by Alice Quinn
So that’s what was in the bottle.
“That dick Schwartzy caught up with me yesterday,” I said. “He obviously thought I’d be the ideal candidate to take the blame. He wanted to pin it on me. He probably investigated things real quick and worked out that I hadn’t been working at Max’s for all that long, just a day in fact, and that I was a girl with no family, no money, no job, living off nothing . . . maybe not always living a hundred percent within the law. Don’t tell anyone that last part, Borelli.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Oh, it’s no biggie. Sometimes I don’t declare everything I earn to the tax man. No need to crap your pants.”
“Sure, and sometimes you buy stuff on the Internet using other people’s cards. And don’t worry, Maldonne, I won’t be doing anything in my pants.”
“That’s not even true! They were gifts. I swear! I didn’t know he was going to do it. I would never have accepted them! I really, really regretted it. And I never even received the toys, anyway! They were never going to be delivered to my trailer! Do you want me to carry on here or what? Do you believe me or do you want to arrest me for murder here and now? Listen. This Schwartzy guy singled me out! He and the politician were having some kind of fight with Max. Some favor Max was asking was too much—getting rid of certain compromising records, in particular the ones concerning his suspicious art dealings. Max had gotten a bit too greedy with it all.
“The politician is none other than the minister Jean Leroy! You see, Max always had a way of getting what he wanted. He’d clearly been blackmailing the minister for some time. Fifteen years ago, way before he became a politician, Jean Leroy had used Pinson’s services—the forged paintings I figure—and Max had wiped the slate clean, but in return for certain favors. What Pinson didn’t know, and what he should have known, was that Leroy wanted to wipe out more than just whatever was on the slate. He needed to pick up every single bit of evidence from Max’s place—evidence of the forgeries and the dirty dealings—so he had to fake an overdose. Can you see what I’m getting at here?”
“Fake an overdose, sure.”
“That’s it. Schwartzy knew what time I’d be arriving at work. He thought that if the cops didn’t buy the whole accidental overdose thing, it wouldn’t matter because I’d get blamed for killing him. But I arrived too early, and he didn’t have time to look for anything that could link Fat Cat Leroy to the fake oil paintings. So he got out of the building quick, came back through the front door, and made out he was a cop. One of yours. I told you about it at the time, but would you listen? I told you that I thought he was FBI. I knew he couldn’t be. It was just my way of saying he was like some sort of super–secret service megacop. Know what I mean? The thing is, my mind was on the FBI, because the real-deal FBI left some top-secret files down at Sélect and I had to call them up in Washington. They came rushing over during that jeez seven something meeting we had in town. Maybe it got me all overexcited. Whoa! I’ve got a hell of a lot to say, haven’t I? Let me just catch my breath.”
Borelli rolled his eyes. “That was all pretty hard to follow, Maldonne. I don’t get it. Especially the ending. But it does knit some parts of our investigation together. Don’t get a big head, though, OK?”
I smiled at the compliment and continued, “And where it all went wrong for the bad guys is when I messed with the crime scene. I touched everything and took stuff. The needle, the bottle—all the stuff the baddies had left around so it would appear to be a suicide or an accidental overdose. Suddenly it became clear it was more than that. That’s why Schwartzy came after me. He had to make it look like I . . .” Which means he had been the one to plant the painting in my trailer. “Oh, I lost my train of thought. Did I already say that?”
“Wow! You’re really something else, Maldonne!”
“Yes, I know. Thank you.”
“You remember I told you not to touch anything at the scene?”
“I know! That’s not the problem! The stuff I just told you about isn’t the only shit I stole. I also took this really important little notebook. And a memory-stick thing disguised as a key.”
“You what? And what was on the stick?”
I was triumphant! “Everything! Every bit of proof of all the art forgeries and dealings over the last fifteen years. The locations of the crimes, the times, the amounts of money involved—I’ve got footage of it all. I even have a threatening conversation with Max on tape.”
“I must be dreaming this! Why have you waited this long to tell me? And to give me the key?”
“Errr, well, it’s just that firstly, I had to work out all the codes in the notebook, and secondly, I didn’t notice straight off that what I had was actually a memory stick.”
He laughed. “You do know what century we’re in, don’t you, Maldonne? You can’t recognize a memory stick?”
“Leave it, OK?”
“Let me sum this up for you: obstructing an investigation, removing evidence from the crime scene, perverting the course of justice—that’s just for starters.”
“No, let me sum it up for you: If I hadn’t been at the right place at the right time, none of this evidence would exist. They’d have destroyed it, and you’d still be getting nowhere fast.”
“Fine. What about Kessler? How was she involved? Shall we see if you can take a stab in the dark with her too?”
“Well, she had her son, didn’t she? Then she died. And then the second will was discovered.”
“How come she didn’t let people know about Max’s new will earlier? Weren’t you surprised by her death?”
He was enjoying this too much, knowing something I didn’t know.
“OK, OK, OK!” I said. “Go ahead! Spit it out already! I know you know what happened there, so tell me.”
“Kessler saw Schwartzy in the office. She was on her way out to a craft club and she saw him through the window. She waited around awhile and watched him leave the house. She didn’t know what was happening. She wasn’t surprised to see someone injecting Max, given she knew all about his addiction. But she took a photo, anyway. We believe she was angry more than anything else because she was his usual dealer, you see? When she came home after the club, a little shopping, and lunch, and learned that Max had croaked, she didn’t want to let us know everything she’d seen. She was worried she’d become a suspect. It was the same thing with the will. She must have figured that while Max’s killer was still on the loose, if she revealed the second will, she’d look like the guilty party. The ideal suspect. So she tried to help us. She tried to push us in the right direction.”
“And how did she do that?”
“She anonymously mailed us the photos she’d taken. Your Schwartzy was there. Clear as day.”
“Good job, Cruella! And so did he do her in?”
“Yeah, straight in for the kill. She was too much of a problem. We didn’t want the killer to know how much we knew, so we started a rumor that it was an accidental overdose. But it was too much of a coincidence. Two overdoses under the same roof within a couple of days? Plus, in the first death, all the evidence had disappeared, which meant someone else had to be involved. You were lucky to get away from this guy. When you’re at his level, you don’t take any prisoners. He gets his man or his woman—every time.” Borelli paused. “What are you wearing by the way?” Then he shook his head and resumed, “You were lucky, because he didn’t know whether to kill you, all of you, or, as I now realize, keep you alive until he’d managed to get you to cough up your memory stick and notebook. He spent too long trying to make up his mind, it seems. He’s supposed to be an expert at dirty work, but he showed too much weakness this time. Whatever . . .”
“What? What do you mean by ‘whatever’? Why did you sound all superior when you said that?”
“No reason. It’s just that a hitman is supposed to be able to do just that. Make the hit. He’s there to obey orders, not make decisions. So he was indecisive. It’s no big deal . . .”
“Let’s move o
n. So you knew from the very beginning that: one, I didn’t invent my FBI guy; and two, I wasn’t the killer?”
“Yeah, but we lost your ass, didn’t we? You pulled a vanishing act on us! I didn’t know how to get ahold of you.”
“What about all those cops over at Gaston’s place this morning? The riot police . . . It seemed like the whole army had turned up.”
“Nothing to do with me, Maldonne. There are still some things I don’t understand about this case. But you really did take on more than you can chew with this one. Do you know that?”
“More than I can chew? No. I just know how to defend myself is all. I can’t believe you’d say that. It’s schizo.”
“Maybe, but that’s just the way it is. Chew bite-sized chunks, Maldonne. That’s why I agreed to come here and fetch you guys personally. I was worried you’d bump into people you wouldn’t want to be bumping into. There is one other thing that intrigues me, though. How in Christ’s name did you manage to resist replying to my calls? I left voicemails, text messages . . . I got nothing from you! That’s not the Maldonne I know.”
“You must think I’m whacked, Borelli! I know all about your police crap. The first thing I did when I got caught up in this nightmare was take my phone, separate all the bits and pieces—the SIM card, case, battery—and hide them all here, there, and everywhere so I couldn’t be traced.”
I was so sure he’d be blown away by my skills! Instead he keeled over. He could . . . not . . . stop . . . laughing.
“No! Did you really? Ha-ha! Ho-ho!”
“Shh! You’re going to wake everyone up! What is it? What’s so funny about that?”
He explained that getting wires onto phone lines was so difficult that police hardly ever got permission to do it. There was a load of legal gobbledygook in his explanation, so I can’t remember all the ins and outs. It took an age apparently. Basically, you had to be a suspected terrorist or worse for a judge to give it the green light. They’d asked, of course, and they’d probably get their (negative) answer a week down the line. Poor Borelli. Waiting to tap me and getting nowhere.
“Yeah, Maldonne, you’re thinking process was a touch OTT, I think. Stop watching so much American TV!”
I was playing nervously with my gold chain and frowning at him, still a bit skeptical. He could try all he liked to convince me that the police didn’t listen in on whoever they damn well pleased. I knew what I knew. And I know what I know.
“That’s a pretty necklace you have there.”
I shrugged. Could he have been right about the phone taps and the way the whole system worked? I had my doubts. I still like taking precautions about these things. I’ll always be on my guard.
Borelli didn’t mention Datu, the paintings, or the statuette. So I didn’t. No questions asked. No answers given. He didn’t need to know, anyway. There was no link to the actual story here. Like my grandmother always used to say: If it’s not broken down, don’t repair it. No, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I like that saying.
Our conversation had come to an end. I took out a Stromae CD from my giant purse and put it on. Borelli and I sang “Formidable” together. We played it on repeat.
It was kind of sweet.
Friday: A Quiet Day
83
We all woke up back in our trailer.
My mother had done exactly the same as me that night: She’d slept peacefully all the way through. This meant that upon waking, there wasn’t any musical accompaniment.
Out of the whole family, Pastis was the happiest to be home. He’d slept on my head most of the night, but I’d been so tired, it hadn’t bothered me all that much. I didn’t move a muscle all night.
As the day got started, my thoughts turned to Théodore, and I wondered if he might also be thinking of me. Lani had spent the night with Sabrina in her room. As soon as she was washed and dressed, she made her way back home, hopefully to meet up with her daddy. Her smile quivered as she said good-bye to us all, tears in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Lani! We’ll see each other again!”
After dropping off my babies at school, I headed over to Gaston’s to clean up. I half expected to have to cross police tape and God only knew what to get into the place. But there was no sign the cops had even been there.
I sent an e-mail to Gaston to explain that I wouldn’t be able to visit right away and that I’d pay him back for the tickets as soon as I could. There was no trace at all of the Pinson boys. I couldn’t find any paintings or the rudey-nudey girls either. It must have all been taken in as evidence. I had the strongest urge to go by Place de la Foux. I wanted to see my Théodore desperately. But I resisted with every fiber of my body.
I took a stroll around the town to pick up the pieces of my cell phone. It was time to put my cricket back together again. There was the bit behind the stone on the wall, the other bit behind the security barrier of that abandoned store . . . Oh shit! The casing was in the basement at old Pinson’s place.
I headed back to my home-sweet-home and rifled around in the drawers. I found an old Nokia. It was one of the first cells I’d ever had back in the late nineties. I’d have to use that. Oh well, it provided some vintage style. That’s supposed to be cool these days. It was great to have a line of communication to the world again.
In the afternoon, I headed over to the library to relax with a couple of Snoopy comics. I don’t know why, but after a few pages, I got a little fed up and found myself in the mood to read something else, so I had snooped (ha!) around the psychology section. I recognized a couple of titles. Among them I saw Rachel Amar. Who was she? The name was so familiar. I thought about it awhile and remembered she was the woman who’d written the magazine article about night terrors that I’d read at Max’s place. Wow! That seemed like ages ago! Oh! And she was also Véro’s therapist! And Véro worked as her maid. That’s why I’d first recognized her name.
I took the book down from the shelf and paged through it. It was all about criminology and had tons of references to the Russian Mafia. How weird. Now there was a subject I certainly knew something about. At around four o’clock, I put the book back up on the shelf and went to pick up my babies.
This calm after the storm sure did feel odd.
So apart from that, nothing of note happened . . . no excitement . . . nothing to write home about. Friday was a quiet one. You’d have thought I’d be happy, but I missed the action.
Saturday: Carpe Diem
84
Slept in Saturday morning! Yeah! Nobody called me, because nobody knew I had my phone back. And I didn’t call anyone, because the only person I wanted to call was supposed to be calling me.
I turned on the radio. It was Elvis. The King! Oh, how my mother had a crush on him when she was younger. He was belting out “Heartbreak Hotel.” Everyone knows this classic. It’s all about how he’s so lonely he could die.
Mom! She was telling me I needed some company. I couldn’t have agreed more, but I didn’t want to think about it right then. The news came on straight afterward, and the anchorman reported that the Max Pinson case had been closed following the results of the autopsy. He’d died of cardiac arrest.
What?
Did I hear that right?
I called Borelli.
“Did you put your phone back together, Maldonne?”
“Is that all you’ve got to say? What’s all this I just heard on the radio? What’s this about a heart attack? What about the needle? Leroy? Schwartzy? You’ve totally messed up my case, Borelli!”
“Calm down, woman! Your case? Don’t make me laugh! And mind your own business, would you?”
He hung up. Jeez.
I picked up my big purse and decided to clean it out. There was so much crap in there. Panic set in. Complete panic. The diamond! It had gone again!
Oh no! Not that! Don’t say I’d lost that fricking rock again. How many times now? I started rummaging through everything we’d had with us: bags, jackets, the kids’ clothes. Then I sear
ched the trailer from top to bottom, even inside vases, drawers, and places I knew there was no chance the diamond could possibly be. I had to be imagining things.
My grandmother came to mind. Whenever I lost something, she always used to say, “Think about the last time you had it. Go over all the places you’ve been since. Could it have been taken from you? Could you have dropped it? Even if you think you don’t know, your subconscious does. You need to get the lost object to talk to you . . .”
So much easier said than done.
With my head in my hands, I went over all the places I’d been in recent days. We’d had to rush off to the station early on Thursday morning. I’d put my Big Pink in my purse with the stolen evidence. In the little outside pocket. I remember doing that at Gaston’s place. I know pickpockets take stuff from bags, especially if you carry them on your back. That’s why I made sure I carried my purse in front. I still do. So it couldn’t have been a pickpocket.
But the train had stopped at so many stations, which wasn’t the slightest bit reassuring. What about when we were in Marseilles? I’d bent over it and pretended to peer inside so I could hide my face from the cops walking by. I’d seen my Big Pink then! It was exactly where I’d put it. Outside pocket.
Then we got on the Paris train. Oh yes! I’d taken the notebook and the key out of my purse and put the diamond into my jacket pocket. I thought it would be safer there as my purse was on the table. Then I’d folded up the jacket and put it in the luggage rack.
Yes, the luggage rack. The jacket.
We’d had a big ordeal getting off the train at Lyon because Sabrina had some kind of fit over Pastis. It was mayhem. The old biddy had been rooting around in that luggage rack searching for her own coat. Her coat. Luggage rack. Old woman. Jacket.