The Paris Directive (17 page)

“Why am I here anyhow?” Sedak shouted. “I told you everything already. I know nothing about these murders. You’re hassling me just because of my name.”

“Calm down,” soothed the inspector. “Relax, monsieur. Do you smoke? Give him a cig.”

Bandu took out a package of Gauloises and tossed one onto the table.

Mazarelle pushed the dented tin pie plate that they used for an ashtray in front of Sedak and lit his cigarette. Sedak inhaled voraciously.
Taking out his pipe, Mazarelle lit up too, some glowing flakes of tobacco spilling out onto the floor as he torched the bowl.

“There we are …” He dropped his lit match into the tin plate. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got nothing on me. Not a thing.”

“We need your help, monsieur. So …” He nodded to Bernard, who switched on the tape recorder. A tiny red light went on. “
Allons,
let’s begin.”

The inspector reminded Ali that he said he worked late the night of the crime, and though he left L’Ermitage about 10 p.m., Monsieur and Madame Reece and their friend Madame Phillips had not yet returned from dining.

“It was earlier. I told you nine thirty.”

“Sorry. Left about nine thirty p.m. and said that—except for the killer—he was probably the last one to see Monsieur Phillips alive. And by nine fifty or so he was back home and fast asleep. Is that right, monsieur?”

“My woman said so, didn’t she?”

“She did. But later that night did you happen to wake up and go out for a walk, a breath of fresh air?”

“How could I? My back was killing me. I couldn’t move.”

Ali flicked the ash off his cigarette, feigning indifference, as the inspector removed a photograph from his folder and passed it across the table. It was fairly sharp for a print from a surveillance camera, but Taziac’s Crédit Agricole was a new bank. The picture also recorded the date and time it was taken, which was 1:24 a.m. of the twenty-fifth—the morning following the night of the murders. Though the man at the ATM had his face partly averted, he was wearing a blue bandana around his head very much like the one Ali wore. He angrily pushed the photo away.

“What are you trying to pull on me?”

“I see you noticed the resemblance too. I have something else you might be interested in.” The inspector drew an ATM receipt from his folder and showed it to him. The time and date stamped on it were the same as the photo. The amount withdrawn was two thousand francs.

“I know nothing about MasterCards,” Ali insisted. “I don’t even own one.”

“Yes, of course, this one belonged to Monsieur Reece. And whoever took the money from the machine knew his PIN and was in such a hurry that he forgot to remove the receipt.”

“Maybe Reece was tired and wanted to get home. Maybe he had to take a piss.”

“Stop being such a smart-ass,” Duboit warned him.

Mazarelle gave Bernard a narrow, sidelong look and he shut up. “By one twenty-four a.m. Monsieur Reece was dead.” Reclaiming the receipt, he tucked it away and said casually, “You might be interested to know that only last week he’d reported his Visa card missing. We found it at a BNP in Bergerac, where someone had been trying to use it. Monsieur Reece thought you were the one who had stolen it.”

“The big
zozo
. He didn’t like me. I could tell.”

The inspector tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. “Did you steal it?”

“Crap!”

“And what about his MasterCard? Did you steal that too?”

“What do you take me for? I’m not a thief.”

Ali Sedak watched with a worried look as the inspector hunted among his papers. Every time he reached into his folder, it had turned out bad for Ali. It was like being at the dentist.

“Voilà.”
Mazarelle held up Sedak’s
liste
des
infractions
for him to see and pointed to number 3. “Apparently you are. That’s the one year inside they gave you for robbery in Biskra.”

Ali thought he’d left all that behind in Algeria. He should have known better. “That was a long time ago.”

“He’s a goddamn liar,” Duboit flared up again. “Why bother questioning him? You can’t believe a word they say.”

Oppressed, Mazarelle flipped off the tape recorder and warned the young cop that he wanted no more interruptions. “Understood, Duboit? No more.”

He turned the tape recorder back on, apologized for his brief coughing fit, and announced that he was continuing with his questioning
of Ali Sedak. Leaning forward as if in confidence, the inspector told him that they’d just received a lab report on a bloodstained bayonet found on the grounds of L’Ermitage. The DNA matched that of three of the victims.

“So what?”

“Your blood is on it too.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

“It’s yours,” the inspector assured him. Thanks to Bernard, the PTS lab in Toulouse was able to make the match and identify the murder weapon. Bernard had pocketed the roach from the reefer Sedak had been smoking before they arrived to question him. The inspector thought that someday, if he ever grew up, Doobie might actually be a good cop.

“It could be mine,” Ali Sedak conceded. “Maybe I cut myself accidentally. I use it for opening paint cans. The killer must have stolen the bayonet from my toolbox in the barn.”

Mazarelle smiled amiably as if satisfied with his explanation but then seemed perplexed. “I thought you told me that you didn’t own a bayonet.”

“I never said that. Are you trying to trick me?”

Duboit’s face reddened like a tuba player, but he held his tongue.

“And … oh yes,” the inspector continued. “Your fingerprints … They were found on the blue tape three of the victims were bound with. How do you explain that?”

Ali took a last drag on what was left of his cigarette and tossed it smoking into the tin pan. “It was probably mine.”

Duboit muttered under his breath. “Of course it was yours, you dumb
salaud
.”

Ali glowered at the two cops behind him and his breathing was shallow and quick. He had the look of a trapped animal.

“Don’t you see?” he appealed to the inspector. “Whoever went into my toolbox for the bayonet must have also taken my tape. Somebody’s trying to frame me.”

The inspector puffed on his pipe as he thought it over and nodded his heavy head.

“Yes, yes, of course that’s possible. But there is this evidence, you
see. And enough coincidences and causes for concern with your story that I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold you here in
garde
à vue
until we sort all this out. You understand.”

Getting up, he whispered something to Bandu, who indicated that he would, and lifted the startled Ali to his feet in a single motion that was closer to a weight lifter’s snatch than a clean and jerk.

“What—what are you doing? This is a mistake. I’m innocent.”

Mazarelle followed them to the rear of the commissariat, where the four
garde
à vue
cells were located. The two with steel doors and narrow slots to peer through resembled medieval helmets; the two with Plexiglas doors were for those who had to be under constant surveillance. As Bernard emptied the prisoner’s pockets, taking his money and keys, and Bandu removed Ali’s belt, shoelaces, blue bandana, and gold chain, the inspector told Ali that sometimes even very observant people failed to mention everything they’ve seen or heard at a crime scene. He wanted Ali to think over very carefully what had happened the night of the L’Ermitage murders and try to recall if there was anything at all he’d forgotten to tell him.

“Otherwise …” Mazarelle warned him, “who knows? You yourself could end up gathering dust in one of the cages they’ve got for wiseasses at the Maison d’Arrêt in Périgueux. And before long your kid will be calling some other creep Daddy. As for you, you’ll be Uncle Visiting Day.”

“What are they doing with my money, my stuff?” Ali demanded. “I want a lawyer.”

“By and by.” Mazarelle told his men to finish processing the prisoner, and that he’d be right back.

“All right,” Bandu ordered Ali, “off with the clothes.”

He gazed in confusion at the two cops, all his cockiness apparently drained out of him.

“Come on, come on. With your record you know the drill. You’re no virgin when it comes to body searches. Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Slowly Ali took off his shirt, dropped his pants, and stood there, tan to the waist, white from the waist down. Bending over, he waited, naked and shrunken in the middle of the floor.

“That’s better.” Bandu gave him a passing grade. “Now let’s see you spread those cheeks wide and crack a smile.”

Duboit bristled when Sedak grinned. No matter how rattled, the Arab was still very much a wise guy. “Not that end, you smart-ass.
This
one.” He kicked Ali in the butt and he went sprawling. When he crawled onto his knees, he spotted the inspector hurrying back.

“The bastards, they’re trying to humiliate me.”

“Get up and get dressed and shut your mouth.” Taking Bernard aside, Mazarelle handed him the
garde
à vue
logbook and instructed him that when entering Sedak’s name he should note that it was a suicide watch.

“What about the handcuffs?” Bandu asked.

“I told you what the investigating magistrate wanted. She said whatever it takes to get to the bottom of these murders. Put the cuffs on and leave them on.”

Madame
le
juge
had been calling the inspector almost every day, making sure she hadn’t missed any new developments. Keeping his nose to the grindstone because the procureur or somebody else upstairs was constantly in her ear. Mazarelle called it his trickle-down theory of criminology. He knew that even the procureur wasn’t immune to being pissed on, and, of course, he himself had more than once felt the heavens open from above. Mazarelle, as ordered, would make it as tough on the
pégriot
as he legally could. See what a little pressure could do to help his memory.

“But I stop at torture, Bandu. Clear?”

“Clear, chief.” Bandu nodded, then yanked Sedak’s hands behind his back and slapped on the cuffs. Opening the Plexiglas door of one of the cells, Bandu threw him in. Sedak, losing his balance and one of his unlaced shoes in the process, fell hard against the cinder block wall.

“But I’m innocent!” he screamed.

For all the inspector knew, Sedak could be innocent, but Mazarelle was dealing with four savage murders and he was certain that the Arab was holding out on him.

23

THE MORGUE, BERGERAC

T
hey left for Bordeaux from the Gare Montparnasse at 6:50 a.m. No sooner were Molly and Dwight Bennett settled side by side than the doors closed and the high-speed train, sleek as a snake, glided away from the station. It flew down the tracks. Molly felt amazingly cushioned, insulated, and glad to have Bennett beside her as the landscape rocketed by outside. This was the breathtaking way her world had been moving ever since she’d gotten his shocking news. Molly wondered if anything would ever be the same again.

She asked about his life in Paris and how he liked living there.

“Very much. But it’s pricey.”

The economist, she thought. A mind like a cash register. “Where in the city do you live?”

Bennett described his apartment on the rue de l’Odéon with a sigh. “A good location but it’s small and, of course, overpriced.” Molly’s lips parted in a paper-thin smile.

By 10:24 a.m. their train was already pulling into Bordeaux’s Gare Saint-Jean and, after renting a car, they were off to Bergerac. On the way, he mentioned that yesterday he’d called the commissaire de police in Bergerac to inform him they were coming and learned that the inspector in charge of the case might be someone he once knew in Paris.

“If it’s the same Mazarelle, he’s a first-rate investigator with a solid reputation. Not a bad guy either.”

When later Bennett met Commissaire Rivet for the first time, they got along as if they were old friends. Molly noted that both
men had clearly mastered the social skills for advancement in a government bureaucracy. And as to her painful loss, the commissaire couldn’t have been more considerate. He promised to leave no stone unturned in finding who was responsible for the death of her parents and described the detective he’d placed in charge of the manhunt as
“subtil et tenace”
—in fact, one of his best.

Having been alerted by Rivet that they were coming, Mazarelle could hardly claim ignorance when they found him at his desk with his shoes off, his feet up—a hole in the toe of one of his socks—munching on a cold croque monsieur. He’d simply forgotten. It had been a busy morning for the inspector. He’d been questioning Ali Sedak, who appeared to be seriously shaken by the constant light burning in the cinder block shoebox into which they had squeezed him as well as by not being able to sleep or wash or scratch his itching nose because of the handcuffs. But he was still holding out on them. Nevertheless, Mazarelle thought it only a matter of time before he cracked.

The inspector quickly wolfed down what was left of his grilled cheese; wiped off his fingers; and, getting to his feet, shook hands with Bennett, whom he remembered very well from the American embassy in Paris. He turned to Bennett’s radiantly redheaded companion and Bennett introduced them.

The striking beauty of the tall young American woman with the steady gaze was not lost on the inspector. “Mademoiselle Reece …” Taking her hand, he glanced at her sympathetically and said, “I’m truly sorry.”

Molly thanked him. It was hard for her not to be struck by the size of his hands, the softness of his sad brown eyes peering out from under his bushy eyebrows. She tried not to smile or stare at the crumbs littering his mustache, his shoeless feet. He seemed more like someone’s favorite uncle—a teddy bear—than any of the cops she knew.

Bennett could tell that Mazarelle was genuinely touched by her loss. The inspector, he recalled, had always had a soft spot for women. Apparently, quite a ladies’ man. There had been all sorts of stories he’d heard about him: that one of his girlfriends had committed suicide when they split up, that his wife was a knockout—much
younger than he was with an active social life—and that his marriage was in serious trouble. Bennett wondered if Mazarelle was still married and how he’d ended up here in the sticks.