“He told me.” Things started to become clear to Louise. Now that she was pulling on this thread, she could see the pattern unraveling. Everything pointed to Belgium.
The owner placed their food on the table. “Bon appétit.”
Louise cut into the goat cheese on toast and took a bite. The combination of textures and flavors—warm, creamy, savory, and crusty—with fresh buttery lettuce and Dijon mustard dressing was pure comfort. The high-quality food was delivered once again.
Louise suddenly came to a decision. “Matthieu, if the bank threatens you again, tell them that you have found the money to cure the diseased plants.”
“But we don’t have the money.”
“You have a six-month extension on your loan. That gives you time to get it. Either way, you’ll have it. I promise.”
They finished lunch, and Louise ordered a café noisette, espresso with a dash of steamed milk, giving it a hazelnut color. Louise sipped and stared into the dark liquid, deep in thought. Then her eyes shot up at Matthieu’s grey-green tempests.
“I remember where I saw him,” Louise said.
“Who?”
Her movement was sudden, swift and with purpose. “Sorry, but I really need to get to Paris.” Louise put cash on the table and got up. Matthieu followed her.
They walked out and Matthieu opened her car door. She gave him a hug and kissed him tenderly on either side of his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath. “See you in a couple days.”
Louise dialed Charlie on her mobile phone, pressed the speaker option and placed it on the dash, before accelerating onto Route A6 north toward Paris. It was 3:00 p.m. for her, morning for him. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, it’s Louise. Is Patrick still with you?”
“Yes, he’s right here, you’re on speaker phone.”
“Patrick, I forgot to ask you a question that came up while I was chatting with Frédéric LaFontaine.”
“Did he have any new information?” Patrick asked.
“Well, not exactly. But he mentioned something about the fire in Almasi’s building that conflicted with your report.”
“Oh?”
“LaFontaine mentioned that the police restricted the fire brigade from entering the building for forty-five minutes so they could search for the intruders that they believed were still there. Were your Urban Police Divisions officers the first on the scene?”
“Yes, we arrived at 5:30 a.m.” Patrick said checking his notes. “The fire department was allowed access at 6:15 a.m.”
“Right. So, who informed you that the intruders were still there?” Louise asked. There was an awkward silence as Patrick tried to clear his mind. “Patrick, are you still there?”
“It never occurred to me before,” Patrick said, his voice trembling slightly. “When I arrived on the scene, one of my officers said that the CPD chief was already there when they arrived. He ordered them to search for the intruders.” After another awkward silence, Patrick was audibly angry. “That filthy Dupont was at the scene before the fire was even reported to authorities!”
“You’re referring to the chief of the Criminal Police Division, Paul Dupont you mention in your report, correct?” Louise asked, making sure they were understanding each other.
“That’s correct. He interfered with my investigation every step of the way.”
“That’s a serious allegation,” Louise said.
“You found the smoking gun, Louise,” Patrick said. “Dupont was at the crime scene before the authorities were even notified. I knew he was trying to impede my investigation. And now I have proof, thanks to you!”
“There’s definitely a pattern forming with all these cases,” Louise murmured.
“What cases?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” But Louise was reminded of some additional intel. “Oh, remember that camera pen you gave me? I captured some intriguing footage in Monaco. It could also be a smoking gun in the Almasi investigation, as Patrick put it.”
After yet another admonishment from Charlie to be careful, Louise hung up and immediately called Michael. “What have you got?” she asked referring to the background checks she requested.
“Hello to you too,” Michael rebuffed.
“Sorry, I’m driving to Paris and I’ve got you on speaker. Let’s make this quick. Did you find anything out?”
“Paris you say?” Michael omitted the fact that he was already there. “I made a couple connections.”
“Connections are good.”
“Neither of Marc Dutroux’s two wives, Michelle Martin and Lelièvre Dutroux, could have children, and both had teenage criminal records.”
“What were the crimes?” Louise asked.
“Attempted kidnapping. Doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”
“Anything else?” Louise said impatiently.
“Your guy, Matthieu Mersault, he’s an interesting one.”
“How so?”
“He had a promising career in archaeology, and then his fiancée was killed in a famous serial killer case.”
“This I know.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?” Michael asked.
Louise paused. “This I did not know.”
“Mersault didn’t know, either,” Michael continued.
“How do you know that?” Louise asked.
“No one knew. I found it in the coroner’s report that was never made public. So, how well do you know this guy Mersault? You mentioned you’re staying at his family estate in Burgundy?”
“Yes, I’m staying at a cottage on his family vineyard.”
“Does he know that you’re investigating him?”
“I’m not investigating him,” Louise said. “I’m just doing my due diligence.”
“Okay, banker lady. Can I do anything else for you?”
“Yes, actually, I need the background on Paul Dupont, chief superintendent of Monaco Criminal Police Division.”
“Really? Why don’t I pull Princess Grace’s death certificate while I’m at it?” Michael wisecracked.
“You know you’re my guy on this. Who else can do what you do?” The momentary pause on the speaker made Louise realize she’d hooked her fish.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Michael said. “So, Paris, huh? To see Vladimir?”
“I’ll probably need his help, if he’s willing. This case is starting to ruffle some feathers.”
“Don’t make me come over there and save you, again.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Louise reached the Boulevard Périphérique, a freeway around the periphery of Paris. She exited at Avenue de la Porte d’Orléans to Avenue du Général Leclerc and pulled up to the Hôtel Le Littré. She entered and approached the same twenty-something clerk at the front desk, hoping a room would be available.
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour, Madame.”
“Sorry, I don’t have a reservation. But I just need a room for one night. Is there anything available?”
The owner interrupted. “Bonjour, it’s nice to see you again, Madame Baker. I think we can accommodate you.” Louise watched him work his magic on the computer. “The penthouse is available but at the full rate. Is that okay?”
Louise thought for a beat. He didn’t know her schoolteacher identity so it wouldn’t be suspicious if she booked the penthouse.
“There goes the rest of my inheritance,” she jested nonchalantly, as she handed him her new Crédit Agricole Carte Bleue. He processed the transaction and gave her a key.
When she got to the suite, she didn’t even notice how spectacular it was because she immediately dialed her former paradise. Big Steve answered on the second ring, loud rap music playing in the background.
Louise used the same charming tone she just had in the exchange with the hotel owner. “How’s it going?”
He turned down the noise. “Yo, woman! Where you at?”
“I’m in Paris, looking at the Eiffel Tower, thinking of you.”
“I miss you too, mammy.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. Is there a party going on over there?”
“Just some homeys from the hood stopped by. Snoop is in the house!”
“Yes, I can hear your homey Snoop Dogg on the stereo.”
“Girl, you need to get yo ass back over here. You missin’ out big time! Snoop leavin’ tomorrow.”
Louise was a bit hurt that her familiar turf was getting along fine without her. Her association with Big Steve had always been a kind of mutual protection detail. Over the years since he had been her bodyguard while in hiding, known as Big Steve, she had learned about his struggles growing up. He had described to her in detail about his childhood. When he was fifteen, he had contracted shingles of the brain after a rabid dog bit him. It had put him in a coma, which, he explained, seemed like heaven, where everyone was the same. God, with white beard and colorful eyes, spoke to him, “It’s not your time.” God showed him his arm and said his life is longer than his arm. The illness had caused him to speak erratically and too quickly, so he had to do speech therapy. The result was that his urban slang was even more pronounced as he tended not to enunciate.
The stories of his young adult years were extraordinary, growing up with Magic Johnson, his own cousin started the Crips in South Central Watts, home of Dr. Dray. Rival gangs the CC Riders in Compton, home of and Ice Cube, and the gang PyRules, a division of the Bloods, with Chris Brown. He had explained how it had started out with no weapons, just fist fights. But then big weapons arrived in the 1980s and it became a war zone.
Living in the hood had led to him doing some jail time. But Louise had always admired how he had turned his life around, serving to protect others with a big heart. Knowing the workings of the justice system, he became a powerful asset, which led to him working for top celebrities including Michael Jackson. Louise wouldn’t be at all surprised if rap stars showed up to visit him. She was happy for him, even if she was a little jealous.
“So, everything is okay?”
“It’s aaall good. Just worryin’ about yo fine self.”
There was a slight ache in Louise, the void of missing both Big Steve and her island. She wanted to end the call quickly. “Well, I’m probably going to be gone for another couple weeks. Call me if you need anything. See you soon.”
“You sure y’all okay?” Big Steve wasn’t ready to let her go.
“Éti, what is the one thing you know about me?” she asked, throwing in a dig on his fake name.
“That y’all can take care of yourself.”
“See you soon.”
She hung up and took out her laptop. She didn’t need to connect to her satellite Internet, as the hotel had recently installed – for their high-roller clientele – a top-level ethernet system. She booted up and began her research to map out her trip to Belgium, starting with a visit to the primary crime scene. She wasn’t sure if any of the houses where the serial murders had taken place were still intact. But a specific address appeared on a search, which led her to an article posted online. She found out from the article that Marc Dutroux had owned seven houses, four of which he used for his kidnappings.
A house in Jumet, where Dutroux had buried Ann Marchal and Eefje Lambrecks in the garden, was set to be demolished. An accomplice, Bernard Weinstein, had lived in that house for a while. Another house in Marchienne-au-Pont was where Julie Lejeune and Mélissa Russo had been held captive for a short time after their kidnappings. A third house in Sars-la-Buissière was where Lejuene, Russo, and Weinstain had all been buried after Dutroux killed them. The municipality petitioned to purchase that house to make a park with a monument commemorating the victims of the serial killer.
A fourth house at the address of the Route de Philippeville 128 in Marcinelle was the one most often cited in the media. All the girls had been held captive there in the basement and bedroom. The municipality seized ownership of that house because of the killings and the dilapidated state of the property. There were plans to raze it and create a garden with a memorial on the site.
Reading further, Louise noted an interesting disclosure. Under Belgian law the “procedure of compulsory purchase” meant an owner had a last right to visit a seized property. Dutroux would be allowed a final visit under heavy police guard. That property was about 70 miles south of Brussels, on the route from Paris. This would be the first place Louise would visit.
T W E N T Y – N I N E
January 11, 2002
“You’re getting warmer,” the disembodied voice said. She knew he was there. But the closer she got, the further he slipped away. “Don’t give up,” Jean-Philippe said. “I’m right here.”
Louise tried to say, “Where?” But it came out, wuh, wuh. Her lips quivered in frustration. She unconsciously rocked back and forth, the motion forcing her onto her back, eyes wide open in the darkness. She had fallen asleep! In a drowsy panic, she got up.
To sleep, perchance to dream. Lately the state of Louise’s subconscious mind had been all about filling the void, distant-yet-vaguely familiar voices and ironic maiden-in-distress scenarios. She literally shook her head in an attempt to purge the notion. Her watch face glowed 10:00 p.m. Perfect timing to go to Silencio. She hurriedly dressed and ran to catch a cab.
Michael watched Louise from a taxi parked in the shadows. She was dressed to impress in black leather as she approached the bouncer guarding the entrance. This time she simply flashed him her charcoal-outlined emerald eyes, the bouncer nodded, and let her in without hesitation.
Michael paid the driver and walked to the entrance. The bouncer fidgeted with his walkie-talkie pretending not to see him.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Michael asked, not even attempting to speak French. The bouncer stared at him lugubriously. “Is this some kind of nightclub or something? It looks pretty cool. Can I check it out?” Still no reaction, so Michael discretely flipped open his wallet and showed him the unmistakably official-looking FBI badge and ID. The bouncer impassively stepped aside, and Michael walked through the door.
He wandered down the corridor past the coat check girl and was soon confused by the multiple venues within the club. Not knowing which way to go to avoid being recognized, he slipped through the door into the lounge with live jazz and waited in the shadows. Staking out the hallway, he heard the approaching voices of two men speaking American English. He recognized Vladimir and Greg and stepped further into the shadows as they entered the lounge and continued to the next room. He followed unnoticed as they entered the fumoir. He stopped short and took a seat in the jazz lounge from which he could keep an eye on Louise. He knew she would have to cross this room to leave, it was an ideal spot to wait.
Louise had already made her way straight to the smoking room and was sitting at the bar. She ordered a coupe de champagne and a cigar. The barman snipped the tip, and Louise held it while he lit it for her. She amused herself, blowing smoke rings until her internal clock struck gold again. After just five minutes, Greg and Vladimir entered and took their usual corner booth.
These were the moments that Louise lived for, when the energy around her led the way and all she had to do was follow her instincts. It was strange and lucky karma, but it was also the result of Louise’s habit of tapping into the instinct of her senses and profoundly connecting, and appreciating that connection, to the universe. Tracking down Vladimir this way was more fun and less awkward than the messy business of extricating a favor out of Greg. He was too kind and gentlemanly ever to cause her chagrin for rejecting his affections. Just like she wouldn’t manipulate his affections to her advantage, however noble the cause.
Now it was a game of chicken to see who would blink. Louise enjoyed her cigar and champagne, and they enjoyed watching her. Seeing she had their attention she carried her drink over to their table.
“Can I borrow a match?” Louise asked.
“I use a lighter,” Vladimir replied.
“Better still,” Louise answered.
“Until they g
o wrong,” Greg said.
Louise sat. “Sean Connery was the best James Bond.”
“Who would argue with that?” Greg said.
“Perhaps a Russian,” replied the Russian.
“That Russian gypsy catfight scene was absurd,” Greg said, referring to From Russia with Love.
“Absurd but entertaining,” Vladimir countered.
Louise puffed on her cigar that had gone out. “Now I actually do need a match.” Greg flicked on his lighter before Vlad could even reach for a match.
“Thanks, Greg,” Louise said. She blew a few more very satisfying smoke rings before handing the cigar to Greg. Wearing a family crest on the ring finger of his model-like hand, he nimbly took the cigar and puffed it as smoothly as James Bond himself. His gray hair and chiseled jawline were even more striking ten years after she had been with him. Vladimir picked up on her attention toward Greg and interrupted.
“It’s nice to see you again, Louise,” Vladimir said in Russian. “Or should I say Karen?”
“I wanted to thank you,” Louise replied in Russian.
“It was a pleasure. For what?” Vladimir asked.
“For sending me to Burgundy. It’s a beautiful place.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Vladimir was actually interested in her reply.
“In fact, I found even more than I was looking for. But I need another favor.”
“What’s in it for me?” Vladimir asked.
Louise ignored any sexual innuendo and opted for sarcasm. “The satisfaction of helping your fellow man?”
“That currency is quite devalued where I come from,” Vladimir deadpanned.
“Understood,” Louise said, knowing that shaming or other negative means of persuasion would be useless on him.
“Hello, I’m still here,” Greg said. “What are you guys talking about?”
Louise waved at the barman who brought over a tray with a bottle and three snifters. Vladimir and Greg both recognized the label of Privilege La Reserve du Prince. The cognac had a reputation for its unique history and exquisite taste. It was distilled from the personal stock of Jacques Boursaud’s Pre-World War I vintages from the prime region of Cognac, Grande Champagne. Boursaud had built the largest stock of historical reserves over the course of fifty years, the youngest of which dated from 1914. At one point it had been hidden from the Germans during the invasion of France in WWII. Having escaped The Great War, the cognac received the surname The Century Old Cognac. Because of very limited and rare components, it could never be reproduced, and was priced accordingly at about $5,000 a bottle. It was intended to make an impression.
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