The Inquisitor's Key (18 page)

“No, it was neater than this.” Miranda surveyed the carnage in the kitchen. “I think that plate there—the one with the dried hummus and moldy pita bread?—I think that was mine. And I’m pretty sure that’s my wineglass; it has my lipstick on it.”

I refrained—barely—from asking,
Since when do you wear lipstick?

It was in the bedroom that my mental pendulum swung back to my first thought. Having lived alone for years now, I knew what bachelor clutter looked like: dirty clothes strewn on the floor; clean clothes piled on the dresser and bed. Mostly I kept a handle on my housekeeping, though occasionally the clutter got out of hand. But Stefan’s bedroom was beyond cluttered; Stefan’s bedroom was a study in chaos. All the drawers of the dresser hung open, empty or nearly so; shoes, sweaters, even spare linens had been pulled from the closet floor and shelf; the overstuffed armchair in one corner of the room lay on its side, the fabric lining on its underside in tatters. “Somebody’s been here looking for something,” I said, feeling a chill run up my spine.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, boss,” Miranda murmured.

“Call Stefan’s phone again.”

“I’ve already called a dozen times. I called just before we went in the shoe store.”

“I know, but we weren’t in here when you did. I’m sure he’s not going to answer. I want to know if his phone’s in here.”

“Ah. Good idea.” She hit the redial button, and through her speaker, I heard his phone beginning to ring. Unless the ringer was off or the battery was dead, his phone wasn’t here.

After five or six rings, I expected to hear a voice mail coming faintly through the speaker. What I heard instead electrified me. There was a click, then silence: The call had been accepted, but
whoever took it didn’t speak. Miranda’s eyes, big as saucers, met mine. “Hello?” she said. “Stefan?” No response. “Who is this?” she demanded. “Where is Stefan?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then a click, and the screen flashed the message
Call ended.

“TAKE A RIGHT HERE,” I SAID. “I THINK IT’S IN THIS BLOCK.”

“Where are we going, and why?” Miranda was edgy, and I didn’t blame her.

“A few nights ago—it was the night before we went to Turin—I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. It was late, around midnight. I bumped into Stefan. He was coming out of the palace.”

“At
midnight
?”

“Yeah. We walked around for, I don’t know, half an hour or so.” Just ahead, on the left, I spotted the passageway leading from the Rue Saint-Agricol. “He brought me here.” I led her through the corridor and into the courtyard. “This used to be the chapel of the Knights Templar. Stefan had a key—funny, Stefan seems to have keys to everything—and he took me inside. He was kinda dragging his heels when we left.” Suddenly I remembered. “When
I
left. I walked away, but he didn’t—he hung around here, and I wondered if maybe he was waiting for somebody else to show up. He acted anxious to get rid of me, you know? And he stayed behind after he shooed me away.”

“Jesus, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“The truth?”

“Please.”

“I wondered if maybe he was meeting you. A moonlight rendezvous in the chapel of the Templars.” She didn’t say anything, but I noticed the muscles of her jaw working. Reluctantly, I reached for the black iron knob, hoping that it would not turn
in my hand. But it did. The chapel’s heavy wooden door swung inward, and Miranda and I stepped inside.

The air was cool in the stone interior—cool, pungent, and coppery. It was a mixture of smells I knew only too well. “Maybe you’d better wait outside,” I told Miranda.

“Hell, no.” I knew there was no point arguing with her.

A maroon velvet drape separated the entryway from the soaring, vaulted space of the chapel itself. As I held the curtain aside, Miranda stepped through, and I followed half a step behind.

She gasped and reached back for me, her fingers digging into my arm. Then she turned and buried her face in my chest.

Congealing on the stone floor was a pool of blood, already black at its rim, still red at the center. High overhead was the arched metal truss that supported the theater lights. Suspended horizontally from a cable and pulley at the center of the truss was a short wooden beam. And nailed to that beam—like some modern-day minimalist crucifix—was the nude body of Stefan Beauvoir.

The Second Coming

FOR A LAW-ENFORCEMENT AGENCY THAT HAD LOCKED
its doors and taken a holiday, the French Police Nationale now responded with impressive speed and force. Barely five minutes after Miranda had dragged a startled French passerby into the gruesome chapel—a desperate measure, but that’s what it took to persuade him we had a true emergency—I heard the two-note clarinet warble of a French siren. It was soon joined by another, then a third, then a fourth. The cacophonous quartet crescendoed and then died as the caravan of police cars screeched to a halt in the narrow street outside. Eight uniformed officers charged toward us through the passageway and across the courtyard. Miranda and the passerby waved them into the chapel as I held the door. When they saw Stefan’s body hanging in midair, his face a mask of agony, two of the officers crossed themselves; one, a close-cropped young man who couldn’t have been a day
over twenty, staggered back to the doorway and vomited, barely missing my shoes.

A wiry, forty-something man with the crisp bearing of a former soldier took charge, ordering two of his underlings to cordon off the area. It wasn’t hard to do; they simply taped off the ten-foot-wide mouth of the corridor that led to the street. The words stretched across the opening were in French—Z
ONE
I
N
-
TERDITE
—P
OLICE
T
ECHNIQUE ET
S
CIENTIFIQUE
—but the yellow-and-black tape spoke the universal language of crime scenes.

Talking in rapid-fire French with the man who’d placed the emergency call, the officer in charge—Sergeant Henri Petitjean, according to the ID bar on his chest—divided his attention (that is to say, his piercing glare) between the shell-shocked man, Miranda, and me. The unfortunate Passerby, who had probably been anticipating a leisurely Sunday-morning
café au lait
and baguette, was doing a lot of exasperated shrugging and indignant pointing—the shrugging at the policeman, the pointing at us; eventually, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to leave. In a flash, the policeman spun him around, pinned him to the wall, and made it crystal clear that he was not going
anywhere
except to one of the courtyard café tables, where he ordered the shaken man to sit.

The soldierly sergeant turned to us. “
Monsieur et madame. Parlez-vous français?
”

I knew enough French to know that he was asking if we spoke French. I also knew enough to say, “
Non, pardon. Anglais?
”

He glared at me, then turned his hawkish eyes on Miranda.
“Madame?”

Miranda gave a regretful head shake. “Only a little bit.
Seulement un petit peu. Nous sommes américains.
”

“Ah. Americans.
Quel dommage.”
Too bad for him, or too bad for us? He touched the radio transmitter on his shoulder and spoke rapidly into it. I could make out almost nothing of what he said, except for French-sounding versions of
homicide
and
cruci
fixion
. Amid the hissing, crackling reply, I heard “
Crucifixion?
” He touched the transmitter again and repeated it.
“Oui, crucifixion
.” The same question came over his receiver again. This time he practically smashed the transmit button.
“Oui! Crucifixion, crucifixion, cru-ci-FIX-ion!”
This time his meaning got through; I heard the dispatcher’s “
Merde! Mon Dieu!
”—“Shit! My God!”—and then, after a pause, what sounded like the English words “day cart.” This response seemed to satisfy the officer. He grunted by way of a sign-off and then led Miranda and me to another of the café tables, some distance from the glowering Frenchman whose morning we’d ruined, and motioned for us to sit. He posted one of the officers beside the French pedestrian and posted another, the vomiter, near our table. The queasy young man had regained his composure by now, but his face remained ashen, and the muscle at the corner of his right eye was pulsing as if it were hooked to an electrode.

It wasn’t long before a forensic team—equipped with white biohazard suits, cameras, and evidence kits—arrived and entered the chapel. Not far behind them came a plainclothes officer, whom I took to be a detective. He looked to be about my age; his wavy black hair was going to gray, as were his bushy, tufted eyebrows. His brown eyes were deeply recessed beneath a prominent brow ridge. His complexion was the slightly sallow olive tone of Mediterranean peoples, and under his eyes were deep lines and dark circles, almost blue-black. His shirt cuffs and collar were frayed, his black pants had faded to a dull charcoal, and his shoes were badly scuffed.

The detective and the uniformed sergeant conferred in low tones beside the chapel door; at one point the detective paused and leaned backward, peering around the sergeant to study Miranda and me, then straightened and continued the murmured conversation. After several minutes of this, he and the officer entered the chapel.

The detective spoke briefly with the disgruntled civilian
who’d gotten roped into the drama, then allowed the man to leave. Casting a final baleful glance in our direction, the man ducked under the crime-scene tape and vanished.

“Good morning,” said the detective, nodding first at Miranda, then at me. “You two found the body, yes? I need to ask you some questions.” His English was crisp and fluent, with a hint of a British accent. “My name is Inspector René Descartes.” He took out a notepad and flipped it open, then uncapped a pen and began to write.

“Like the philosopher?” asked Miranda. “The Descartes who said, ‘I think, therefore I am’?”

“Yes, that one. We are related—by blood, or by wishful thinking. ‘I think I am a relative, therefore I
am
a relative.’” Miranda managed a slight, strained smile before he continued. “Tell me what happened. But first, your names, and spell them, please.” We did; his eyebrows lifted slightly when Miranda said “Lovelady,” but he didn’t comment. “You’re both Americans?” We nodded. “Are you traveling together?”

“Yes,” said Miranda, at the very moment that I said, “No.” The pen hovered above the notepad. Descartes looked up, his gaze lighting first on Miranda, then swiveling to me, before returning to Miranda again. She flushed slightly. “We’re working together,” she explained.

“But she got here before I did,” I added.

“I see,” he said in a neutral tone. “Mr….” He checked his notepad. “Mr. Brockton, would you please wait here? Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
Sure,
I thought.
Comfortable—no problem. Stefan’s dead, and this guy’s bound to consider us suspects. Very comfortable.
“Mademoiselle Lovelady, would you come with me, please?”

He led her to a table in the farthest corner of the courtyard, offering her a chair before taking one himself. He drew his chair close to hers, possibly so they could speak more privately but
more likely so she would feel off balance, unsettled by the intrusion into her personal space—a favorite interrogation technique, I knew, of homicide investigators.

He interviewed Miranda for what seemed an eternity—more than an hour, in any case, for I’m sure I heard a bell toll eleven, and later counted twelve.
It tolls for thee, Stefan,
I thought. Finally he brought Miranda back and motioned for me to follow him. Miranda’s eyes were wet and red rimmed. I offered her my handkerchief, but she shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then followed the inspector to the distant corner.

“I’m sorry this takes so long,” he began. “As you can imagine, this is a very unusual crime. And a very disturbing one.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “A good murder investigation takes time.”

He smiled. “Mademoiselle tells me you know a lot about murder investigations. In fact, I am somewhat familiar with your career. One of our big French newspapers,
Le Monde,
published a story about the Body Farm a few years ago. I still have it in my files. Very interesting work. Someday, if I visit the United States, I would like to see your research facility.”

“Certainly.” I took out my wallet and fished out a business card. “Just let us know when you’re coming.” He took the card and read the front, then flipped it over and studied the back. “What are these lines and markings? It looks like a small measuring scale.”

“Exactly,” I said. “If I’m taking pictures at a death scene and need to show the size of a bone, I’ve always got one of these, even if I don’t have a ruler or tape measure.”

He nodded. “Very useful. Very clever.” He flipped a page in the notebook, which was half filled now with notes from his interview of Miranda. “So, please, Dr. Brockton”—I took it as a good sign that he’d promoted me from “Mr.” to “Dr.”—“tell me
about the events of this morning. Start at the beginning. Take all the time you need.”

He took copious notes as I talked, interrupting occasionally to ask me to slow down a bit, or to reword a phrase he didn’t fully understand, or to clarify a point.

He bore down on me when I told how Miranda and I had looked around Stefan’s apartment. “Why did you go there?”

“We were looking for him. He wasn’t at the palace; we hoped we’d find him at home.”

“Why didn’t you just call him?”

“We did. Many times. I’m surprised Miranda didn’t tell you that.” His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly, which I took to mean that she
had
told him, and that he was simply cross-checking our stories. “We also went to the police station, but we couldn’t get in. There’s probably a security-camera video of us knocking on the door, right?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, by that time, we were really worried about him. Looking at his apartment seemed like the only thing we could do.”

“But you went inside the apartment. I have to say, that was unfortunate. That looks suspicious. Why did you do that?”

“We were worried,” I repeated, “and the door was open. We were afraid he might be sick, or hurt.”

“Did he seem unhealthy to you, the last time you saw him?”

“No. But people get sick without warning; people die without warning. I had a friend who was forty-six—my friend Tim, a strong, athletic guy—who had a stroke one day out of the blue, dropped dead instantly. I knew a healthy young woman, a television reporter, who dropped dead in the middle of her nightly news broadcast. Another friend of mine slipped and hit her head on the bathroom floor; she lay there for two days before she came out of her coma and managed to call an ambulance.”

“Remind me not to become your friend,” he said. “It sounds very bad for the health.”

“
Touché,
Inspector.” I smiled. “The point is, unexpected
things happen. If we’d known Stefan was dead, we wouldn’t have gone in. And if we were his killers, we
certainly
wouldn’t have left fingerprints on the doors and light switches and who knows where else. I know better than to contaminate a crime scene, Inspector. We just didn’t know it
was
a crime scene.”

He wasted no time pouncing on that. “What makes you say that the apartment is a crime scene?”

“Drawers were dumped out, Inspector. Furniture was cut open. If it’s not a crime scene, it’s the messiest apartment in France. Before we saw his apartment, I was just worried; after we saw it, I was sure something bad had happened. That’s when I thought to come here, to the chapel. If we hadn’t gone into his apartment, the murder wouldn’t even have been discovered yet.”

He was still frowning. “But why did you think to come here, to the Templar chapel? How did you know he would be here?”

“I
didn’t
know he’d be here. But I thought it was worth looking.”

“Why? What made you think that?”

“I’m not sure. For one thing, I suppose this was the only place that I knew Stefan had some sort of…
connection
to, besides his apartment and the Palace of the Popes. But that’s not all. This place seemed important to him for some reason. He brought me here one night last week—I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a walk. It was very late—almost midnight—but I ran into Stefan on the street. We walked around for a while, and he brought me here, showed me the chapel, took me inside. He had a key; said he was friends with the owner. It was strange, though. Almost like he was letting me in on a secret.”

“What secret, Dr. Brockton?”

I shook my head. “I wish I knew. I just got the feeling that this place was more than an old building to Stefan.” I picked at my memories and intuitions a bit deeper. “There was something about the way he was behaving,” I finally managed. “When we first got here, it was almost like he was checking the place out—
he looked up and down the street very carefully before he led me through the passageway, and he checked the courtyard before we went inside the chapel.” And then, when we left, he sent me away, but he stayed behind. It was almost like he was eager to get rid of me.” A realization finally crystallized. “Almost like he was expecting someone else to show up very soon.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. “Any idea who he was expecting?”

“None. Sorry. I wish I did.”

He leaned back, obviously disappointed, and studied his notes. Then he rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, followed by another. “Inspector? Are you okay?”

He gave his head a shake, blinked hard, and raised his bushy eyebrows high, as if to open his eyes as wide as possible. “I’m just a little tired,” he said. “I put in some long hours on a case recently. An art forger who committed suicide.” He suppressed a yawn. “Tell me about Mademoiselle Lovelady.”

The request caught me by surprise. “Miranda? She’s great. Smart as hell. Hardworking. Strong-minded. Funny. Spunky.”

“Spunky? What is
spunky
?”

“It’s slang. It means feisty. Brave. Tough.”

“Ah. In French, we say
plein de cran
. ‘Full of guts.’”

“Oh, yes, gutsy. Miranda is very gutsy.”

“Do you trust her, this gutsy assistant?”

“Miranda? Completely. I’d trust her with my life.”