Stifling Folds of Love

by John Brooke

  2

  Three Broken Hearts

  The bust at the border went perfectly, a rich vein was opened and before the day was over there were searches being conducted and arrests being made in a dozen different jurisdictions. But the prize for strategic brilliance is always more paperwork. Aliette Nouvelle knew she was hereby condemned to the better part of the next two weeks at her desk. And she would be required to assist in the interview process. Well, that could mean a trip to the sunny Adriatic — where she had never been. As for a police action per se, the inspector’s part had been enacted quietly and cleanly. She got home in time to go for a run in the park and respond to a message from the man she thought she might love suggesting an early film. ‘Yes.’ They had a rendezvous at Cinema Luxe. An action movie from America — his choice tonight. She had no problem with that.

  The day had warmed. Aliette sat on her third-floor apartment balcony and sipped a beer. Piaf, ancient and dirty white, ate his cat food. The park spread out beyond Madame Camus’ garden was green and in full blossom, filled with people enjoying their weekend freedom.

  Then she changed into something nice for Saturday night.

  Cut to darkness: Aliette felt no particular attraction to the hero on the screen: another overly sculpted, wooden-voiced star. Yet she felt the adrenaline surge inside her as she absorbed the heroic hyper movement. A literal rush. The Americans knew how to create this effect better than anyone. More intriguing was how she sensed that the man beside her might actually want to be the man up on the screen. She felt him warming. She could smell it, feel it as he rolled with the choreographed blows and breathed in perfect rhythm with the stoked-up energy. He clenched a fist and whispered, ‘Bastards!’ He pumped said fist when the hero finally (inevitably) won. Aliette didn’t hold it against him. Men respond differently to the heat of action. Simulated action too.

  Later that night, in a deeper darkness, in the heat of the action, Aliette breathed, ‘Let’s roll.’

  (On roule; because even a star saving the universe must be dubbed into French.)

  She couldn’t know this quick line would become historic. She only knew he liked to hear her say it. Because he picked up the pace — which she liked too. Mais oui. Hyper movement. Heat. Afterward she patted his back. He nestled on her breast, placid. Very stock, this little love scene. Our French films work the same, but on different impulses. It’s a matter of taste. Aliette tasted the salty residue of sweat on his neck before they slept. She remembered it Sunday morning as they went for a walk by the river. Against all odds and logic, she was enjoying being with this man.

  Sunday afternoon the inspector joined Claude Néon in Raphaele Petrucci’s morgue. The three deceased lay on metal pallets. Their hearts had been removed and waited in metal bowls. Claude had visited the scenes. He admitted there was nothing untoward to be found in either the banker’s elegant living room or the morning man’s sand-blasted bedroom — no sign of illegal entry, struggle, missing property. But the windows: ‘Wide open. Interestingly, both are five floors up.’

  ‘It was a lovely evening, Claude.’

  ‘Even so.’ Claude had directed IJ, whose tiny, drastically under-funded forensics lab was across the hall from Raphaele’s equally under-funded morgue, to have a look.

  There were no photos of Duteil or Gagnon. Heart attacks don’t call for this procedure. But Claude had taken notes: Dr. Mercier, a physician in Duteil’s building, had been summoned from his breakfast by a neighbor alerted by a distraught housekeeper and had monitored the scene till the police and SAMU arrived. The banker had been sitting at the time of death, enjoying a glass apparently. He was found with his dead eyes gazing in the direction of the open window. Not unusual, and to the best of the doctor’s knowledge and experience it had seemed an obvious heart attack and thus no need for forensic examination. As for the radio host, Jean-Guy Gagnon’s producer had come looking for his star when he failed to show up for a Saturday morning PR appearance at a local Renault agent. He’d given Claude more or less the same picture: a man in bed with a book, staring toward his open bedroom window. Suddenly dead. ‘His producer said he was looking pained in death.’

  ‘Heart attacks hurt,’ Raphaele said.

  Aliette asked, ‘What book?’

  Claude had noted it. ‘That new bestseller from America about evolutionary psychology.’

  ‘An ironic time to die,’ offered Aliette. Had Jean-Guy been contemplating the precepts of evolutionary psychology, trying to determine exactly where he fit in with the fittest of the fit? Her eyes moved from Jean-Guy Gagnon…to Jerôme Duteil…to Pierre Angulaire, so surreal with his rictus smile. They had nothing in common physically, these three ex-lovers. What had Pearl Serein been seeking? Turning to Raphaele: ‘No drugs or poison? Prussic acid?’ One of a growing menu of deadly items leaking out of military labs and into the criminal world. Aliette had been waiting for her first prussic acid case.

  Raphaele Petrucci knew the inspector was only half-teasing and he had to be careful. ‘Needs more time for an absolute no on that, I’m afraid.’ The previous summer Raphaele had completely missed the home-made hallucinogen at the root of the Mari Morgan murders.

  Aliette knew Raphaele’s tendency to be circumspect, and persisted, ‘No Viagra or the like?’ Nodding at Duteil: ‘What? Seventy-two?’ Implying that a Pearl Serein would likely exact yeoman service and the penis proper-uppers were known to have adverse effects on ageing hearts.

  ‘If he was, not lately.’ Raphaele checked the information sent along by Duteil’s physician. ‘Seventy-two and counting. Birthday coming up in July. Pretty good shape, I’d say. They say he was quite the tennis champ.’

  ‘Who says?’ Claude asked.

  ‘Tommi Bonneau.’

  Aliette was amused to hear it. ‘I would never have marked you for a gossip column fan.’

  Raphaele Petrucci dismissed this little barb, blowing air through his lips — ‘pleu’ — the way all French do, your basic camel fart, and shrugged. ‘I like to stay informed, Inspector.’

  ‘I think they were murdered,’ repeated Claude.

  The inspector asked the pathologist, ‘Do you?’

  Raphaele’s dark Tuscan eyes rolled ceilingward. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in another power game between Néon and Nouvelle. ‘I say heart attacks.’

  ‘Someone was there,’ said Claude. ‘Both places. In through the window.’

  ‘Five floors up?’ Aliette had to ask her commissaire, ‘How could anyone get there?’

  ‘Climb?’ Claude shrugged. ‘We’ll be looking at the roofs, wall surface. I mean, if we can get a budget. I mean, if we can just find a touch more indication.’ He meant physical evidence, whether on the person or the premises, which would allow for a valid mandate. Because it would cost a fortune to do a forensic exam of roofs and walls. ‘And of course a comb through our film guy’s building.’ Claude dropped the bizarre death shots of Pierre Angulaire on the table. ‘Look at him: on the floor dead square to his door. A visitor! Had to be. Someone came in, something made their hearts stop. We’ll see what IJ says, then…’ Commissaire Claude Néon trailed off, scratching his nose, fighting uncertainty, but unable to dismiss his hunch.

  Our film guy? Claude was already assuming ownership. It’s a psychological thing: you have to embrace your hunch wholeheartedly. Aliette had been there. She could see it happening to Claude. It was why she suspended judgement and remained sympathetic. For the moment. Because you’ve got science, legal logic, physical evidence. But hunches are basic to the job: One woman called Pearl Serein; three high-profile boyfriends, dead. Almost impossible to resist the suspicion of murder. ‘I’d be more concerned about what Gérard says,’ she advised.

  No budget, no investigation.

  Claude’s eyes said, Please don’t bother me with Gérard Richand!

  OK. Fine. In response to Claude’s stated reason for her presence in the morgue that day, she turned to the three bodies and confirmed, ‘No, never dealt with any o
f them.’

  ‘No links to any of your usuals?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Considering it, thinking back, thinking sideways, but nope, ‘Not really the type for my usual crowd.’ Her usual crowd crossed borders. Could a respected banker be an impeccable front for a tax-dodge cash-stream to a bank in Basel? Possible. Or to launder drug money? Bankers were known to launder money. Radio and film types were known to like drugs. It was mostly drugs, her work these days. Zurich was an easy two hours down the road and in the process of struggling with its transformation into a kind of Swiss Amsterdam. Spillover into nearby Basel and our quiet burg was inevitable. ‘Of course it’s always possible. I’ll ask around the street.’

  Claude nodded. Good.

  Turning back to Raphaele, she asked, ‘So — heart attacks? That your final word?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Raphaele would not endorse the possibility of murder.

  Aliette pushed him. ‘How do you induce a heart attack?’

  The pathologist screwed up his handsome face, as if to ask: Why can’t you accept the facts here? But he knew she wanted an answer. ‘You could scare someone to death,’ he ventured. ‘People have dropped dead of fright at their own surprise birthday parties. There’s also what they call voodoo death — like when a witch doctor literally scares a person to death with his spells and such — but that’s pretty primitive.’ Raphaele shrugged. ‘Basically, if you can get a person stressed enough, the huge flow of adrenaline can be toxic. Boom. Gone. It happens. As for inducing it deliberately, well, you’d need to know the victim — I mean like that witch doctor who personally knows the guy in his tribe who’s getting all the pins stuck in his effigy. And vice-versa. It couldn’t work any other way. I mean to say, inducement starts in the mind, no?’

  But there were no signs of any birthday parties at any of the three sites. No signs of anyone but the victims at the time. Two open windows five floors up. An open office door.

  The two cops looked to their pathologist: Does it make sense to you?

  Looking like he knew he’d regret it, Raphaele elaborated. ‘There’s heart attack: wham, bump, bump, good-bye, we call it cardiac arrest. A first look at some very messy blood flow traces seems to indicate these three hearts got confused, struggled to re-establish a normal rhythm, but, um…’ he paused, trying to formulate something reasonable and more definite — what they would need in order to have a legal starting point. He spread the photos of Angulaire across the countertop like tarot cards. ‘These images, and your notes, they make it appear these three men knew something was happening. But it looks and sounds as though they didn’t believe it. What I mean is, there’s a difference between being afraid — that is, scared to death — and not believing.’ Raphaele stared at the late Pierre Angulaire. ‘It’s like a gesture, as if he’s in the process of communicating something before falling back dead on his floor. The other two? No struggle or panic apparent in the way they were found. Just sitting, looking out the window. Or at it. And the fact that it is three of them. But…’ The pathologist concluded with one of his trademark noncommittal shrugs: Sorry, I just don’t know.

  Aliette spoke first. ‘If someone did come in, they must have known him.’

  ‘Yes,’ affirmed Claude.

  Raphaele sniffed, ‘Your witch doctor?’

  Claude ignored the skeptical scientist. ‘Medically weird, compounded by coincidence. It’s like a mark. A killer’s mark, you know? And there’s this woman. Pearl Serein.’

  ‘I’d like to meet her,’ said Raphaele, adding, ‘They say she’s quite something.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Claude. But although you can fiddle your budget and squeeze out extra forensics, you cannot go hauling in ex-lovers for interrogation when people die of apparent heart attacks. Claude told Raphaele Petrucci, ‘Before we do, I’ll need my medical expert to give me more substance, won’t I?…There has to be something inside these hearts.’

  Raphaele blustered. ‘Look, I’m interested! Who wouldn’t be? But — ’

  Claude cut him off. ‘Bill the damn time on a consultant’s scale if that’s what you need to do. I’ll handle that. You just find me something that I can take to Gérard Richand.’

  ‘Heart attacks,’ Petrucci replied, now snide and sullen.

  ‘More!’

  Which brought an impasse in the morgue.

  ‘Bon,’ said Aliette. ‘Is that all?’

  Claude said, ‘I might need some help.’

  She knew he would. ‘You know I’m available if you need me.’

  Claude only nodded, merci. He indicated that the meeting was over.

  Aliette Nouvelle returned to her office with the potted shamrock in the window, the view of the Vosges beyond. She sat at her desk and got to work. All that paperwork attached to yesterday’s success. May as well get a leg up on it, seeing that she was here.

  Last night was fun, this morning was peaceful, but the better part of Sunday was gone.

  3

  A Sullied Story

  Monday. The left side of the Entertainment page in Le Cri du Matin noted the passing of a local star: Film community loses a leader: Acclaimed local cinéaste Pierre Angulaire died suddenly Friday evening, the victim of heart failure. The filmmaker was found dead at his office early Saturday morning. He had lately been preparing a documentary about socialite Pearl Serein, with whom he had been romantically linked in the past. According to colleague Nanette Roufach, the project had become his raison d’être. Monsieur Angulaire, who once stated his working motto as ‘reality is magic,’ rose to prominence a decade ago on the strength of a series of documentary television productions conceived and shot in this region, where he was born and raised and to which he returned after apprenticing in the film industry in Paris…There followed a resume of Pierre’s accomplishments, the suggestion that his career had stalled somewhat, but the piece concluded with kind words on the part of Madame Roufach and other colleagues. Because Le Cri does not publish on Sunday, radio personality Jean-Guy Gagnon received much the same treatment on the right side of the same page. An appreciation of Jerôme Duteil’s life and role as a mainstay of our financial community appeared on the front page of the Business section.

  In a column on page two of the front section, Le Cri crime specialist Serge Phaneuf could not resist reporting: Police Note Coincidental Deaths. While police attended the discovery of Pierre Angulaire’s death, there is yet to be a statement issued regarding any suspected malfeasance concerning three coincidental and apparently similar deaths in a single day of three men all known to have been romantically involved with local socialite Pearl Serein in the recent past. All requests to police headquarters for related information were referred to Police Judiciaire. Monique Sparr, spokeswoman for PJ Commissaire Claude Néon’s office, said, ‘The coincidence has been noted, but as you know, we do not act until directed accordingly by the court.’ Madame Serein had not responded to a reporter’s calls concerning the three deaths.

  Speculative flame fanning of this sort is normal. Claude Néon was undeterred. He was locked away in his office with his hunch, busily drafting out a report. Instructing Judge Gérard Richand could and would quash a hunch without a second thought. On the other hand, the procureurs who direct instructing judges tend to be political animals — Michel Souviron certainly was — and journalists stirred the muck that released political scent. A hunch could gain momentum, if not legal credibility. Claude’s best hope was there.

  The Angulaire family had not questioned the police department’s need to keep their loved one for an autopsy. The elderly mother of morning man J-G Gagnon had long ago moved in a second marriage to a suburb of Paris and had not yet responded to the sad notice she’d been sent.

  The family of Jerôme Duteil was another matter. Around mid-morning Inspector Nouvelle was deep in her Swiss checkpoint operation reports when Monique buzzed — could she meet Claude in the basement? Something about moral support. The banker’s son had come to claim his father’s body. Aliette went down to find
the two men at the foot of the stairs outside the morgue, Commissaire Néon decidedly on the defensive in responding to the man’s queries as to why his papa had been detained. ‘Look, please, I don’t want to worry you at a time like this.’

  ‘It’s too late for that!’ snapped the visitor. Another high-ranking banker, Duteil Jr. was impeccably turned out, and clearly accustomed to being obeyed. He had no time for diversionary nonsense. ‘What happened?’

  The harsh tone raised color in Néon’s cheeks. ‘Monsieur, it was a heart attack.’

  ‘We know this! Tell me why you kept him.’

  Strictly speaking, Commissaire Néon should have offered nothing but a sincere apology. Sorry, just a mistake, everybody makes them, even the police. But most citizens do not have an in-depth understanding of the rules, and some cops (Claude) find it existentially impossible to let go of a hunch without at least a look. Running interference, Aliette gently told the distressed man, ‘We need to know what happened between your father and a woman called Pearl Serein.’

  ‘Oh, god!’ Duteil Jr. was aggrieved just to hear the name. The tables were instantly turned. He seemed to sense the inevitable dynamics of the situation. His bluster took on a whiny tone. ‘Why do you need to know? It was in the paper. It was the only mistake he ever really made.’

  Mistake? Claude’s eyes narrowed. ‘It didn’t hurt his business any.’

  ‘No, just his life. And my mother’s.’ Duteil expressed a sigh of disdain for a sullied story.

  ‘Was it a volatile thing? Did he…did he do something to make this woman angry?’

  ‘No. He said he loved her.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘He had to explain himself. I mean, he just upped and left poor Mama.’

  Aliette jumped in. ‘Could he say why he would be so rash? Unhappy at home?’

  The banker’s son addressed her. ‘It wasn’t about my mother. It was only about her. Papa said she was the most elusive of pearls.’ The son’s face contorted to reflect the low-quality metaphor, visibly revolted by a sophisticated father’s maudlin descent into the fog of a doomed passion. ‘He lost control, was saying lots of things like that. Some kind of fantasy. It was the only time I was ever ashamed of him.’