The 7th Woman (3 page)

The phone rang again. Speak of the devil.

“Nico? It's Armelle. Apparently you want to be there for Marie-Hélène Jory's autopsy. I just got the court order. I will be able to start in half an hour, just the time it will take you to get here. I should have been home hours ago to play model wife and mother. The bodies are piling up, and I'm not allowed to hire additional staff. Anyway, I didn't call you to complain about my hours. Are you on your way or not?”

Professor Armelle Vilars was a fiery redhead with a sharp wit. Nico appreciated her professionalism and attention to detail.

“I'll be right there.”

The division dispatched an officer to attend every autopsy and report the medical examiner's analysis. Professor Vilars then sent her conclusions to the state prosecutor.

When Nico arrived at Quai de la Rapée, he was led to the room where the specialist was waiting. She stood there, ready to start, next to a coworker who was dressed as she was, in a white top, a mask and surgical gloves. Armelle Vilars winked at him and began working without any preamble.

Nico was used to this kind of scene. Nothing disturbed him—not the medical examiner's procedures, the exposed organs, the blood or the smell of the ravaged body. Was he insensitive? Certainly, by force of circumstance. But the images did haunt him. It was impossible to erase them. He had to live with them.

Professor Vilars recorded her observations as she proceeded with the autopsy.

“The general appearance of the victim is that of a healthy woman who seems to have exercised regularly. She has little body fat. Body height is five feet six inches. Blood is being sampled for typing and DNA testing. Her hair is being combed for trace evidence. Nothing. There are thirty similar blunt-force wounds on the torso that I am measuring. Molds will also be taken to determine if they were made by the same weapon, more specifically, a whip, and, above all, if the same person inflicted the wounds. We will compare strips of skin to analyze impact and angles. There is a penetrating wound near the navel. The blade is deep, damaging vital organs. I am removing the knife and sending it to forensics as evidence. I am photographing all the wounds. Now for Miss Jory's hands: Nail clippings are being taken and will be examined. Maybe she had some contact with her attacker, but I'm not hopeful. Now I'm taking ultraviolet shots that could reveal any invisible bruising on the body. Lasers will show any saliva, sperm or fingerprints on the skin. Are you OK, Nico?”

He jumped. He was so focused, it felt as though he had been holding his breath since the beginning of the autopsy. He felt fatigue gaining on him.

“Nico?” the medical examiner said again.

“Yes. I'm OK.”

“Fine. I'll continue. The breasts were amputated with a scalpel. The technique was sophisticated. The thorax and abdomen are being opened, using a vertical incision from the xiphoid process to the pubis. I'm removing the organs one after the other, from top to bottom. There is no water in her lungs. I'll analyze her stomach and intestinal contents later, which should give me her time of death. I'm reaching the pelvic zone. I will examine bladder content later. Now the genitalia. Her uterus has increased volume. The victim was pregnant. No doubt about it.”

“Pregnant?” Nico said. “How far along?”

“About a month,” she said. “There's a rough placenta and amniotic cavity. Forensics can do a paternity test with DNA identification.”

Nico felt himself shiver.

“We'll examine the head next,” Professor Vilars continued. “I'm opening the eyes. The corneas are cloudy, but I can still make out her brown eye color. There are traces of ether around her mouth, so he started by knocking her out. I see traces of duct tape adhesive on her lips and skull. She couldn't scream. Now you know how the victim was neutralized. There are no contusions under the hair. The skull is being opened, first by cutting the skin from one ear to the other, and the brain is being inspected for blood clots.”

Armelle Vilars finished her job.

“I'm seeing the public prosecutor at eleven,” Nico said.

“The autopsy report will be on his desk. I'll send you a copy by email, with details about the wounds, tox and blood results, stage of pregnancy, my conclusions and impressions about the time of death and the nature of the weapon.”

He had nothing to add. He left feeling as though he was in a waking nightmare. Marie-Hélène Jory was expecting a child. He imagined his son, Dimitri, a strong fourteen year old, a joy. He sighed and made a face when a dull pain in his upper abdomen brought him back. His thoughts shifted to Dr. Dalry. He suddenly wanted to see her. She would know how to distract him and take him far away from these sordid stories.

His cell phone rang again. It was Tanya.

I
T'S NEARLY MIDNIGHT, NICO,” his sister said, sounding worried. “Are you still working?”

“It's been a hard day. I'll be going home soon.”

“You could have let me know what the doctor said.”

Her maternal tone amused him. Tanya was two years younger than he was, yet she had a protective attitude toward him. What would he do without her?

“I'm really sorry, but I didn't have time.”

“In any case, I know exactly what she said. Alexis talked to Dr. Dalry.”

Dr. Alexis Perrin was his brother-in-law, first of all, and on rare occasions, his general practitioner.

“What about doctor-patient privilege?” he asked, trying to get her angry.

“You can complain all you want to Mom,” she said in a teasing voice.

Their mother, Anya Sirsky, was Russian. Her parents had fled their homeland in 1917, and she took pride in her roots. Still, she had married a Sirsky, who was Polish, even though he had lived in France for quite some time. Her Russian ancestors must have turned over in their tombs when she married a Pole! She was tall and thin, with long blond, nearly white hair, a strong personality and acting skills in the purest Slavic tradition. She could shift from laughter to tears in seconds. Anya loved Griboyedov, Pouchkine, Lermontov and Gogol and could recite entire passages written by her favorite authors. All his life, Nico had listened to her do so in the slightly gravelly voice that was distinctly her own. Nico smiled affectionately at this mention of their colorful mother. She could have been a character in a novel.

“At least call me on Wednesday, when you have the results of the endoscopy. Don't forget that I'm your sister, and it is normal that I worry about you. Who else would bother?”

Tanya never missed a chance to hassle him about his bachelorhood.

“Do you know Dr. Dalry?” he dared to ask, trying to sound detached.

“She went to medical school with Alexis, and they've stayed in touch. Why?”

“No reason.”

“No reason? I doubt that. First of all, I know you, and you generally don't waste your time asking meaningless questions. Second, you are my brother, and I am still waiting for you to show some serious interest in a woman.”

“Tanya, your imagination is way too active. I just wanted to make sure I was in good hands.”

“The best. You know Alexis. For that matter, are you free for dinner on Thursday?”

“Sure. But please spare me the latest young woman you've found for me to meet.”

His sister let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Promise,” she said, adding a hint of defeat. “Now get home and go to bed. And call me on Wednesday.”

Nico returned to his home on the Rue Oudinot in Paris' seventh arrondissement. He opened the blue porte cochère between the French Overseas Territories Ministry and the Saint-Jean Clinic. A garden in the middle of the city opened before him. A few ivy-covered homes with flowers lined a small private alley. In the distance, you could see the Montparnasse Tower all lit up. Here, he was in the very heart of the capital, and yet there was no noise. He would never have had the means to pay for this without the inheritance from his father. By means of hard work, intuition and certainly a bit of luck, his family had made a fortune in trading, and he had often lent a hand. This had allowed him to do the police work he loved without any financial constraints. The day he could no longer put up with the intense demands of his job, he could leave the police and live comfortably.

He unlocked the front door and immediately felt a presence. One of the three windows on the first floor was open. He pulled out his weapon, which he carried in a holster on his right side. He crept in the shadows. A small hallway opened onto the dining room and the kitchen. He decided to take the stairs to the second floor, which had a comfortable living room, his bedroom and an adjacent bathroom. He slipped out of his shoes before climbing the first step. He heard a vague breathing. He was sure someone was there. When he reached the top of the stairs, he let out a sigh of relief. His son was sleeping in his pajamas on the black sofa. He holstered his pistol and quietly approached the teenager. His son looked so much like him, he could have been a younger clone. He had a long, muscular body, refined features, deep blue eyes and blond hair that could have used a cut. The boy had a room and a bathroom on the third floor, next to the office. Nico decided not to wake him up, grabbed a plaid throw and covered him up. He climbed up a flight and saw that his son's things were scattered across the floor, and his book bag was emptied on the bed. Nico and his ex-wife shared custody of Dimitri, and this was not his week. He was ready to bet that once again mother and son had fought. Sylvie held it against Dimitri that he looked so much like his father. She couldn't help it. She resented her son's affection for his father. She wanted her son's exclusive love. What else could Nico do but try to smooth things out between the two of them? He knew that it was important that they get along. He even discouraged Dimitri from moving in with him permanently. Not that he didn't want him to, but because Sylvie couldn't handle it. He decided to call his ex-wife.

“Nico?” he heard her say.

“Yes, it's me,” he responded. “He's here. Don't worry. I would have called you earlier, but I just got back. He fell asleep on the couch.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Sylvie, are you there?”

“Yes. You know, I don't know what to do with him,” she said, distraught.

Her trembling voice announced a storm. Sylvie broke down easily.

“It's not the first time this has happened. Step back a little. Give him some slack. You'll see. Things will go better.”

“I'm not so sure about that. You're everything to him.”

“Don't start that again. We've talked about this a thousand times. It's true that he and I are close, but you're his mother. He loves you, and he needs you.”

“I don't know. I just don't know anymore.”

She was crying. He had to stay calm to keep things from getting any worse.

“This shared custody thing …”

“Listen, Sylvie, I won't ever question that. I promised you. So stop pummeling yourself with those stupidities. Take a vacation with Dimitri, and talk things over. In any case, I'll send him back to you tomorrow. It's your week. In the meantime, go to bed. I'm doing the same.”

“OK,” she said in a whiny voice.

He hung up and returned to look at his son sleeping peacefully. He leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Then he went to his room, removed his holster from his belt and put his gun in the safe. He took a good shower and climbed under the sheets. It was nearly one in the morning. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw Marie-Hélène Jory's body. First it was in her apartment, in the middle of the living room. Then it was in the refrigerated morgue. The medical examiner's incisions were superimposed over the attacker's wounds. A dangerous psychopath. A criminal who took pleasure in his victim's terror. He was sure there would be more murders.

He fell asleep with this anxiety-ridden certainty.

T
HE NIGHT WAS AN ordeal. Sometimes Marie-Hélène Jory came back to life to be killed again as he stood by, incapable of making the slightest movement, watching her being tortured by an unknown masked man and writhing in merciless pain. Then she died, staring at him. At other times, Dr. Dalry appeared, gentle and attentive. He wanted to hold her but couldn't. He woke up several times and drank a glass of milk to calm the heartburn gnawing at him.

He managed, however, to leave early for his eight a.m. appointment with Rost and Kriven. Two uniformed police officers wearing bulky bulletproof vests guarded the area around the division headquarters. One opened the red and white gate that led to a small parking lot squeezed between the imposing building and the traffic on the Quai des Orfèvres. He pulled into his reserved parking spot and went directly through the security checks, where the officers addressed him with a respectful, “Good morning, Chief.” His steps rang out in the tiled hallway that led to the interior courtyard. He followed the outside wall on his left to a glass doorway, which he went through several times a day to enter the division's offices. He climbed the famous three flights of black linoleum-covered stairs. The walls had lost their cream color and looked dirty. The premises were cramped and ramshackle—as if they were from another age—and hardly worthy of a division such as the one he commanded. How long had they been promising a renovation? Visitors who were well aware of the division's impressive reputation were always shocked by this state of disrepair.

Nico entered his office, one of the few decent-sized rooms on that floor. The furnishings and colors were all dated, but he had the space he wanted and, above all, a view of the Seine. The inevitable portrait of the president reigned over a small sideboard across from the door. He settled into a brown leather chair in front of a huge desk piled with papers, including complaints filed the night before, pending cases and an assessment of terrorist risks related to events in the Middle East. He quickly scanned them until Jean-Marie Rost and David Kriven interrupted for their appointment.

The commander looked haggard. He handed his superior officer a bag of fresh croissants. Nico helped himself without hesitating. The upper-abdominal pain was still there.

“You look exhausted, David,” Nico said.

“I couldn't get this case out of my head all night,” the commander said.

He was, of course, talking about Marie-Hélène Jory's murder. Nico gave him a kind look. He hoped his colleague would learn to leave his work behind when he went home, although he knew that wasn't likely. Even after several years on the beat, the images had a way of coming back. You would go over the interviews again and again. You would have doubts and wade through terrible nightmares.

“I'm sorry, David.”

“It's not your fault. It's the same for everyone here. You looked fried yourself.”

There was no need to respond. Who could remain indifferent when faced with torture and murder? What surprised Nico was the distress that Commander Kriven was exhibiting. He was a showoff some of the time, but he was just a cop like the others. Deep down, that was reassuring.

“You'll see, David, it gets easier with age,” he said, winking at Deputy Chief Rost to conclude the conversation.

Commander Kriven didn't believe him but was grateful for the reassurance. Nico slapped him on the shoulder, and they relaxed a little.

“The interview with Paul Terrade didn't provide anything useful,” Nico said. “He doesn't appear to have anything to do with what happened and seems to be telling the truth. His girlfriend was one month pregnant, and we need to find out if Terrade was the father.”

“That's horrible!” Kriven said.

“I know. Terrade didn't talk to me about it. Does he know? Did she know? This is what we need to find out this morning. Rost?”

“I'll join Théron's squad to speed things up. Today we need to see the couple's doctors, go to the bank to go over their accounts, visit the Sorbonne, where she was teaching, and finish questioning Terrade's employer, colleagues, family and friends.”

“OK for Théron,” Nico said.

Indeed, he thought that Joël Théron's team would need all the help it could get to collect as much information as possible in such a short time frame. Three of the four sections he managed worked on serious infractions—murders, kidnappings, missing persons and sexual molestation. The fourth dealt with counter-terrorism and had been particularly busy since September 11, 2001. The men assigned to it were worn out and constantly on call, just as he and his deputy chiefs were. He was already concerned about the holiday season. Right now, things were relatively calm as far as criminal cases were concerned. So Théron's men could work with Kriven's on the Jory case.

“I will deal with the paternity issue and contact Ms. Jory's gynecologist,” Nico said. “Then I'll go to the Sorbonne. Go ahead with the rest. Use the usual methods. I have an appointment at eleven a.m. with the state prosecutor, so we'll do a first review of the investigation at ten. Let's get those scientists to move their asses on this.”

Rost and Kriven left the office. Nico called Paul Terrade's sister, where he had spent the night. She answered after a single ring.

“How is your brother holding up?” Sirsky asked after identifying himself.

“He was up all night. He refuses to sleep, as if he were keeping vigil for Marie-Hélène.”

“He won't last long that way. You should take him to see a doctor. He has experienced a trauma that he may have trouble handling on his own.”

“That's exactly what I was going to suggest today. But Paul can be so stubborn.”

Nico had the impression that Paul Terrade was in good hands. His sister was obviously sad, but she was dealing with the situation.

“I need to see your brother. It's urgent.”

“Why? Do you have something new?” she asked.

“In a way. Can you manage to be in my office at nine?”

“So it is important. Of course, we'll be there.”

“See you then,” Nico concluded.

He then made a list of the couple's doctors, including their general practitioner, his ophthalmologist, a dentist and her gynecologist. He was most interested in talking with the gynecologist, whose offices were certainly not open yet. He asked his staff to find the physician's home phone number and called it. A woman answered. He gave his name, and she called her husband, Dr. Jacques Taland.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked, sounding anxious.

“It is about one of your patients.”

“Oh.” He sounded relieved.

“Marie-Hélène Jory.”

“I saw her last Friday.”

“Ms. Jory passed away, Doctor.”

Silence settled.

“She was murdered,” Nico added.

“That's horrible! How can I be of help?”

“I need you to send me her medical file. It's urgent.”

“I suppose that under these circumstances medical privacy does not apply?”

“Send me the papers today, and I'll send you an order from the public prosecutor. How's that?”

“I trust you. That's terrible. I told her she was pregnant. She was beaming. It's hard to forget that look, even though I deliver this kind of news all the time. Her blood tests should be in soon.”

“In addition, I need you to make a statement. When can you stop in?”

“I'll bring the file over myself, say around one this afternoon. Does that work?”

“Perfect. I'll be waiting for you at 36 Quai des Orfèvres.”

He hung up and called the Sorbonne. He asked to speak to the dean, a woman named Françoise Pasquier.

“I thought you might contact me this morning,” she said. She had an authoritative voice and didn't bother with unnecessary introductions.

“So you know why I am calling?”

“What do you think? When a professor misses all of her classes I want to know why. I found out last night. We have her companion's cell phone number. I am so sorry for Marie-Hélène and her family. She was an excellent teacher. She knew her job inside out and was very attentive to her students.”

That's what Nico liked in women, their ability to be attentive to those around them, both in their families and on the job. That and the fact that they killed a lot less frequently then men: Women accounted for only ten to thirteen percent of all criminals worldwide. No testosterone, less uncontrolled sex drive and rape. No doubt about it, he preferred women.

“Did she have any conflicts with her colleagues? Any problems with the administration?”

“None at all. I'll guarantee that,” Françoise Pasquier answered. “But I understand that you want to check for yourself. I suppose you will be coming to see us?”

The dean was clearly a very capable and intelligent woman.

“This afternoon, around three.”

“I'll be in my office.”

They were ending their conversation with the polite formalities when he was told that Terrade and his sister had arrived. He invited them to sit down in the deep brown leather armchairs in his office, with nothing but his desk between them and him.

“Have you found anything?” Paul Terrade asked, clearly anxious.

“In effect. Your companion was pregnant.”

The two visitors turned pale at the news. Nico let the heavy silence last, even though he knew it was a questionable tactic, considering the circumstances. Terrade's sister placed a hand on her brother's shoulder, and Nico noted that her fingers were white from the pressure she was applying. He could hear Terrade's breathing, which was full of emotion. Was he acting? That was hard to believe.

“Pregnant?” Terrade said with some difficulty.

“About a month along. Didn't you know?”

“No. Marie-Hélène stopped taking the pill three months ago.”

“Ms. Jory found out on Friday. Four days ago.”

In a stupor, he asked, “Why didn't she tell me?”

“You had a busy weekend,” his sister said. “A woman likes to choose the right moment, that special time, to announce something so important. I'm sure she was preparing to tell you, Paul.”

Terrade collapsed. He sobbed and groaned, “My baby.” The loss added to his pain.

“I'm sorry, but I am required to take your DNA, Mr. Terrade. I have to make sure that you are the father.”

The man shot him a look. Nico knew he was being cruel.

“It's a routine test,” Nico added apologetically. “I will ask a nurse to come by. In the meantime, would you like a coffee?”

Nico called a colleague to escort Terrade and his sister to another office to handle the rest. All they needed was a hair, a few skin cells or a drop of blood, sperm or saliva. The sample would be sealed and taken to the next high-speed train to Nantes. Nico disagreed with his superiors about DNA testing and trusted the Nantes University Hospital more than the Paris police forensics lab. He would have the results in less than twenty-four hours.

He didn't stay alone for long. A section chief entered without any ceremony.

“Want to know the latest?” the strapping man said. “The Élysée just called. The president's chief of staff wants an update on the investigation of Madame de Vallois' murder.”

The de Vallois family was well known in France. Delphine de Vallois, once a friend of the president, had been murdered two years earlier in her seedy eighth-arrondissement apartment. She had squandered her fortune and no longer kept respectable company. They had never caught the murderer, even if L
a Crim'
did have some clues as to who it was. They presumed it was a spurned lover. The number of bruises on the victim's body suggested an intense struggle. But they never had enough evidence to make an arrest.

“You know what I think of that case?” Nico said. “Send them the same report we did last time. They keep hounding us about this. We don't take orders from the Élysée.”

The case was not
that
interesting, and the
brigade
would end up catching the culprit. It was one of the division's great advantages: They had time to work their cases. Some investigations took months, even years. Marie-Hélène Jory's case was different. They had to act quickly if they wanted to solve it.

“You said it, boss. They are starting to get on my nerves,” the subordinate said. “So, it looks like there's no meeting this morning?”

Every morning around nine thirty, the section heads got together in Nico's office for a quick review of ongoing cases. Although they allowed themselves a cup of coffee, they never sat down for this meeting.

“No, not today. The Jory case has priority.”

“Lucky you. I wish I were in on it.”

Nico smiled. His teams loved their work. They all volunteered whenever an investigation showed signs of being particularly difficult. They wanted to participate and show what they were made of. It took a special kind of person, a meticulous intellectual, to be part of
La Crim'
. They were all experienced officers he had chosen personally for their respective skills.

The head of counter-terrorism arrived, and a morning meeting wound up taking place anyway. The international situation required him to work closely with all those involved.

“Here is the file on Chechen movements in France that you wanted,” the deputy chief said. “Religion is not the only factor. Tribal relations play an important role in their organization. We're keeping a constant watch on their leader. I can even tell you when he takes a piss.”

“Good. We need to tighten the net. We can't let down our guard. It could be dangerous.”

“Maximum pressure. The men are on it.”

“Perfect. That's exactly what the interior minister will want to know. And what about Iraq?” Nico asked routinely.

Well before the media broadcast the threat, and the world's leaders took a stand for or firmly against the war, his team had been placing daily bets, not on its probability but on the date that it would break out. The ultra-confidential information he had in hand left little doubt. There were already skirmishes affecting the coalition, and the risk of terrorism had increased in France.