Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  Chapter 28: New Team

  The sun was shining that Tuesday morning, and the day promised to be sweltering again. One room at the Grenoble police station had been specially arranged to accommodate briefings for Operation Open Heart. Commissioner Mazure surveyed the thirty men and women settling into the chairs set up for the occasion, satisfied. At his side, Stéphane Rivera flaunted his finally acknowledged importance. He was having his revenge. He was going to take the opportunity to give everyone who had talked down to him a taste of their own medicine.

  The hubbub quieted little by little, and silence fell. Mazure began to speak. “The minister is following this case very closely and wants quick results. Reinforcements have been allocated to the investigation, and I’d like to welcome them. I’ll also take this opportunity to officially announce that Captain Rivera has been tapped to coordinate police efforts.”

  The majority of the policemen had already been informed, but some couldn’t hide their astonishment. Mazure explained.

  “Captain Barka is on rest. She was seriously injured by a gunshot. She would put her health in danger if she continued to fulfill her role. And I have every confidence in Captain Rivera as he follows in her footsteps.”

  Étienne Fortin sighed inwardly. The arrival of the reinforcements was excellent and would allow them to enhance the effectiveness of their search, but whose idea was it to turn control over to Rivera? He knew Rivera had been a good cop, if not honest, before the incident that had precipitated his fall from grace. But the bitterness obviously clouded his judgment. Fortin concentrated on the briefing. He had to suppress his feelings while at work, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Nadia. She should have been in Rivera’s place, without a shadow of a doubt. He’d go see her during the day as soon as he could get free. The arrival of all these new forces should open up his schedule.

  Chapter 29: Arsène

  Arsène pushed away the files spread across his desk. He got up and headed toward a small safe hidden behind a painting. Nothing very original about it except that there was only one key and he was its keeper. He’d asked his staff not to disturb him, and he knew his secretary, a devotee to his cause, would respect that order no matter what the cost.

  He took the key out of his pocket, slid it into the lock, and entered the opening combination by using four dials arranged on the front of the safe. He’d had the safe installed when he’d taken office. He gingerly removed what appeared to be an ancient book from it, not very thick, which he placed on his desk. His masterpiece! The testament of Fra Bartolomeo.

  He had before him the source of his power and his fortune. A brilliant idea that had germinated when, years earlier, he’d met that eccentric old millionaire. Actually, more psychologically disturbed than eccentric, but also more billionaire than millionaire!

  Arsène recalled the encounter. He’d just spent seven years working toward his diploma. After his studies were over, he’d felt a visceral need to enjoy life. On a whim he’d gone to a seaside resort in the South of France. He was young, and his savings had melted away after two months of dates and partying.

  Shortly before the end of his stay he’d met that man on the terrace of a bar. What was his name again? Oh, yes, Régis Duclerc. Duclerc had been standing alone, watching the sea and his Campari Orange. Eventually he’d approached Arsène’s table and offered him a glass. Since Arsène had been admiring the sea for long enough, and time was starting to drag, he’d accepted.

  Duclerc had introduced himself right away. Starting off as an assistant in a jewelry shop, he’d become one of the most influential gem cutters in the country. His career, and especially the fortune he’d amassed, had aroused Arsène’s curiosity. For fun, Arsène had decided to impersonate an archaeologist. Duclerc had reacted predictably with the overblown enthusiasm of an eager admirer: You must have extraordinary adventures! What a life! What do you think of Tutankhamen’s curse? and on and on.

  With his boundless imagination, Arsène had had no trouble telling adventure stories worthy of Indiana Jones. He slipped in secrets that gave the jeweler the impression of entering a world of insiders.

  That day he’d decided to introduce himself as a specialist in the Aztec world. He had only a sketchy familiarity with the subject. But he said he’d done a thesis on the influence of Mayan culture in Aztec society. The Toltec peoples, the Chichimeca or Totonac, held no secrets for him. To say that Régis Duclerc had been fascinated was an understatement. He drank in Arsène’s words. At dinnertime, Duclerc had invited him to a restaurant by the water, highly rated by Michelin, and he’d accepted, famished and curious to see where this story would take him.

  And that’s when Arsène had first given life to the character of Fra Bartolomeo. Fra Bartolomeo was a Genoese monk, excommunicated for fornication and murder, who had lived with Cortés among the Aztecs to escape the law and a death sentence. Arsène had expounded upon the terrible tortures reserved for sinners and homosexuals at that time. Always provide details that could be reused to impress and awe.

  He thought his conversation partner’s rational mind would soon reject his invented character. But the diamond dealer was so impassioned and charmed by the tale that he didn’t doubt the veracity of Arsène’s statements for a second.

  Thus Arsène had begun, in strictest secrecy and in the company of a fifteen-year-old cognac, to reveal to Duclerc the first fragments of the lost manuscript of Fra Bartolomeo. He’d taken on a conspiratorial air that he himself found laughable, but Duclerc was enchanted. Arsène left him waiting expectantly for the rest of the story, arranging to meet the day after next. He wanted to let a day go by to better gauge how hooked the jeweler was.

  They saw each other again two days later. Arsène had kept Régis Duclerc waiting for more than an hour, and he could see the intense excitement in his eyes. Arsène wondered how a man who had made a fortune in the diamond world, which he imagined to be anything but unsophisticated, could swallow his story like this. He obviously needed to escape, to get away for a moment from the monotony of sixty years struggling and laboring to get rich.

  An idea had taken root within Arsène the previous day, and he wanted to see just how far he could push it. He first solemnly asked the jeweler to keep the conversation that followed strictly to himself, no matter what happened with their relationship. He was going to tell him about an ambitious project that could revolutionize their limited knowledge as rational Europeans. Duclerc swore on everything he held dear.

  Although they were alone at their table, Arsène preferred to walk on the beach, empty at that hour of the morning. From his historian friends, he’d heard that the tomb of Fra Bartolomeo was about to be discovered in the Guatemalan jungle. By purest chance, a Swiss team had found the ruins of a little chapel they’d dated to the middle of the sixteenth century. Fra Bartolomeo had last been seen in that area, and priests were few in number. It wasn’t the funerary chapel of one of Cortés’s conquistador companions, because its decoration wasn’t that of a Spanish noble. And a soldier would have seen his bones rot in the ground. Only a clergyman could have been interred in that way. At that time, it was quite possible that Fra Bartolomeo had a few disciples who would have cared for him and buried him with his work, The Book of the Sun. To this day, the original had never been found. Only a few fragments had survived.

  Arsène explained that he had waited for their meeting that morning before revealing this key information. He’d wanted to be sure he could trust him completely. Then he’d looked at Duclerc. If he took the bait, Arsène would have him in the palm of his hand. The diamond dealer hadn’t just taken the bait—he’d swallowed it. He was wriggling in his chair.

  “Let me join you in this adventure!” Duclerc implored him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m much too old to be running off into the jungle, but you should go join this team in Guatemala right away. Do you think they’d accept you?”

 
“Yes, I know the leader of the mission, and my knowledge would undoubtedly be valuable to them. But I don’t have the means to get there.”

  “That’s what I was getting at. I’ll finance your expedition and everything you need. In exchange, I’ll ask only one thing of you—you tell me every detail of your adventure, and share the contents of The Book of the Sun with me, if you find it.”

  He looked at the diamond dealer. The old man was dead serious. Arsène was quiet for a while, letting Duclerc sit with his impatience. Arsène pretended to ponder, and then said, “Monsieur Duclerc, your offer is very generous, and I appreciate it. But you can’t imagine the expense of such an enterprise. Especially since, even if we do find the tomb of Fra Bartolomeo, there’s no proof that he’s really buried there, and even less proof that his book is with him . . . and what condition would it be in, anyway?”

  “It’s to your credit that you’ve revealed your concerns to me, but my mind is made up. Even in my most successful business dealings I’ve never felt this kind of excitement. I have money, monsieur, a lot of money, and I’m prepared to support you financially to meet this challenge. No point in talking about this any longer. We’re both men of action. Let’s go to my hotel to discuss the terms of this enterprise.”

  Seated at his desk, Arsène caressed the document’s leather binding. The memory of the three months he’d spent back then delighted him all over again—living in luxury hotels in Acapulco, enjoying life, and writing Fra Bartolomeo’s testamentary manuscript, The Book of the Sun, whenever the creative urge inspired him. Régis Duclerc had been more than generous.

  Arsène had seduced several dozen men and women since then. He’d chosen them from all social classes, and the generosity of a few rich initiates had allowed him to live in comfort. His cult had been a success.

  He paged through the manuscript, scanning it with his eyes, even though he’d known it by heart for years. What he’d considered a game at the beginning had become his raison d’être. He’d plunged back into the study of Aztec religion. His objective view as a historian, provided a historian can have an objective view of the elements he studies, had little by little transmuted into the subjective view of this vanished culture. He’d developed a growing interest in the legend of Huitzilopochtli, god of war and the sun.

  Arsène had immersed himself in his creation, retaining just enough clarity and perspective to promote, with all the necessary discretion, the cult of his new religion. He’d pulled off a masterstroke. He stood up and returned the work to the safe with mock reverence.

  Chapter 30: Worries

  Commissioner Mazure entered Étienne Fortin’s tiny office. The lieutenant was immersed in the report for the investigation conducted that day at South Hospital. He turned when he sensed the silent presence of his superior behind him.

  “Take a chair, Commissioner.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll stand. Anything new on the abduction of the Saint-Forge girl?”

  “Nothing! All the nursing staff have been interrogated. The files of patients who were treated Sunday afternoon have been scoured. Most of the patients have been contacted, some of us went to question them at home, and nothing. I’ve never seen so much energy spent on a case. And it’s as if the murderer were invisible. Some people remember having seen a blond middle-aged individual, but they didn’t notice anything other than that.”

  “And the medical staff? They weren’t surprised to see this individual roaming around?”

  “They’re on constant overload. One of the nurses asked him who he was looking for or waiting for. He gave her an evasive answer. She wanted to know more, but she had to tend to an emergency in the recovery room. When she came back, the man had moved on and she thought no more about it.”

  “What do the surveillance cameras say?”

  “He arrived on foot in the parking lot around three p.m. and left around five thirty driving a car. With his sunglasses and wig, he’s almost impossible to identify.”

  “Why do you say he had a wig?”

  “Julien Lombard, the man who saw the murders in a dream, caught a glimpse of him during his last nightmare. He can’t describe him precisely, but he confirmed that he wasn’t blond.”

  “Do you believe his story?” asked Mazure.

  “Yes. We had some doubts in the beginning, but the accuracy of the facts is too uncanny to be a coincidence or the delusion of a pathological liar. Nadia is convinced, and so are we.”

  “We?”

  “Rodolphe Drancey and me.”

  “And what does Rivera think of it?”

  Fortin sighed and looked at Alain Mazure with dismay. “For Rivera, Lombard is just Captain Barka’s creature. You know how much he loves Nadia. Besides, he’s convinced that Lombard is, in one way or another, connected to the killer. As if he would ever admit he might be mistaken! Rivera can be a real ass when he puts his mind to it!”

  “And where did that lead?”

  “He went to find him at his workplace, raid style. But right after they got here, Lombard had secured a lawyer, ready to defend him.”

  “Who?”

  “Madeleine Dupas.”

  A large smile lit up Mazure’s face for the first time that day. “I imagine he didn’t stay here long.”

  “That’s right,” confirmed Fortin. “I saw Rivera pass by a little later, enraged. But if you want more details, go see Garancher. He looks so innocent, but he gets gossip from everywhere. He’s the one who got the wig story. Rivera doesn’t trust me—I’m too close to Nadia for him.”

  “She’s the one I wanted to talk to you about. I haven’t heard from her since she left the hospital yesterday. What could have come over her?”

  “Having any second thoughts, Commissioner?”

  “Yes, but from there to not answering her phone or intercom?”

  “You went to see her?”

  “She hasn’t liked me much since I stuck her on forced rest. But I still tried to see her at home. She didn’t answer her intercom. I didn’t want to insist, but I’m a bit concerned.”

  Étienne Fortin looked disgruntled. “She didn’t open up? Even for you?”

  “Even for me. But our last words were heated. I’m worried. She’s very strong and has an unusual ability to take a punch, but I still remember the state she was in after her investigation into the death of Laure Déramaux.”

  “I remember, too. But she resurfaced pretty quickly.”

  “Exactly. I don’t have a doctorate in psychology, but I’m convinced what just happened is causing a relapse—with the guilt of not having caught the killer yet and the frustration of no longer being able to work on the case.”

  “Commissioner, I have to participate in the review of the research that was done on all doctors in the area with Garancher. It’s four o’clock, but I should be able to go visit Nadia around eight.”

  Chapter 31: Meeting with the Priest

  7:00 p.m. Place de Lavalette. Julien stood in front of the door to the Diocesan Residence. In the end, it took a command from Sophie before he had decided to see Father de Valjoney. He pushed at the door. Locked. He looked at the schedule of reception hours. It closed at six. A sort of cowardly relief came over him—he’d come back tomorrow. He was getting ready to leave when the door swung open. A tall man, solidly built and wearing a clerical collar, was exiting the building. Without thinking, Julien went up to him and asked, “Please excuse me, but are you Father Bernard de Valjoney?”

  The man looked at him in surprise. “Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?”

  There it was. Now Julien had to jump in. “My name is Julien Lombard. I’m a friend of Sophie Dupas. She advised me to meet with you.”

  The priest listened with interest. He’d known Sophie forever. He’d baptized her when he was still a young priest. He knew she’d sent the young man to him for a good reason.

  “Give
me two minutes. I have an appointment, but I’m going to push it back.”

  “I don’t want to bother you . . .”

  “Leave it to me,” he said, speed-dialing a number on his smartphone. “Pierre-Marie, this is Father Bernard. I’ll be a little bit late for our meeting . . . Yes, start without me, and save me a little of your wife’s delicious chocolate mousse . . . Thanks, see you later.”

  He hung up. “Now we have some time to talk. Let’s go to my office.”

  They entered the building, its coolness relaxing Julien. He followed the priest through the hallways of the vast architectural complex and accompanied him into a large office. Father de Valjoney invited him to sit on the leather sofa and went to get a bottle of sparkling water from a refrigerator, which was built into a large library overflowing with books. After they were settled, he asked, “First off, tell me how Sophie’s doing.”

  “Well. I’m impressed with her energy, which is a great support for me right now.”

  Bernard de Valjoney gave him a long look. “She is indeed an invaluable young woman. Why did she send you to me?”

  Julien took a deep breath. Either the priest would take him for a madman in spite of all Sophie had told him, or he might have the beginnings of an answer. In any case, it was too late to turn back now.

  “Like everyone else, you’ve heard about the murder of two young women in Grenoble?”

  The priest immediately paid closer attention. “Yes, especially since the first victim was found in the old baptistery.”

  “Good. In a nutshell, I had a vision of each of those two murders.”

  He waited for the clergyman to interrupt him, but the priest gestured for him to continue. He told his story for fifteen minutes, without Father de Valjoney saying a word. When he’d finished, he was dripping with sweat but felt a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders.