6

She poked her head out the window and breathed the springtime air: a mixture of flowers, exhaust fumes, and food. The smells of Paris. Even the nauseating ones invigorated her. She took in the view from her sixth-floor apartment. The best view of the capital, she thought. She would never give it up. She liked to sit behind the window or on her narrow balcony, a book in her hand, her eyes moving from the yellowed pages to the majestic edifice at the end of the street. “I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life,” she recited to herself. Her eyes filled with tears. It was such a beautiful day. Her voice rose. “I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture.”

Something was bothering her, but she couldn’t say exactly what it was.

Nico waited until all his troops had taken their places around the long table in his office. Deputy Chief Clare Le Marec was sitting to his right. He valued her work, her loyalty, and her discretion. Also seated at the table were Deputy Chief Jean-Marie Rost, one of the four section chiefs in La Crim’; Commander David Kriven, a worrier and perfectionist, as well as something of a braggart; and Captains Franck Plassard and Pierre Vidal.

“Okay, we’ve got our work cut out,” Nico said as everybody quieted down. “The excavation involved an array of people who clearly didn’t expect to find a skeleton, let alone have it covered on the news. Everybody’s eyes are on us now.”

“According to the autopsy, the bones belong to a white man between twenty and twenty-five years old and about five and a half feet tall,” Captain Vidal said. “He had a broken tibia that required an operation and was buried for three decades. He’s had a blunt blow to the skull, which most likely resulted in a cerebral edema, an intracranial hemorrhage, and then death.”

“And who exactly was it that died?” Nico asked. It was Kriven’s turn to talk.

She walked along the Boulevard des Courcelles toward the Place des Ternes, where she had lived for years. She loved buying flowers. Roses were her favorite, while sunflowers symbolized the warmth of summer. Snowball trees blossomed with white flowers in the springtime, and their small clusters of blood-red berries welcomed birds to her balcony in the winter. The men in the green stalls waved to her as though she were royalty. The theater kiosk, where she often bought tickets on a whim, and the antique métro entrance added to the charm of the bustling market at the end of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She could see the Arc de Triomphe in the heart of the eighth arrondissement.

But today nothing could distract her from the mute fear that had gripped her from the moment she woke up. Something terrible was going to happen. She was sure of it. She looked around anxiously, not knowing whether the threat was human or not.

“I’ve been looking into the main players for this tableau-piège in La Villette, and I came across some interesting information,” Kriven said. “It seems that Samuel Cassian has been cursed by the gods, or at least he’s paid dearly for his success. First off, he lost his father during the war. Then his son disappeared a week after the banquet burial. He never surfaced again, despite an exhaustive attempt to find him.”

“Which gives us reason to believe that Skeletor might be the king’s son,” Nico said.

La Lorraine was one of her favorite places to eat. The restaurant had the best raw bar in Paris, and she loved the oysters more than anything else.

Inside, the décor recalled a transatlantic liner, and a wide assortment of guests rubbed shoulders amid the refracted light of St.-Louis glassware. She liked this sophisticated atmosphere. Maybe it would allay her fears.

“Nataliya!” the maître d’ said, holding out his arms.

He could have hugged her, but knew better.

“Your usual table?”

“But of course, Roger.”

She always sat along the glass wall overlooking the crowds on the sunlight-bathed Place des Ternes. It was her ritual. She glanced at her neighbors. They looked like honest people with no dark secrets. Peril might be imminent, but it would not be at the hands of these innocent diners. Still, the lump in her throat wouldn’t go down. Her hands were trembling imperceptibly, her stomach was leaden, and she was sweating.

She considered calling in reinforcements. Weren’t there options in circumstances such as this: rally the troops? Nyet, she was too proud for that.

“Today’s oysters are fresher than fresh. I’d be surprised if they weren’t plucked out of the mud minutes ago,” Roger whispered in her ear.

She suspected that Roger was in love with her and had been from the instant he’d first laid eyes on her. He was quivering.

“May I serve you a dozen of our finest? With a glass of white wine?”

She nodded and smiled, unable to speak.

“Nothing but the best for you!” he said before making an about-face and walking off.

Finally, she set one of her books on the table. She’d been gripping it so hard, her hands hurt. But right now she would not read, not one word. She was too worried, too busy surveying her surroundings. Someone or something was coming for her. She knew it.

“Jean-Baptiste Cassian was twenty-two years old then,” Kriven said.

“What do you know about this young man?” Nico asked.

“Not much yet. He was an artist too, with a degree from the École Nationale des Beaux-Arts. He was starting to make a name for himself. He had an exhibit in New York when he disappeared. And his pieces were selling rather well.”

Kriven set a few photos on the table. “I met with the archivist at the Parc de la Villette this morning. She gave me these old prints; they were taken during the banquet.”

He pointed to one of the pictures.

“Here’s Jean-Baptiste, sitting on his father’s right.”

“Well, if that isn’t symbolic,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

“And that’s exactly where we found the body—right where Cassian’s son was sitting,” Nico added.

“Indeed!” Kriven said.

“All the same, we’ll need to verify the victim’s identity before going any further with this lead.”

“We have these shoes, a clothing label, some tissue samples, a belt, and a watch,” Pierre Vidal said. “They’ll be examined at the lab.”

“And fingerprints?” Nico asked.

“That would be a surprise. We’ve found these things and remnants of food near the skeleton, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. A lot of time has passed.”

“What about soil samples?”

“We have experts working on that, but we don’t have much there, either. Let’s see if Jean-Baptiste had surgery for a broken tibia. And the forensics lab is reconstructing a face from the skull. That should be interesting.”

“DNA and dental records would help,” Jean-Marie Rost said.

“Those are things we need to do right away,” Nico said. “Have you made a list of who was at the banquet?”

“We’ve started putting together information from the archivist’s photos,” Kriven said. “And we’ve sent out investigators. It was an extraordinary group: artists, gallery owners, art critics, filmmakers, museum directors, journalists, politicians. A few have died. Others have retired, but the majority are still working. We’re trying to find out if they noticed anything in particular about the two Cassians. Speaking of which…”

“Yes?” Nico said.

“Jacques Langier was the minister of culture back then, and he was at the lunch. How would we get in touch with him?”

“I’ll do it. It won’t take me long.”

“And what about Cassian?”

“Go to his place now, and see if you can find any DNA traces and the dental records for his son. And talk to the boy’s mother. I’ll meet with Cassian later. He’s been in the hospital. Do you know who was present when the excavation started?”

“We have an official list. We also have a list of everyone who has worked at the site since the dig began, as well as those who came for other reasons—park employees, journalists, and such. We can narrow the list to the people who were there when the skeleton was discovered. Murderers often return to the scene of the crime. All in all, we could fill a conference hall with the people who’ve been at the site, so we have our work cut out for us.”

“In the meantime, I’m going to ask Christine Lormes to have the banquet completely exhumed,” Nico said.

Everyone at the table gave him their full attention.

“We’ll need to make sure there aren’t any other nasty surprises. We’re already dealing with what looks like a premeditated murder.”

“You’re right,” Claire Le Marec said.

“Jean-Marie, will you write the preliminary report?”

“Yes, Chief.”

She had barely touched her oysters or pressed her lips to the glass of white wine. The bread basket and butter dish hadn’t been moved. She had no appetite. Neither the crowd beyond the window in the Place des Ternes nor the hubbub in the restaurant could help. The sky no longer seemed blue, and the sun didn’t seem to be shining.

“Is something wrong?” Roger asked.

She jumped at his unexpected presence. She could see the concern on his face.

“I’ll bring you six more if you’re unhappy with these,” the maître d’ said.

She cursed herself for being an idiot. Showing this much nervousness would attract unwanted attention.

“Don’t fall all over yourself,” she said, teasing him. “I guess I don’t have a taste for oysters today. I’d rather have the sole meunière. That should bring back my appetite. And I might just have one of those wonderful Grand Marnier soufflés for dessert.”

He still looked worried. She was avoiding him, and that wasn’t like her. She knew she had hurt his feelings.

Roger cautiously took away the oyster platter and its pedestal.

“I’ll bring your sole right away.”

What did her eyes take in at that moment—the last moment? Her heart was beating violently. She was beginning to sweat. There was a buzzing in her head. It was growing louder, boring into her eardrums. Through the din, she heard someone shout. It was the maître d’, Roger. He was shrieking her name: “Nataliya!” Then Roger’s voice went quiet. The space inside her brain exploded, throwing out thousands of brilliant shards. Then darkness.

“We need to figure out very quickly whether the skeleton is, indeed, Jean-Baptiste Cassian’s,” Nico said. “But the odds of finding his murderer after three decades are pretty slim, assuming he’s still alive.”

Nico’s phone interrupted the discussion. His secretary was under orders not to bother him unless it was an emergency. Nico hurried to his desk to answer.

“Hello?”

“I think you want to take this call, Chief.” His secretary sounded upset.

She put him through without waiting for approval.

“Chief Nico Sirsky?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m Dr. Paul-Henri Fursac at Bichat Hospital.”

Nico saw the hospital in his mind. It was in the eighteenth arrondissement on the north side of Paris.

“Your mother’s been admitted.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“I’d rather not discuss this with you on the phone. It would be best if you came in.”

“Is she okay?”

“Listen, you should come in as soon as possible, and we can explain.”