Crossing the Line

by Frédérique Molay

  The team had also let Dr. Maxime Robert and Maître Belin, Guedj’s dentist and notary, in on the secret. Both were cooperative and eager to get to the bottom of the mystery.

  The DNA test results had confirmed that it was the doctor who had been found in the water. The police forensics lab had also filed its report on the anchor used to weigh down the body. It was new and a popular brand, selling for a couple of thousand euros in most marine-supply stores. It weighed sixty-eight pounds and was designed for boats that were sixty-eight to 150 feet long. Nothing useful.

  Nico glanced at the clock on the wall. Mrs. Parize and her two children would be arriving soon.

  The day before, Kriven had questioned Parize’s parents, who had traveled from Burgundy. The mother had broken down in tears when she learned that her beloved son’s death in a car accident had been staged. She cried harder at the news of his real death. The father was in shock. Both were brokenhearted, crushed by their son’s deception.

  Nico’s secretary called to let him know that the Parize family had been led to a tiny room on the top floor, which had only a small skylight. The sergeant accompanying them was supposed to be a ghost. That was police jargon: His job was to watch everything and be invisible, for all intents and purposes.

  Nico took the staircase up to a long hallway lined with interview rooms. The sergeant saluted him before closing the door behind them.

  Mrs. Parize and her two children jumped up from their chairs. They looked afraid. Nico felt bad about it, but he had decided to give them a clear message: he was serious. If one of them had key information about Parize, or if the doctor had contacted a family member, Nico wanted a confession.

  “Sit down, please,” he said.

  “You summoned us,” Mrs. Parize said.

  “That’s correct. I have some questions about Dr. Parize.”

  “I thought I answered them when you came to see me on Saturday.”

  Since then, things had changed.

  “Christophe did not die in a car accident last year in Burgundy,” he said without offering any cushion. He watched their reactions.

  Marine turned pale and covered her mouth, muffling a cry. Her mother turned red. Nico figures she was feeling both afraid and angry. Olivier remained stoic and distant, a vague look in his eyes. Was it a wordless expression of hatred for his father?

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Parize finally asked.

  “As you know, ma’am, we exhumed the body buried in Chalon-sur-Saône. The coroner did an autopsy and concluded that it wasn’t your ex-husband.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Since the accident, has he tried to contact any of you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Parize cried out.

  “Not even you, Miss Parize?” Nico looked Marine in the eye.

  The young woman shook her head, still in shock.

  “Your father was near the Lycée Louis-le-Grand on September 15, presumably to see you at the ceremony in your honor.”

  The girl’s lips began to tremble.

  “We think that he tried to approach you.”

  “We didn’t see him. I didn’t leave Marine’s side the whole time,” the brother said.

  Nico sized him up.

  “Then maybe you are the one he contacted?”

  “Me? Never!” the boy yelled.

  “Olivier!” his mother shouted.

  The teenager looked down, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Where is our father? And why did he lead us to believe he was dead? Did he do something bad?”

  “Would that surprise you?”

  “It’s impossible,” Marine whispered. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “It’s true we fought a lot,” the mother said. “The divorce was hard. But is that enough reason to disappear?”

  “He wanted the department head position at Saint Louis Hospital. One of his colleagues got it instead.”

  “He must have been furious,” Mrs. Parize said, obviously surprised by the news.

  “That was his whole life.”

  “It could have been a reason to disappear.”

  She shrugged.

  “At the end, he was in a bad mood all the time. Now I understand better,” Olivier said.

  “He didn’t care about us anymore,” Marine said.

  “Except that he tried to see you on September 15,” Nico pressed. “He was very proud of you.”

  “He had always been proud of Marine. He had reason to be,” Oliver said. Nico didn’t pick up any tinge of resentment in his tone.

  “Stop. He was proud of you, too,” Marine said softly.

  “Okay, he was close to Marine,” Nico said. “That’s what motivated him to go to the reception. We have witnesses. So I’ll ask again, Marine. Did he talk to you? If so, what did he tell you? It is extremely important. If you keep anything that serious from the police, you’ll be in trouble.”

  “I swear I didn’t see him,” Marine said.

  “She’s not lying. Marine never lies,” her protective brother said.

  “Please, leave my children alone,” Mrs. Parize interrupted. “We don’t know anything.”

  “Does the name Bruno Guedj mean anything to you?”

  “Guedj? No,” the mother answered. “What about you, Marine and Olivier?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Bruno Guedj.”

  It was time to break the news.

  “I have something to tell you, and it won’t be easy to hear. Dr. Parize was found dead yesterday.”

  Oliver went pale and swayed in his chair.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Parize shrieked.

  “He drowned.”

  “Christophe knew how to swim!”

  “Let’s just say he had some help.”

  “Do you mean someone killed him?”

  “That’s correct. I’m sorry. Please accept my condolences.”

  “Dear God! How did this happen?”

  “You’ll have to tell me.”

  “We’d tell you if we knew anything,” Oliver said. He was taking on the role of head of the family, with all the clumsiness and hesitation of his age.

  “I certainly hope so, just like I hope you share my commitment to finding your father’s murderer. You may go home now. I have no further questions.”

  They remained slumped in their chairs. Finally, they got up to leave. Many times before, Nico had seen how pain and sorrow sucked up their prey from the inside, emptying them of their substance, like straws in a glass.

  Nico stopped Olivier at the door.

  “Here’s my card. If anything at all comes back to you, any detail, don’t hesitate to call.”

  The young man was obviously shaken. He took the card and hurried to catch up with his sister and mother in the hallway. The ghost sergeant accompanied them. He had played his role brilliantly. Nico hadn’t even noticed him.

  Nico went back over the interview as he walked down to his office. A successful investigation required several ingredients: work, determination—more on the order of relentless resolve—intuition, and insight—a sixth sense, which no technique could ever replace. And luck, a basic element that couldn’t be controlled. For example, Christophe Parize’s body wouldn’t have been found as quickly, had river patrol divers not decided to inspect the area. They would need more luck to figure out what Bruno Guedj had in common with Dr. Parize, Professor Claude Janin, and the nurse, Danièle Lemaire. For that matter, what, other than what they already knew, linked Parize, Janin, and Lemaire? At this point, he didn’t have anything that could explain the tragic series of events.

  Nico put on his coat. He needed to empty his mind; this case was getting to him. He kept seeing the faces of Guedj’s family members superimposed on those of Parize’s family. Outside, he walked across the Pont Neuf. On the left bank of the Seine, he passed a cast-iron Wallace fountain, an icon of the French capital. At the end of the nineteenth century, British philanthropist Richard Wallace had decided to use part of his immense fortune to benefit
the needy of Paris. At the time, water was more precious than wine. Wallace commissioned fifty drinking fountains, which were to be beautiful, as well as functional. Four nymphs on the pedestal of each represented simplicity, kindness, charity, and sobriety. The Samaritan now lay in the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

  On the Quai des Grands Augustins, booksellers were hawking their antique and used wares. The bouquinistes and their green boxes were another symbol of Paris. At one of the stands, he and Caroline had unearthed a Surrealistic drawing of the capital, which they framed and hung at his place. Now, every time he saw it, he recalled that moment spent strolling along the Seine. It seemed impossible to remember a certain scene without also remembering the loved one who shared the experience. Was it because the loved one made the scene all the more beautiful?

  He pushed open the door to the travel agency.

  23

  Who did that cop think he was? That Sirsky. Some puffed-up idiot making his intentions clear by telling the world that Bruno Guedj’s death was a practical joke. Did Sirsky think he was an imbecile? Did he really think those headlines would goad him into revealing himself? Dumb cop. Asshole. He was a nobody who had the gall to play with the big boys.

  But in this chess game, he didn’t really care if, in the end, his king lay down. That made it all the more dangerous. He was sure he could kill the bishops and rooks before laying down his weapon. With .22-caliber long-rifle bullets.

  And when he fell, his last gaze would be on his queen, who had chosen to sell her soul to the devil, and his, along with it.

  24

  “Hello? Chief Sirsky?” The voice was hesitant.

  Nico searched his memory. He knew that voice. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “I’d like to see you. Can I?” The words barely came out.

  “Of course.”

  “At the Place Saint-Michel?” The young man sounded relieved. “It’s near your office.”

  “When?”

  “Right away?”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The kid had chosen a busy café with lots of people milling about. What was he afraid of?

  Nico walked purposefully without hurrying. He wanted to look strong and calm, to bring the student out of his shell and gain his trust. This meeting was the first good news they had gotten in two days. His team was moving heaven and earth at Saint Louis Hospital but had yet to find a crack in the system. Maybe this was the break they needed.

  Nico entered the café, scanned the customers, and headed toward the table.

  “Sirs?” a waiter asked.

  “Hot chocolate for me,” Nico said, trying to sound relaxed. “What would you like?”

  “The same.”

  Nico could have ordered anything, and the young man would have done the same. He had something on his mind.

  “Two hot chocolates,” the waiter yelled and walked away.

  “You wanted to see me?” Nico made sure his tone was friendly.

  “Yes—” He hesitated.

  “Is it about your father?”

  Olivier Parize nodded. He was nineteen. Nearly a man, but not quite. His whole life was in front of him, offering both opportunities and difficult decisions. Dimitri in just five years!

  The waiter reappeared with a platter balanced on his fingertips. He set the steaming cups in front of them, along with the bill. Nico grabbed the slip.

  “My father left an envelope for me at school.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten days ago.”

  “Well before our conversation!”

  “What was in it scared me to death.”

  Now Nico understood Olivier Parize’s attitude when he was questioned. He had defended his sister fiercely, sure that she didn’t know anything, because he was the one his father had chosen to warn. Oliver had been petrified when he heard that his father was murdered.

  The boy opened his backpack and handed over the letter.

  My dear son Olivier,

  I know I hurt you and your sister, and I’m going to hurt you some more. With this letter, you will know that I did not die in that car accident last year. Blinded by the problems with your mother and trouble at the hospital, I chose to disappear from your lives when the opportunity arose. It was totally crazy, and I regret it bitterly. Like the day I slapped you. You didn’t deserve it. But we can never go back. If you find out that I am dead—for real this time—it will mean that I’ve been murdered, and the person responsible for my death has lost all sense of reality. In that case, and only in that case, give this letter to the police, and tell them that I am sorry for Bruno Guedj. I know it doesn’t look that way, but I love you, and I love Marine, too. I didn’t show you my love the way I should have, and I am paying for it now.—Papa.

  “Are you sure it’s from him?”

  “He talks about the slap.”

  “What slap?”

  “We were supposed to go on a vacation together, but he called it off. We had a fight, and he slapped me. Then, a few days later, he had his car accident.”

  “Was there anything with the letter?”

  Olivier Parize slipped his hand into his backpack and pulled out a glossy photo.

  “It’s a class picture. That’s Marine, her junior year in high school at Louis-le-Grand.”

  Nothing was written on the back.

  “Do you have any idea what it could mean?”

  “No.”

  “Did you talk to your sister?”

  “Last night.”

  “I need to see her.”

  The boy pulled out his cell phone and made the call. “She’s on her way.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the café across the street. I figured you’d want to see her.”

  Nico didn’t say anything until the girl had joined them. She looked frail and tired. It was hard to imagine her as head of her class at such a prestigious school.

  “Who are these other teenagers in the photo?”

  “Former classmates.”

  “They are not in your class anymore?”

  “Some continued on after graduation, like I did, but others went elsewhere.”

  “Your father is using this picture to tell us something. What could it be?”

  “We don’t have the slightest idea,” Oliver said. “We were up all night. We thought you might have an idea.”

  “Can you give me their names?”

  “Of course, we spent three years together.”

  Nico took out a notebook and pen and wrote down a number for each face. He flashed back to the number 510 on Bruno Guedj’s decapitated head and shivered.

  Marine listed the identities of all thirty-eight students. Nico asked questions about their parents’ professions, their status in school, their plans for the future, and any problems she might have known about. He was pulling at straws, and she provided all the answers that she could. Little by little, the girl relaxed and started to say more. Occasionally, her brother had something to add.

  “She started getting really, really sick. It was terrible. My father took care of her at the hospital,” Marine said.

  Nico stopped writing and looked up. “Excuse me, what is her name again?”

  “It’s Clarisse Quere,” Marine said.

  Nico rubbed his chin. “Quere. As in Edward Quere?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Edward Quere? The billionaire?”

  “The third-richest man in France,” Olivier said.

  “What did she have?”

  “It was serious,” Marine said. “Cancer.”

  “So your father cared for her. Why him?”

  “Our parents knew each other from meetings and other events at school. Mr. Quere called Dad, I think.”

  “Do you remember when this was?”

  “Clarisse got sick at the beginning of the school year. I think it was November.”

  “How is she today?”

  Marine’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. At first, she kep
t a blog. We had news. Sometimes I’d talk with her on the phone. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped communicating.”

  “Did your father talk to you about her?”

  “Dad told me I should keep my hopes up.”

  “That had to be hard.”

  “You were very upset,” Oliver said. “You wanted to stay in touch with her, to let her know that you cared. When she stopped posting on her blog, you started getting really worried.”

  “Exactly when did that happen?” Nico asked.

  “In July.”

  “A month before his car accident,” Nico said.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Do you think that’s an important detail?” Olivier asked.

  “Perhaps. We’ll see. Let’s keep going with these names, please. There are a few more faces left.”

  They finished putting names on the faces, and it was clear that the only student of real interest was Clarisse Quere.

  “I want to say something,” Olivier said.

  Nico looked him in the eye. The boy’s lips were trembling.

  “My sister and my mother knew nothing about the letter. If there is someone to blame for withholding evidence, it’s me.”

  “Let’s just say that for now, I don’t intend to blame anyone.”

  “You’re not going to arrest me?”

  “I’d rather lock up your father’s murderers.”

  “Do you think we are in danger?” Marine asked, alarmed.

  “No. Whatever your father did had nothing to do with you. And you haven’t had any contact with him in months.”

  “Okay, and will the letter he gave Olivier help you understand what happened?”

  “It’s too early to tell.”

  “But you’re interested in Clarisse Quere, right?”

  “It’s a lead, but you must not say a word about it, under any circumstances. That could cause troubles for you.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Olivier said.

  The two looked relieved of a heavy weight. Oliver had gotten his father’s letter off his conscience. But the two of them still seemed nervous and tense. Nico felt for them. Losing a father was bad enough. Losing a father in such an inconceivable and intolerable way was even worse.

  Nico tried to calm his excitement as he crossed the Saint Michel Bridge and headed back to police headquarters. The Parize children had just provided them with a prime lead, saving the division a lot of time. His teams probably would have found the connection eventually, but how many hours would they have spent looking through patient files at Saint Louis Hospital? And how would they have known that Clarisse Quere’s case was different? They would have needed to know that the girl was in Marine Parize’s class, a detail that wouldn’t have shown up anywhere.