evidently, Laurent Mercier is attracted to men who look like Jean-Baptiste Cassian,” Becker said. “Let’s say that you’re right, Nico. What do you suggest?”

  “The witn
esses from the club and Clément Roux could identify the attacker’s voice. It’s worth a try, isn’t it? With a clean setup, that index-finger tic could reappear and be an additional marker.”

  “And we’d be in a good position to get a confession,” the magistrate acknowledged.

  “Charlotte, any news on Mercier’s alibi the night of Mathieu Leroy’s attack?” Nico asked.

  “The bar at the Hôtel du Louvre had so many customers, the employees couldn’t be sure if they’d seen the man and his clients Tuesday night. If Mercier paid the bill with his credit card, we’d have a trail. But we’ll have to wait until the banks open. As for his clients, I tried to get in touch but couldn’t reach them. On Wednesday and Sunday night, we only have his wife’s testimony, and I’m not convinced that she’s trustworthy.”

  “Is it time to search their place?” Becker asked.

  Val-de-Marne, where Vincennes was located, was a Paris suburb that was under the jurisdiction of the Paris police. That would make things easier.

  “We’ll need a search warrant and warrant for Laurent Mercier’s arrest,” Nico confirmed. “I’d also like to see Daniel Vion again and keep Tim Krall here. Three suspects for a lineup. What do you think?”

  “That’s fine. I’ll draw up the warrants.”

  “Get ready,” Nico told his team. “It’s going to be a busy day.”

  The Rue Jean-Moulin in Vincennes was a narrow one-way street not far from the Château de Vincennes. The Merciers lived at number 17, a rambling house with blindingly white walls. A plaque read “Laurent Mercier, Certified Landscape Designer.”

  The unmarked police cars parked in the street, blocking the morning traffic. The officers didn’t use their sirens or flashing lights. Nico wanted to approach the house as quietly as possible. Kriven’s and Maurin’s groups got out of their cars quickly. They were wearing bulletproof vests and carrying their Sig Sauger SP 2022s, nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistols. Each one had fifteen bullets and weighed about two pounds. Not as heavy as the old Manurhin revolver, which was now retired.