Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1)

by Patrick Philippart

  Then she turned to her husband and burst into tears. Philippe, disconcerted, hugged her tenderly in his arms. “It’s awful,” he murmured. He pictured Franck when he was about ten. He’d often played soccer with his father in the neighboring garden. Sometimes, the ball would cross over the fence and land on the patio. Philippe had always enjoyed kicking it back, making a show of imitating the great Raymond Kopa. They had never had the slightest problem with the Hérons. They’d shared numerous evenings together around the dinner table, evenings that often included games of bridge and went late. And now little Franck was dead, and his parents didn’t even know.

  Catherine had stopped sobbing and was sniffling in his arms. “I’ll call L’Actualité,” Philippe suddenly announced.

  As he arrived at Rue Théodore-Gobert, Boizot winced. Under the gray sky, the small dark brick homes didn’t look at all enticing. He slowly drove up to number 25 and parked his car in front of the driveway. As he was getting out of the car, he noticed the curtains move behind the window. Obviously, he was expected.

  He didn’t even have enough time to ring the doorbell before the front door opened and there stood a tall, thin old man with a tanned face and carefully combed white hair. Without smiling, he shook Boizot’s hand.

  “Monsieur Boizot? I am Philippe Congy. Come in!”

  The house smelled clean in a way that reminded him of his parents’ place near Vernouillet.

  “Straight back,” said the old man as he closed the door behind him.

  Boizot walked into a room of modest dimensions where a short, round old lady was waiting for him, standing completely still beside an oak table on which she had set a tray with three mugs.

  “Have a seat,” said Philippe.

  “Wherever you’d like,” added his wife. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Gladly,” said Boizot as he sat down at the table, smiling.

  Philippe Congy sat across from him, and, without further ado, he showed him the front page of L’Actualité.

  “I called you after seeing this, Monsieur Boizot. I’m a longtime reader of your newspaper, and this morning when I opened it, I discovered that the person you are looking for is none other than the son of our neighbors and friends.”

  He spoke in a clear, confident voice. Boizot guessed that he might have been a teacher.

  His wife returned and poured three cups of coffee. He thanked her with a smile.

  As the wife was leaving for the kitchen again, Boizot asked, “Monsieur Congy, may I ask you a brief preliminary question?”

  “Of course,” said the old man, a little surprised.

  “Were you a teacher before you retired?”

  “Oh, yes, I was. I worked for my entire career at Saint-Exupéry Middle School in Meudon as a social studies teacher. That’s also why we moved thirty years ago to Clamart, to make commuting easier. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I just thought you seemed like a teacher.”

  “Really?”

  Returning from the kitchen, the wife came and sat at the table with them.

  “There is something that bothers me: we published the photo of your neighbors’ son on the front page last week. Why didn’t you recognize him then?”

  “Last week, we were in the US, in New Jersey, visiting our daughter Lucie. I had delivery stopped while we were away.”

  “I see.”

  The interview finally turned to the person of Franck Héron. To support their claims, the old lady went to get a photo that had been taken two years earlier, when they’d organized a barbecue in honor of the parents’ move to Biarritz.

  Examining the photograph carefully, Boizot remarked, “Franck certainly changed compared to the current ID photo in which he has curly blond hair. Here his hair is brown and straight.”

  “Exactly,” said Catherine. “He changed it about a year ago. One day, we saw him come home with his hair bleached blond and curly. When I asked him about it, he laughed as if it were nothing and said he wanted to have a more modern look.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  “Not much,” said the husband. “Odd jobs, nothing steady. He had worked for a while as a mechanic in a garage near Meaux, and then he was fired. It should be said that he was not very hardworking. He was lazy, and a big drinker.”

  “So it wouldn’t surprise you, if it is in fact him, to find him involved in a burglary?”

  “You know, I always thought that Franck might have been involved in trafficking stuff that wasn’t legal. Sometimes we would see him come home early in the morning; other times he would disappear for two or three days without any explanation.”

  “Did you speak to one another?”

  “You bet!” Philippe said. “We’ve known him since he was a kid. His parents were never strict enough with him. He was their only child, so they let him get away with everything.”

  Catherine spoke up again, remembering that Franck had often played with her youngest daughter, Corinne. “Then they gradually lost touch,” she said. “Ever since then, our conversations were limited to how his parents were doing.” Here Catherine’s eyes began to fill with tears. “The poor parents! When they find out, it will kill them!”

  Boizot nodded, trying to adopt a look of consternation.

  “He lived alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had he ever been married or had a girlfriend?”

  The woman glanced at her husband, as if to seek support.

  “Since Fernand and Marie-Jeanne left, we never saw a girl at the house.”

  “Was he . . . gay?”

  This time it was Philippe Congy who replied. “To be honest, we did ask ourselves that question. But he didn’t bring any men home with him, either. I think that living alone must not have bothered him. You know, there are many more people than you would think who live alone. Either because they haven’t found the right match or because they simply aren’t looking.”

  Boizot finished taking notes before looking up.

  “Did he have a car?”

  “No, just a moped.”

  “If I understand correctly, the house is empty, then?”

  “Yes. We were a bit surprised nobody was home when we returned from our trip.”

  “Does someone take care of the mail when he’s not around?”

  Philippe Congy grinned. “What mail? Apart from a few bills, Franck probably didn’t receive much. Besides, he stuck a note on his mailbox saying no ads. So there was little risk of it overflowing.”

  “OK . . . One last thing, could you give me the address and telephone number of his parents?”

  Sitting out on the patio, Fernand Héron was immersed in reading Sud-Ouest when the telephone rang. He sighed, annoyed, put his glasses and newspaper down, and walked back into the apartment. He hated answering the phone, but Marie-Jeanne was at the market and he had no choice.

  At the other end, he heard a strange voice. “Monsieur Héron? Hello, my name is Dimitri Boizot. I am a journalist with L’Actualité, and I’m looking to speak with your son, Franck.”

  Fernand Héron suddenly felt overcome with worry. That same morning, there had already been that call from Catherine, and now a journalist.

  “Why?”

  Boizot had prepared a ready-made answer: “Your son entered a competition run by the newspaper for a vacation, and I wanted to tell him that he has made it to the semifinals.”

  “Oh? Franck enters competitions now. That’s new . . . But I’m sorry, monsieur, it’s been several days since I’ve heard from my son.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone number for him, Monsieur Héron? On his entry form, your son has written only his home phone and yours.”

  Fernand Héron sighed. Should he be giving this information to a stranger? If only Marie-Jeanne were there, she would know what to do. On th
e other hand, there was no harm in it, most likely. He opened his address book to the letter F and dictated the numbers.

  Boizot thanked him, hung up, and immediately called the number. As he had expected, it went straight to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message and decided to go see Magnin.

  “Excellent progress,” he exclaimed, after getting the update. “We’re going to outdo the competitors and the police at the same time! How much can you give me?”

  Boizot could tell Magnin was ready to rush into things without thinking.

  “Wait,” he pleaded. “We can’t print the guy’s name in the paper without being one hundred percent certain that it’s really him. Besides, his parents don’t even know.”

  Magnin, clearly annoyed, glared at him. Boizot quickly added, “Listen, here’s what I propose. Tomorrow morning, I’ll head down to Biarritz, see the parents, and show them the photo of Marcel Orphelin. It will be an even stronger story if I include the reaction of the parents. To be honest, we can wait a day.”

  “Are you sure that our competition is not on it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Magnin nodded, apparently convinced by his arguments.

  Boizot felt euphoric as he left the office. He pictured himself as a big-shot reporter at the Washington Post during the Watergate era. Obviously, he wasn’t going to be taking down a president, but still . . .

  He returned to his desk. Across the way, Censier was busy on the telephone with one of his informants. Boizot dialed Paul Vendroux’s number. With everything else going on, he hadn’t had any time to visit Job-Inter in Saint-Cloud as he’d intended. Vendroux picked up on the third ring.

  “Hey, it’s Boizot. How’s it going?”

  “All right.”

  Boizot continued, using his best please-help-me voice. “Anything new in the Plesse case?”

  “New? No, I’m afraid not.”

  “And what about this burglary at the temp agency in Saint-Cloud? What’s your opinion?”

  “Don’t have one, to tell the truth. Either it was coincidence, or petty criminals who read about what had happened to Plesse in the newspaper decided to benefit from the confusion. It happens, you know.”

  Boizot could not believe that it was coincidence, but he kept his doubts to himself and quickly ended the conversation.

  Sylvie Flaneau was standing by the living-room window, staring beyond the steeple of the cathedral. Lost in her thoughts, she hesitated about what to do. Should she call the reporter or keep it all to herself? Nervous, she chewed the inside of her cheek. She’d had a crush on Ludovic Corneau when she was fifteen or sixteen. He had never found out. She had pretty much forgotten all about him, and now he’d suddenly popped up in her life again through this journalist, Boizot, and his preposterous story. How could he mistake Marcel Orphelin for a reincarnation of Jean-Mi? There was no confusing the two. At the same time, she had to admit she was troubled, and that bothered her.

  She sighed, unconsciously played with her hair, and then finally decided. Curled up in her favorite chair, she took the business card he had left her, picked up her phone, and dialed Boizot’s cell phone number. He had a sympathetic-looking face and she wanted to trust him. In any case, she thought, it’s him or no one.

  Boizot was opening the door to his apartment when his cell phone rang. He threw his briefcase in a corner and picked up, slamming the door shut behind him. It was probably just some pesky telemarketer.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Monsieur Boizot?” said a vaguely unfamiliar female voice.

  “Yes, speaking,” he said curtly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you; it’s Sylvie Flaneau.” And then she paused as if she wanted to give him enough time to understand or remember.

  He immediately softened: “Madame Flaneau? How are you?”

  “Fine, fine. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

  He automatically looked at his watch: 4:12 p.m. “Yes, of course. Just let me take off my jacket. I just walked in the door.”

  “Is this a good time?” said Sylvie when he picked the phone back up.

  “Please.”

  “So . . . since you came by the house the other day, I’ve been thinking about Jean-Michel and his accident. And I remembered a detail that’s probably unimportant, but seemed worth telling you about, anyway. Last year on March thirty-first—I know the exact date, since I have the habit of writing everything down in my agenda book—Jean-Michel came home for lunch because it was Easter Sunday. At one point, he received a call on his cell phone—from Charles Plesse.”

  “Did that seem out of the ordinary?” Boizot asked, suddenly interested. “Surely it was just a phone call between friends.”

  “It really surprised me to find out that Jean-Mi still spoke with Plesse. I thought that he had cut all ties with the Musketeers after high school.”

  Boizot let a few seconds go by. Then he asked, “Does the fact that you’re calling me imply that you’re taking my story more seriously?”

  This time it was Sylvie who paused before answering: “I don’t know, but yes, I must admit, your visit got me thinking. It’s the only thing I could think about for the past two days. And I’m even more intrigued now that I remember the phone call between my brother and Charles Plesse a few months before the accident, especially considering I thought they were no longer friends.”

  Boizot lit a cigarette, coughed, and then, without thinking, said quickly, “Interested in getting dinner tonight?”

  He sensed Sylvie Flaneau’s surprise at the other end.

  A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence. “Hello?” Boizot asked. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes. I was just thinking.”

  “Are you that booked up?” said Boizot in a tone that was meant to be lighthearted.

  “No, that’s not it,” she said. “But I was wondering—”

  “Why I asked? Because I thought that we could spend an evening together, get to know each other better, talk about your brother.”

  Boizot surprised himself as he spoke. It was the first time in his life he’d ever hit on someone like this.

  He was even more amazed by Sylvie’s response. “Why not,” she said. “Sure.”

  Chapter 20

  Once the waiter had taken their drink order, he left, silent and stiff. The service at this inn, on the edge of the forest of Montmorency, was as formal as Boizot remembered. Long ago, in another life, he had taken Andrée to dinner at this place.

  Their first visit must have been for a wedding anniversary. They’d come back to celebrate her first pregnancy. That second visit had been their last. Perhaps because they’d had nothing left to celebrate.

  Opposite him, Sylvie Flaneau seemed a bit befuddled. She had vaguely tried to tame her blond mane by inserting bobby pins that made her pointy face stand out like a mischievous mouse’s.

  He noted with satisfaction that she had made an effort to look nice for dinner. He’d pulled out the jacket he wore for special occasions, which felt a little tight.

  “Nice place,” Sylvie had said approvingly as they’d walked in. The waiter had seated them on the patio for an aperitif. A few feet away, a table of men laughed loudly, telling an off-color joke.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “No,” Boizot lied. He didn’t want to fall into that trap. There was no reason to talk to her about his ex. “I found the address in a restaurant guide.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “Uh . . . Le Routard, I think.”

  Sylvie nodded.

  “Do you like going out to restaurants?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from his past.

  “I very rarely eat out. The bakery takes up most of my time. And I don’t really follow trends, I’m afraid.”

  The waiter brought the two glasses of ch
ampagne that Boizot had ordered along with their appetizers.

  He could not help but think of the bill and the gaping hole it would leave in his depressed finances.

  “Cheers, Sylvie!” he ventured, suddenly emboldened. “It doesn’t bother you if I call you by your first name, does it? I call everyone by their first name; it’s a habit of mine.”

  “No problem,” said Sylvie, barely wetting her lips with the champagne.

  “So you’re the one who runs the bakery?” he asked, swallowing a tiny canapé of smoked salmon.

  “Pretty much,” she said. “The Flaneau bakery has existed in Senlis since 1868. It was founded by my great-great-great-grandfather, Jean. So I represent the sixth generation of Flaneau bakers in Senlis.” She grinned.

  He smiled in turn, waiting for her to continue.

  “Since Jean founded the place so long ago, all the men in my family have been called Jean-something. So my great-great-grandfather’s name was Jean-François. His son, my great-grandfather, was called Jean-Marie. Then there was my grandfather, who was born during the First World War; he was named Jean-Raymond in honor of Poincaré. Finally, there is my father, Jean-Marie, like his grandfather. My parents imagined that Jean-Michel was destined to continue the tradition, but Jean-Mi did not want to spend his life by an oven.”

  She paused to take a sip of champagne. Her brown eyes locked onto Boizot’s with the same intensity as when they’d first met two days prior. This time, there was no aggressiveness in her eyes, but a glimmer of amusement instead.

  “Your brother studied geology, right?”

  “Yes, and what’s funny is that it was my father who gave him the bug . . . and it ended up coming back to bite him.”

  “How so?”

  “Whenever our father had two hours to himself when we were little, he’d go off on what he called ‘rock hunts.’ He’d explore the forest of Chantilly or hike through the fields. He would bring his booty home and marvel at the beauty of his findings, like a kid, for hours. For him, it wasn’t at all scientific. It was just a hobby, but by watching him play with rocks, Jean-Mi also became passionate about them. He began to devour books on the subject, and he soon became something of an expert.”