24

“It’s urgent,” Dr. Xavier Jondeau said over the phone. He was calling Caroline Dalry from the hospital, where Anya had taken a turn for the worse. “We need to make a decision now.”

“How soon?” Caroline asked.

“Tomorrow at the very latest.”

“Understood. I’ll let him know.”

It had been a week since the discovery of Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s skeleton. His landscape painter friend, Laurent Mercier, had been summoned once more, this time to Magistrate Becker’s office.

He was fifty-two—the same age Jean-Baptiste would have been, had he lived. But Jean-Marie Rost thought he looked like an aging adolescent. And not just that. As far as Rost was concerned, he had the mannerisms of a dilettante.

“How long have you been in Vincennes, Mr. Mercier?” Becker asked.

“About ten years now, and we’re very happy there.” His voice was high-pitched, almost annoyingly so. “You’ve been married for twenty-seven years,” Becker said. “And you had three children with Camille Frot.”

“That’s right.”

Mercier was extraordinarily calm. He had a polite smile on his finely chiseled face. A nice ass and a nicer face, Rost’s wife would have observed.

“What was your relationship with Jean-Baptiste Cassian, Mr. Mercier?” Becker asked.

“Um, we were friends, of course.”

The two stared at each other. Mercier offered up airtight alibis for the evenings of the murders. Rost sat and waited. Becker gave him a quick glance. It was time for him to jump in and ask a few questions. But Rost was useless. He had been up with the baby all night, and he had a splitting headache. His only thought was when he’d be able to take two ibuprofens.

“Very well,” Becker said. “I must ask you not to leave Paris until we’ve completed our investigation.”

“But of course,” said Laurent Mercier.

“Deputy Chief Rost? Are we finished here?”

Rost knew Becker was irritated with him. There was nothing to be done about it. He had a massive headache, and the urgency of the investigation was only adding to it. Hell, between the investigation and the worrying about Nico, everyone at La Crim’ was stressed. It didn’t help that they had to hide their concern, because showing it would have made things even harder for the boss.

“You were one of Jean-Baptiste’s best buddies, and you want us to believe that you didn’t know who he was sleeping with?” Rost finally said in a quiet voice.

Rost watched as the magistrate’s face turned red with anger. He had dropped the ball, and he knew it.

Nico parked at the Place des États-Unis, in front of the Baccarat Museum, with its red panels above the windows and doors. There were some fine pieces in this place: the czar’s grand candelabra, glass sets, vases, jewelry… All reminders of his heritage.

Nico crossed the Square Thomas-Jefferson under the chestnut trees’ chilly shade. Mothers and children were playing. Farther off, Lafayette and Washington were shaking bronze-cast hands, unaware of everything around them. The square had an American look to it. The benches, streetlamps, and railings were inspired by Battery Park in New York.

Across the street were the Pernod-Ricard headquarters. This was the aniseed empire. In the world of spirits, though, Absolut Vodka had the upper hand. It was an outrage, as far as Anya was concerned, that Absolut was produced in southern Sweden. The country of ABBA had nothing on Russia.

He walked to the end of the square and paused at the monument honoring the fallen Americans who had volunteered to fight for France during World War I. Then he turned onto the Rue Dumont-d’Urville, where he pushed a narrow wrought-iron door open, climbed the stairs to the third floor, and rang Lara Krall Weissman’s doorbell.

She was sitting on a white leather couch in a minimalist room. On the wall, a Kandinsky painting caught his attention with its burst of colors. It was a masterpiece.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

She looked unhappy. The past few days had clearly taken a toll on her.

“Does the name Damien Forest ring a bell?”

“Not at all, no. Should it?”

“Damien Forest was a photographer Jean-Baptiste hired to cover the tableau-piège’s burial.”

“I wasn’t really involved in planning that event. That was all Jean-Baptiste and his father.”

Nico sensed some anger in her voice.

“He was a photographer from Reuters,” Nico pressed.

“It’s a reputable agency. I don’t see why that would be a problem.”

“The problem is that Damien Forest never worked for Reuters. How could Jean-Baptiste have hired an impostor for such an important event?”

Lara Krall’s eyes were twitching.

“We’ve made a police sketch,” Nico said. “I’m going to show it to you. Maybe it’ll remind you of someone.”

She nodded, but she was looking even more nervous. Exactly what was she afraid of?

Captain Franck Plassard greeted yet another guest from the banquet. He had put in more hours than he could count, but he intended to stay sharp and professional to the finish. He would not allow exhaustion to win out. With each new person, he went back into the ring with the same determination to find a lead that would move the investigation forward.

On the other side of the room, an old gentleman collapsed into a chair and waited patiently for the questions. The man was the retired director of one of France’s largest museums. He was a bit deaf, so Plassard had to shout.

“A photographer? Sure, yes, there was one. A young fellow about my daughter’s age. That was a long time ago, of course,” he said with a wink. He still had a twinkle in his eye. “That reminds me. There’s something that happened.”

“Yes?” Plassard asked.

“I overheard the photographer and Jean-Baptiste arguing.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“As sure as I’m alive.”

“Did anyone else hear the argument?”

“No. Maybe you didn’t know this, but the Géode was scheduled to be unveiled about two weeks after the banquet-performance. I was fascinated with the way the clouds were reflected on the stainless steel. I left the banquet for a few minutes to go up to the dome. I just wanted to touch it. And I happened upon Jean-Baptiste and the photographer shouting at each other.”

Jérôme Dufour from Lyon was sporting a bow tie. Conservative to the core, Deputy Chief Rost thought. He was nothing like Mercier, with his jeans and pointy-toed shoes, or Vion, with his sartorial allusion to David Beckham. Three men, three styles, and somehow three friends.

“Here’s a police sketch of Damien Forest,” Magistrate Becker said. “Does he look familiar?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Look carefully, Mr. Dufour.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize this person.”

“Daniel Vion says that you told him Jean-Baptiste Cassian had perhaps gone to the United States. Is that right?”

“Jean-Baptiste’s mother was the one who told everyone that.”

“Did you hear her say it?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know his parents very well. Laurent Mercier told me. He talked to the parents every so often.”

“And did you believe him?” Becker asked.

“It was better than believing he died in some accident. I preferred to think he was living a quiet life in another country.”

“But why would he do that?” Jean-Marie Rost broke in, determined to make amends for his sorry performance during the earlier interview and be an active participant in this one. “Did he think that he had to go to another country to come out of the closet? Here, in France, he was about to marry Lara Krall and start a family. Was he afraid that if he stayed in France he would be forced to live a lie?”

“You’re tarnishing his memory!”

“Because I said he was lying and pretending to be someone he wasn’t? Or because I said he was gay?”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“Does homosexuality bother you, Mr. Dufour? Scare you, maybe?”

“My God…”

“God loves everybody, Mr. Dufour. Don’t you believe that?”

It was Becker’s turn to be quiet. Rost couldn’t miss the stunned look on his face.

“We need to know where you were and what you were doing last week and last night,” Rost said.

“Why?” Dufour asked.

“Did you have sexual relations with Jean-Baptiste Cassian, Mr. Dufour?” Rost shot back.

“I don’t know what they were fighting about,” the old man said. “But I heard Jean-Baptiste say, ‘Don’t ask me ever again!’”

“What do you think he was referring to?”

“I have no idea. I’m sorry.” The interview room was silent. Plassard finally had his finger on something. But on what, exactly? There had been an altercation between Jean-Baptiste and the photographer. Was it a lovers’ quarrel? And had this person decided to take revenge? At this point, there was no way to know.

“What did you say his name was—Damien?” the old man asked suddenly.

“Damien Forest.”

“That’s not the name Jean-Baptiste used.”

“What name did he use?” Plassard said.

“He said, ‘Don’t ask me ever again, Tim!’”

Lara Krall examined every detail of the composite sketch. Nico was puzzled.

“Does he remind you of someone?”

She shook her head. He couldn’t tell if she was upset or relieved.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He read the text message from Kriven: “Damien Forest is someone named Tim. Tim and JB had a fight on the sidelines. JB said, ‘Don’t ask me ever again, Tim!’”

Nico turned this information over in his head and met Lara Krall’s eyes.

“I have some news that might help us in our investigation.”

She sat up in her chair.

“Your fiancé hired a photographer for the banquet and gave him an assumed name. We need to figure out who this man was and what kind of relationship he had with Jean-Baptiste.”

“But I don’t recognize this sketch.”

“What about a man named Tim? Does that name mean anything to you?”

She didn’t say anything, but Nico could tell this piece of information was a blow. He could see it written on her face.

“Absolutely nothing,” she said.

Lara Krall was hiding something.

“Very well. I won’t take up any more of your time. Don’t hesitate to call me if you remember something.”

“I’ll show you out.”

Nico walked back to his car. As he started driving away from the Place des États-Unis, he noticed that Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s ex-fiancée was peering at him from an upstairs window. He called Kriven. The commander picked up on the first ring.

“I think we’ve hit the bull’s-eye,” Nico said. “Lara Krall is distraught. She knows something about Damien Forest. But she’s not talking. Go through her file with a fine-tooth comb. I bet there’s a Tim in her group of friends. She’ll tell him about my visit. Get someone out here right away to keep an eye on what she does.”

“I’m on it.”

They were on the right track, he was sure. A moment after he ended the call, his cell phone rang. Kriven, so soon? No, it was Caroline.

“How are you, my love?” he asked with a smile.

“Listen, Nico. I’ve just finished talking with Dr. Jondeau. Your mother’s heart problems are serious. Her ventricular fibrillations are pushing her heart rate to more than six hundred beats per minute. This is very dangerous.”

Nico squeezed the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles turned white.

“When there’s ventricular fibrillation, and a patient has already had a heart attack, an ICD is recommended.”

“What’s that?” he asked. He felt a chill running through his veins.

“It’s an implantable cardioverter defibrillator, a small device with a powerful battery that weighs hardly more than a couple of ounces. It monitors the heart rhythm. The surgeon embeds the device under the collarbone and attaches electrodes from the device to the heart. If the device detects an irregular heart rhythm, it uses a low-energy electrical pulse to restore the normal rhythm. The device can deliver a high-energy pulse if it’s needed.”

“Is the operation complicated?”

“It takes a few hours under local anesthetic and sedation. She won’t be able to move around much for a few weeks after the procedure. But after that, Anya can have a normal life. She’ll set off the alarms at the airport, but otherwise there’s no inconvenience.”

“Does she know?”

“Not yet. Dr. Jondeau asked me to go with him to tell her. Tanya’s with her now.”

“I’m glad you’ll be there. I don’t think I can get to the hospital.”

“I thought as much. I’m going to be at Bichat Hospital for a meeting anyway. And I think Alexis will be at Bichat too.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. When do they want to operate?”

“Tomorrow, if possible.”

Nico took a moment to absorb the shock.

“I’ll call you in a bit,” Caroline said. “They’re paging me.”

A life-saving foreign body in his full-blooded Russian mother’s chest. It would have made him laugh if it weren’t so scary.