Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation

by Michael Genelin

  “I want to thank you again for last night.”

  “If I helped, then I’m delighted.”

  “One thing: Please don’t tell anyone about our ‘meeting’ in your room. It would be perceived as a weakness if it got out. People would wonder about my competence to handle emotional stress. So, please?”

  “I understand.” Moira was shoring up her defensive wall. “It’s not my nature to gossip.”

  “Great. You’ll keep me apprised of developments with the Foch case?”

  “If I can keep up with them myself.” Odd, thought Jana, how Simmons compartmentalized. Her ex-husband’s death had now become the impersonal “Foch case.”

  “You should keep in mind that this is a French jurisdiction, not Slovak. They will be the investigators,” Jana reminded her.

  “Naturally.” Moira now looked as if she was contemplating who the next person was whom she had to meet. “Good-bye.” She walked back to the circle of people she had left, immediately jumping into the conversation, the most insistent voice in the group.

  “Odd,” thought Jana, feeling as if she had been pushed away. Moira had been instrumental in bringing Jana to this meeting, in placing her in the middle of the larger investigation of the Koba group, had cancelled Jana’s talk with the group just before it was to have begun, and now appeared to have only the most passing interest in Jana or in Foch’s death.

  Jana searched the room for Levitin. He was leaning against the wall by the door, clearly waiting for her.

  “Dinner?” he suggested.

  “Business first.”

  “I’m hungry.” He patted his stomach. “The barking dog has to be fed.”

  “Do you still have Foch’s address book?” They walked out, going toward the elevator. “It’s more interesting than food.”

  Levitin handed it to her. Jana flipped through the pages as the elevator carried them down. “Mr. Foch wanted his very important address book returned to him if it was lost. On the inside front cover is his Vienna UN address; in France, he has listed his home. It’s in Alsace; we’re in Alsace. We could be there very quickly.”

  “I will be thinking of food all the time it takes us to get there.”

  “The longer we wait to go, the more likely someone else may find what we want. They might even destroy it.”

  “And what do we want?”

  Levitin was starting to waiver from his “food first” approach, but his stomach didn’t want to surrender its claims.

  “We want to know why anyone would murder the sweet, lovable, charming man Moira Simmons told us Foch was.”

  “If you promise to feed me after we go to . . .”—he checked the address—“. . . Ribeauvillé. Yes, I’ve always wanted to go there.” It was obvious that Levitin had not the slightest notion where the town was. “I am sure I will have the appropriate map in my car.”

  They crossed the lobby, going toward the front door of the hotel.

  “Why do you have a car here?” Jana asked.

  “I rented it. I saw the same address noted in Foch’s book. If you had not insisted on going there, I would have—but after eating, naturally.”

  “Maybe the Russians sent us a good detective after all, Levitin.”

  “I would hope so, Commander Matinova.”

  They walked toward the car.

  Chapter 27

  They drove down the Route de Vin, about twenty kilometers from Strasbourg, then went south toward Colmar, stopping northwest of that city in the small village of Ribeauvillé. It was nestled in a green valley. Overhanging houses lined the narrow streets. Several grand châteaus overlooked the town, and they passed at least two ruined castles. The area had to be filled with tourists in the summer; it was too quaint to be missed.

  The drive to the village had been an easy one, Levitin proving he had a Russian’s typical lead foot. He would only talk in monosyllables while he drove, so Jana could not get much from him about his background except that he worked directly under a minister. That boosted Levitin’s stock. You don’t need to send an official who works for a minister unless the stakes are high. Trokan would ferret out the details. There was probably a fax with the information she’d requested waiting for her at the hotel.

  They asked directions from a local chocolatier, and, at the slight cost of a few expensive pieces of marzipan to soothe Levitin’s empty stomach, they were directed to a very large château on the top of one of the nearby low-rising hills.

  The château was even bigger close up, a sprawling mansion with a Palladian-pillared front. Unlike a number of the other houses in the area, it was beautifully preserved, an eighteenth-century icon lovingly refurbished and gardened into twenty-first-century splendor.

  They parked outside the gate. There was no bell, so the two walked into the front yard, crossed to the large entry doors, and used the satyr-headed knocker to announce themselves. They repeated the knock after waiting, then walked around the building to determine if anyone, even a gardener, was there.

  No lights inside, no noise, no voices. Jana decided that Foch, in life, had had such a sense of hospitality that he would have given them the run of the house. So he would not mind very much as she used her elbow to break a pane in one of the French doors and reached through to unlock the portal.

  Inside, the house was lovingly furnished with Louis Quinze antiques, expensive rugs, and, to Jana’s untrained eye, expensive art on the walls.

  “I think I like Mr. Foch’s taste,” was Levitin’s laconic comment.

  They began wandering through the rest of the house. The first thing that caught Jana’s eye was the collection of photographs scattered throughout the rooms. They included a number of the ex-Mrs. Foch, Moira Simmons, arm in arm with Foch. There was a small group photo that particularly caught Jana’s attention. It showed three couples, obviously at a dinner party. One of the couples was unknown to her. Foch was with Moira Simmons, Jeremy with Katka. The picture of Katka was the first that Jana had seen in years, and, judging from the way Jeremy and the others looked, it had been taken fairly recently. Scrawled at the bottom of the photograph, in ink, was “Welcome to nice Nice, Jeremy and Katka.”

  Jana slipped the photo out of the frame; to Levitin’s cocked eyebrow, she merely said, “Evidence.”

  The upstairs, particularly the master bedroom, was the next surprise. As beautifully furnished as the other rooms, it boasted a massive four-poster bed set on a pedestal in the middle of the room. There was an even larger collection of framed photos around the room, all of them of the ex-Mrs. Foch in various poses.

  “Foch seemed to have been in love with the lady despite the divorce,” Jana commented, amazed at the sheer number of pictures of Moira. It was more than just love. It was a worshiper’s display. “He kept this place like a shrine to his goddess. Foch may have liked little boys, but he never gave up loving Ms. Simmons.”

  Levitin stepped up onto the platform that supported the bed. “Commander Matinova, please come up here.”

  Jana took the step up, immediately realizing where Foch had been sent off to his last sleep. The pillows were bloody. Ropes hung down from the posts, apparently the bonds used to secure Foch by his wrists and ankles. Foch may have loved Moira Simmons and loved his house, but he certainly couldn’t have loved the last few minutes of life he’d had there.

  “There should be a bedspread. It’s gone.”

  “Used to carry the body away?” suggested Levitin.

  “Probably. No blood on the carpet. A heavy bedspread would keep it off. Not much bleeding from the wound in the eye. Death was immediate, so no heart action to pump the blood out.”

  They left the bed forensics to the French police. An anonymous phone call when they got back to Strasbourg would alert the gendarmes to this location.

  The two searched the rest of the house. In the back of the dressing room closet off the master bath was a floor safe. It was open, and bank books were scattered around a small case that stood near it. Twenty thousand Euros, still w
rapped, sat on the lip of the safe. Foch had been interrupted while he was packing.

  Levitin rubbed his forehead, puzzling the events out. “Our murderer doesn’t need money. So, not a burglar.”

  Jana leafed through the bankbooks. Foch had been depositing huge sums of money. One of the accounts, a Swiss bank in Lucerne, contained 690,000 Euros.

  “He was either an amazing businessman, incredibly well-budgeted when it came to spending money, or a very corrupt diplomat. What do you think, Levitin?” She tossed the books back onto the floor for the police to find.

  “Maybe he won the National Lottery?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “That was a joke.”

  “I know.”

  They walked down the stairs, Jana heading for the back yard.

  “Where are we going?” Levitin asked as he followed her out the back door. “Our car is in front.”

  “They cut off his finger.”

  “‘They’?”

  “Very difficult to carry a dead man by yourself. Foch wasn’t big, but he was substantial enough to cause a lone murderer problems. And when a person has just been killed, all the parts move unpredictably every time the body is shifted. Very awkward, which makes it even harder. And where did they cut off the finger?”

  She walked purposefully toward a small toolshed half hidden by trees. “My guess is they used one of the tools in there.” The door was slightly ajar, so the two walked inside. She switched an overhead light on. There was a bandsaw on the small worktable. Levitin and Jana examined it.

  “Yes, here.” Levitin ran his finger parallel to the blade, indicating flecks of blood and bone. “The fine teeth on the saw would make the clean cut we saw.”

  “The killer had a plan. He wanted to make sure his message got through to whoever it was aimed at.”

  “It got through to me,” acknowledged Levitin.

  “These people are not very pleasant.”

  “They did not succeed in making my stomach less hungry.” Levitin patted his belly.

  They drove off with the aim of finding a local restaurant to get Levitin’s stomach the meal it wanted.

  Chapter 28

  Jana met Jeremy early the next morning for a petit dejeuner at a small café a short distance from the hotel. Jana had eaten too much the night before, so she confined herself to a small pastry with large sprinkles of sugar on the top, and coffee. She watched as Jeremy carefully spread apricot jam on a hot croissant, then bit into it, relishing every crumb.

  Between bites, Jeremy studied the photograph Jana had taken from Foch’s house. “I remember this one. Foch liked to take photographs of his friends. Then he’d give the photos to them. He used to laugh and called it his biggest calling card. People naturally like to see pictures of themselves, so everyone welcomed Foch and his camera.”

  “This one was taken by someone else,” Jana reminded him.

  “I outfoxed Foch. There was a woman walking around taking photos. Foch didn’t expect to be on the receiving end. ‘Click,’ there he was, in the photo. He had me write the inscription on it.”

  “Katka looked very well.”

  “It was just after she’d had the baby. Katka was still a little plump and working very hard at dieting the weight off.”

  “The extra weight looks good.” Jana looked at the photograph, studying her daughter. “She was always too thin.”

  “I agree.” He smiled ruefully. “I made a mistake. I once told her I liked skinny women and now she refuses to put on weight. Once she makes up her mind, there’s no way to change it.”

  “Stubborn, like her father.” Jana felt a sudden pang of anguish, thinking of Dano. She forced herself back to the reality of the photograph and the couple she did not recognize. “Who were these other two?”

  “Pavel Rencko and his lady.” He took the photograph back from Jana, scrutinizing the man. “He was a low-level diplomat from the Czech Republic. Got involved in smuggling things via diplomatic pouches, or in his car, or whatever. The police couldn’t search him because of immunity. He couldn’t resist the easy bucks.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Dead. His own people did for him. He was working with a group out of South Africa transporting all kinds of contraband. When the Czechs caught on, they recalled him. Instead of driving off into the sunset in disgrace, Rencko did a perfect half-gainer out of a fifth-floor window.”

  “And the wife?”

  “She turned out not to be his wife. A Russian woman. She was window dressing, kind of a permanent escort for him. Surprised everyone.”

  “She was his mistress?”

  “I guess so. It wasn’t my business, so I did the diplomatic corps thing: I stayed away.”

  Jana went on to the person in the photograph they had not yet discussed. “How long have you known Moira Simmons?”

  Jeremy eyed Jana, wondering what she was getting at. He finally decided she was being his concerned mother-in-law. “I am a good and faithful husband. No worries about that, Jana.”

  Jana smiled. “I assumed so, Jeremy.”

  “Good.” He appeared mollified, taking another bite out of his croissant. “She came with Foch. We were all in the same field, we had interests in common. We met, I think, at a conference in Nice. Everybody likes to hold meetings in Nice. It has sun and beaches, and people can walk between the small raindrops when the sky decides to weep.” He smiled at his attempt to be humorous. “Then there’s Cannes on one side and Monaco on the other, so you throw a meeting in Nice and everyone scrambles to attend.”

  He tried to characterize Moira Simmons for Jana. “She has a dark side. She kind of hides in a corner when whatever it is comes over her. But Ms. Simmons is a very competent person, so you forgive her moods.”

  “And Foch?”

  “He’s dead. Ugh. What a way to go.”

  Jana persisted. “Had you heard any rumors about Foch’s private life?”

  Jeremy’s eyebrows went up again. “Like, anything wrong with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I stay away from that stuff. Rumors run through the consulates and embassies like a dirty sewer that carries nothing but bad odors and garbage. I tune them out.”

  “Did Foch and Simmons see each other after they divorced?”

  “Playing police officer again, are we?” He wagged a cautionary finger at her. “Better to stay out now, rather than dig deeper. The French cops are a pain if they think you’re invading their territory. And I’m from the wrong embassy, so I can’t be a hero on a white horse if they come down on you.”

  Jana shrugged. “I’m not ‘playing’ police officer; I am one.” She decided to switch topics, sliding over into the area they had both been avoiding. “Can we talk about Katka and me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “All I want is an hour to see her and the baby.”

  Jeremy looked down at the tablecloth, absentmindedly brushing at crumbs, trying to think of a way to give Jana some shred of hope.

  He finally looked up from the tablecloth. “If I can do it, I will. I’ll try to be as persuasive as I can. I’ll be persistent, I will promise her a luxurious life, sweet cakes and honey for her meals. But we both know how intractable she is.” He took a breath, hoping he had not made Jana feel worse. “We will keep our fingers crossed, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “For the next couple of days, hang loose. Stay at the same hotel, so I can leave you a message. If she says you can come see her in Nice, I will call you.”

  Jana nodded. All she could do was hope.

  Chapter 29

  The very tanned man filled up an extraordinary amount of space. It was not that he was so large. His presence alone managed to substitute for volume. As he stood next to the shop window watching the reflections from across the street, the pedestrians gave him a wide berth. It was not because he appeared fearsome, but because he was “formidable,” as the French might say, someone with whom you would not trifle.

  The man had pi
cked this window deliberately. It even had a mirror in one segment of its display case, which fit his needs better than the other windows on the street. He had been standing on the same spot for an hour, actually enjoying the show that passed by.

  He viewed people as if they were in a performance being staged just for him. Some were good actors; some were bad actors. He would, in time, remove the bad actors from his stage. After all, they were just objects to amuse him, to please him, to do his bidding. If they didn’t, he would make sure that they could no longer act on his stage. It was all very simple.

  The man would occasionally move his head slightly, catching different reflective angles. One of his slight turns caught her coming down the street. He knew her at once, the description and the small picture sent to him fitting her like a stencil.

  She was not too tall or short and carried herself well, shoulders back and head erect, without looking masculine. She had an overall air of confidence without losing her femininity. A good combination for a woman police officer. He would have to think carefully about his approach to the problem she presented.

  She went into her hotel, and almost immediately the man saw Tutungian. A new element in the play. The watcher was momentarily angry with himself for not taking into account that the policewoman might be followed.

  He shifted his feet, angling for a different view of the reflections in the window, irritated that he might have given himself away. He had moved too quickly. Moving objects are perceived more readily than stationary ones. The movement catches the eye, particularly the eyes of those who are anxious about their own safety. Tutungian was one of them.

  The man quickly shed his anger. He was rarely angry at himself, and seldom stayed angry at others. Anger is a wasteful emotion that only drains you. Besides, everyone was an object, and who could get angry over objects? Tutungian, though, was a man who suffered deep angers and nurtured longterm revenge. Too bad for Tutungian, not to understand and use his time in a wiser way.

  He watched even more closely. No reaction from Tutungian. Good. Tutungian had not seen him. He was pleased. If the man had been in Tutungian’s place, he would have discovered the watcher. One of the major differences between himself and people like Tutungian.