The Paris Directive

by Gerald Jay

  Duboit was as tickled as Bandu with their success. What pissed him off the most was that Thérèse thought she could pull the wool over their eyes. Grabbing the bag, he brought it inside, where she sat on the edge of the unmade bed nursing her baby.

  “No drugs, eh? No drugs?” He shook the bag in her face. “What do you call this, truffles?”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Under the back stairs, where you hid it.”

  She said she’d no idea what it was, how it got there.

  “Wise up, sweetheart. Right now, I’d say it don’t look too good for your boyfriend. But maybe if you cooperate we might go a little easier on him.”

  “What do you mean?” Thérèse didn’t like the way he said it or the way he was staring at her tits. She usually paid no attention to gawkers, amused at the way some men got so turned on watching her nursing that their tongues hung out, but not this time. She put the baby in his carriage and buttoned up.

  Bandu saw what was going on and didn’t want any part of it. The fool was about to do something dumb. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he said, snatching the ’shish away from him.

  “You go ahead. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Come on, Doobie. Now! You heard what the boss said. No more accidents. Time to go.” But the dope wouldn’t listen. All he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears.

  The young cop pushed her down on the bed. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Thérèse screamed at the asshole to get off her. Lashed out with her fingernails, scratched his face. Fighting back furiously, she kicked his legs, his crotch, and managed to push him away. Duboit fell to the floor.

  “You bitch!”

  Bandu grabbed him before he could get to his feet. “Don’t be a jerk, Duboit! I said let’s go!” He dragged him to the door.

  “Remember,” Bandu warned her, “not a word about this to anyone. We can make it nasty for you too.”

  “You bastards! You planted that bag yourselves, didn’t you?”

  As soon as they came back to the office, Mazarelle noticed Doobie’s face. “What happened to you? The scratches,” Mazarelle said, pointing.

  Duboit ran his fingertips over his cheek. “Oh that.” He laughed and told his boss about crawling under the Arab’s bed looking for his stash and running into a broken coil of wire on the bedspring.

  “No drugs?”

  Stepping forward, Bandu emptied the bricks of hashish onto the inspector’s desk and, hearing the clatter as they fell, the members of the task force gathered around.

  “It was under the steps at the back of the house.”

  Mazarelle marveled as he hefted the hashish, amazed at their haul and what it must have cost Ali. It was obvious where he’d gotten the money. No doubt contemplating a new line of work. He congratulated the two men, delighted with what they’d brought him. The next time he took Ali out of the garde à vue cell for questioning, he intended to get a confession from him.

  “And you were right, boss. We didn’t need a search warrant.” Duboit gave his partner a sly glance of male bravado and couldn’t resist adding, “She cooperated fully.”

  Bandu wished the young cock would stop strutting all the time and pay attention to business. He told the inspector about what happened to Ali’s car and how Thérèse had reported it to the gendarmes in Taziac.

  “Did they ever call you about that?” Bandu asked.

  Mazarelle shook his head. They’d told him nothing, but he wasn’t surprised, only very annoyed. Whoever busted up that car was tampering with evidence. The inspector made up his mind to go out there and look it over before she decided to junk it.

  The white Beetle was a total wreck, worse than Bandu had described. The windows were completely smashed and pieces of glass covered the seats, the dashboard, the floor. Its tires slashed, the car rested on its axles. The inspector yanked on the front door a couple of times before he could get it open. The steering wheel looked clean to him. He brushed the glass off the driver’s seat, which was worn and badly stained, so it was hard to tell if there was anything worthwhile there. Lifting the rubber floor mat, he shook off the glass, noting a few small, reddish-brown stains that could be promising. Releasing the trunk lock, he went around to the front. The hood was dented, bent out of shape, and when he pulled it up, it echoed like a plangent steel drum. Inside were some tools, some rags, a jack, a spare tire, and a mobile.

  Mazarelle gingerly picked up the Nokia by its stubby black antenna. The cell phone was red and blue, the colors he guessed of the hockey team whose name was on the bottom. He felt like a jackass, kicked himself for not having forensics go over Ali’s VW as soon as they had identified his bayonet. He slipped the phone into his pocket. As he walked over to radio his men to pick up the VW and take it down to Toulouse, he felt he was being watched. He quickly said to tell PTS to give it a complete going over, the works. “It’s urgent,” he reminded them.

  He walked across to the stone house and was about to knock when he glanced up. Thérèse was standing at the window with her arms crossed, watching him. He wondered how long she’d been there. It took her a while to unlock the door, and she did so only because the other two weren’t with him. Besides, though she’d never admit it, he reminded her of Père Noël. The size of him and his barrel chest, thick bushy eyebrows, his mustache. But he still was a cop, so she kept her distance.

  “Okay, what is it now?”

  He told her that his men would be coming out to pick up the

  car. That it could help them find the three bikers who smashed the thing up.

  “Take it. It’s not doing us any good sitting out there like that in the front yard.”

  Mazarelle asked what they looked like. Thérèse told him they wore helmets with visors; she couldn’t see their faces. What she did see were the black boots, the tattooed birds, flags, skulls, the splashy colors scrawled all over their arms, the cross around the neck of the big guy.

  “Oh, one thing more …” He carefully pulled out the mobile from his pocket and showed it to her. “Does this belong to your husband?”

  “How the hell should I know? It’s possible.”

  “Is he a hockey fan?”

  Thérèse drew back, cocked her head, and gave him a look as if he’d asked about her menstrual cycle.

  “You know—hockey.” He pointed to the name of the team on the Nokia. “Is Ali a Montreal Canadiens fan?”

  It was when she folded her arms and told him that she had had enough questions, to go ask her husband, that the inspector saw the black-and-blue marks on her arms. They were fresh, ugly bruises that she didn’t have the last time he’d been there.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “A bonus from one of the men you sent out here this morning. The son of a bitch tried to rape me.”

  “Bandu?”

  “I don’t know his name. He didn’t leave his card.”

  “Bandu raped you?”

  “I said tried to, but I changed his mind. It was the young one. The one who thinks he’s such a smart-ass.”

  Duboit! He couldn’t believe it. Even Duboit couldn’t be such a goddamn fool. Mazarelle felt a tsunami surge of anger, followed by a sharp pang of disappointment. But why would she say so if it wasn’t true? Though he didn’t know what really happened, he knew what he had to do. He reminded her that with a house full of drugs and a husband in jail, she didn’t need any more trouble than she already had. Going over to the sleeping baby, Mazarelle pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills into the carriage.

  “A kid can’t have too many lollipops,” he told her, and quickly left, feeling disgusted with everything—but mostly himself.

  The first thing Mazarelle did when he got back to the office was corner Bandu and ask what happened. Bandu, looking uncomfortable, said he’d seen nothing. As for Duboit, he’d be back about three. He had to take his kid to the doctor.

  “The older one,” Bandu said. “The stutterer.”

&nbs
p; The boy was going to a speech therapist. In fact, Mazarelle had been the one who suggested it when he heard that the kid was stuttering so badly he was getting into fistfights at school and peeing in bed at home because his classmates were making fun of him. It was good advice. And he had some for the kid’s old man too, when he finally showed up with the scratches on his cheek that Mazarelle had been trying hard to forget since talking to Thérèse.

  From the expression on his boss’s face, Duboit knew he was in for it. Sulking, he followed him out into the empty hallway. But before Doobie could explain, Mazarelle said, “No! Don’t tell me anything because I’m not interested in your bullshit.”

  “But, boss—” he whined.

  “You stupid blockhead! Don’t you realize she could go to the press with this? I’m not about to let you fuck up my investigation just because you can’t keep your zipper closed. How many years have you been a cop?”

  Duboit was about to tell him, but Mazarelle had lost all patience. “Never mind. Step out of line again and I’ll flush you down the toilet so fast you won’t have time to wipe your ass. Understand?”

  The crestfallen Duboit—usually never at a loss for words—was dumbstruck.

  “Now go get Bandu and bring Ali Sedak into the interrogation room.”

  Mazarelle thought he’d never feel the same about Duboit again (how could he?) but, as so often happens in life, he was wrong.

  There was something pathetic about the Ali Sedak they brought into the interrogation room. No belt, no shoelaces, no flashy gold chain around his neck, and a face drained of color and weary of the around-the-clock electric light. A couple of days alone in the cramped jail cell had taken their toll. As Sedak walked over to sit down in the same chair on which he’d previously sat, Bandu yanked it away and Ali fell hard to the floor. Bandu unlocked one of the handcuffs and, following instructions, hooked him up to the radiator. Just to let him know that this time things would be different. If Ali Sedak was the murderer, the inspector wanted to hear it from his own lips.

  Mazarelle put the tape recorder near the edge of the table, closer to the prisoner on the floor, switched it on, and sat down with his cup of coffee. “Now that you’ve had time to think things over and refresh your memory, monsieur, let’s begin again.” The sound of Mazarelle’s voice didn’t always please him in these sorts of situations, but pitching his voice lower than usual he managed to get by with what nature had given him.

  The first question he asked was, “Did you steal Reece’s wallet and credit cards?”

  Ali’s answer was an emphatic no.

  Taking a sip of coffee, Mazarelle made a face as he wiped his mouth, put down his paper cup, and grunted.

  He turned off the recorder and, without getting up, leaned over and slapped the suspect backhanded across the side of his face, a seemingly effortless blow that exploded like a rifle shot. As Ali’s head hit the radiator, he cried out in pain.

  “Once again.” The inspector turned on the recorder. “Did you steal Reece’s Visa?”

  This time Ali nodded.

  “A little louder, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  Duboit and Bandu exchanged knowing glances. Unlike his boss, Duboit hadn’t a shred of doubt Ali was guilty.

  “That’s better. And what about his MasterCard?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Mazarelle lifted an eyebrow, making it clear that he wasn’t satisfied.

  “I didn’t touch it,” Ali insisted. And when asked about Phillips’s wallet and Visa he claimed to know nothing about them. “All I took was one credit card and some money. That’s all.”

  “How much money?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You what?” said the annoyed inspector, his voice ominously controlled.

  “Five Curies.”

  “Twenty-five hundred francs? What did you do with it?”

  “I gambled away some at the Café le Riche and bought a few presents with the rest.”

  “I see.” Mazarelle took a sip of his coffee without noticing and asked if Ali had bought any drugs.

  “No.” His answer leaped out of Ali’s mouth, much too fast to be credible.

  Trying to get back in his boss’s favor, Duboit delivered a powerful penalty kick to the Arab’s thigh. “Say, ‘No, monsieur l’inspecteur,’ when the patron speaks to you.”

  “Why are you doing this, monsieur l’inspecteur?”

  “I will not be taken for a fool. Is that clear? I don’t have time for nonsense.” But before the suspect had a chance to answer, Mazarelle asked, “Do you know a local dealer by the name of Rabo?”

  Ali admitted he knew Rabo but said that he never bought anything from him.

  Duboit threw up his hands. “Cut the crap, you horseshit artist. We know you’re a user.”

  “A little pot, that’s all.” He looked up at the inspector. “You understand, for private, recreational use.”

  Mazarelle opened the black plastic bag and let him glance inside. “We found this under the back stairs of your house. Tell me about it.”

  “I never saw that before in my life. I swear it.”

  “Rabo says you bought it from him.”

  “He’s lying! I’m not a dealer.”

  “In addition to the hashish, we also found Phillips’s mobile in your car, not to mention some bloodstains that may be his too. Do you know how they got there?”

  Ali sat on the floor with his head bowed and rocked back and forth as if silently reciting the Koran.

  “Talk to me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me. I’m a good listener.”

  “It’s Rabo who planted the hash. He’s trying to screw me. I owe him money.”

  “How much?”

  It was three or four thousand francs. Ali said he didn’t remember exactly. The inspector thought that was a lot of money and suggested that Ali must be a very good customer.

  “Okay, I sometimes do a little dealing on the side. But that shit isn’t mine. And as for Phillips’s mobile, I know nothing about it.”

  “That’s strange.” The inspector found this hard to believe. “You see, we checked and the last two numbers that were dialed on it were calls made to your phone number in the early morning just after the murders.”

  Sedak’s eyes—black wet jewels—opened wide in alarmed confusion. He had the air of a desperate man running for his life.

  “I never—never …” he stumbled.

  “What about the bloodstains?”

  Ali felt cornered. “They could be mine,” he acknowledged. “When you work with tools you sometimes cut yourself.”

  Bandu said, “With knives too.”

  “I didn’t murder anybody.”

  “Yes, that may be so,” said the inspector, “but I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t look too good for you, Sedak. Just see it from my point of view,” he suggested, and proceeded to outline the case against him.

  Ali was, as he himself had said, probably the last one to see Phillips alive. And the bayonet he used had been identified as one of the murder weapons, stained with his own blood as well as that of three of the other victims. The blue tape they were bound with was his tape with his fingerprints on it. Furthermore, Ali had also freely admitted stealing money and a credit card from the victims and, most likely, he’d stolen more than one. And why? To buy drugs, a crime for which he already had a well-established history. And then there was the victim’s cell phone found in the trunk of his car …

  “As I say, monsieur, it doesn’t look too rosy.”

  Although badly rattled, Ali was not going to confess something he never did. “You’re trying to bury me. Make me your gogo because I came here from Algeria and wasn’t born in France.”

  “Don’t be an imbecile! Come now, why don’t you get these murders off your chest? You’ll feel much better, and the procureur will probably go a little easier on you if you do.”

  “I didn’t kill
anybody. I know nothing. I’m not a murderer. I’m innocent.”

  Mazarelle rose out of his seat and loomed darkly over the handcuffed suspect on the floor. “I’ve lost patience. We’ll charge him with four counts of murder, acts of barbarism, drug possession with intent to sell, and theft. Lock him up.”

  30

  THE MEETING IN BOURGES

  The gleaming Mercedes-Benz tour bus climbed to the summit of the hill and pulled up alongside the other buses parked perpendicular to the south side of the looming cathedral like piglets suckling on some gigantic sow. The teachers getting off were clearly excited. They had come from Geneva, traveling the pilgrim’s road to Santiago de Compostela. Vézelay’s Sainte-Madeleine had been interesting, but this was Saint-Étienne, one of the largest and most beautiful Gothic cathedrals in all of France. Their cameras came out almost as soon as they looked up and grasped the splendor, the immensity of the thing. And it was a warm, sunny, marvelous morning for photographs, the cathedral floating in a blue sky with an occasional billowing cloud sailing by overhead.

  The neatness of the travelers belied the long distance they’d come. Definitely Swiss. Birkenstock sandals and trim khaki shorts, striped polo shirts, and floppy hats. Though a little taller than most of the men, Reiner fit right in as he put on his sunglasses and followed their guide to the west side of the cathedral. Its five magnificent doorways were framed by two massive asymmetrical towers.

  The guide pointed to his left. “That one is called the ‘deaf tower’ because it has no bells. Perhaps”—clearing his throat—“it really should be called the mute tower.” The teachers savored his dry sense of humor. In that way, Reiner realized, they weren’t so different from assassins. “And for those of you who enjoy climbing and can still handle three hundred and sixty-five steps, there’s the other one, the north tower. In the unlikely event you reach the top, I can promise you a spectacular view.”

  Reiner was looking forward to it. Carved in the stone arch above the main doorway was an eight-hundred-year-old Last Judgment that the guide called “a powerful vision.” Rather than dismiss the sculpture out of hand, he gave it another look. The good confidently waiting for Heaven while the rest dragged off kicking and screaming into the cauldrons of fire and the pits of Hell. A simple cartoon world of rewards and punishments, he thought, trying to wrap his mind around that dusty old shibboleth, but it was hopeless. He hurried to catch up with the rest of his group.