Crossing the Line Read online

  Also in the Paris Homicide Series

  The 7th woman

  Best Crime Fiction Novel of the Year

  (Lire Magazine)

  Winner of France’s most prestigious

  crime fiction award,

  the Prix du Quai des Orfèvres

  An international bestseller

  “Blends suspense and authentic police procedure with a parallel tale of redemption. Well-drawn characters and ratcheting tension.”

  —Paris mystery writer Cara Black

  “Molay uses meticulous police procedure and forensics to bolster gripping scenes of terror. Let’s hope more installments from this series cross the ocean soon.”

  —Booklist

  “A taut and terror-filled thriller. Frédérique Molay creates a lightning-quick, sinister plot. Inspector Nico Sirsky is every bit as engaging and dogged as Arkady Renko in Gorky Park.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Robert Dugoni

  “A slick, highly realistic, and impeccably crafted thriller.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  Praise for

  Frédérique Molay

  and

  Crossing the Line

  “This is a spellbinding procedural, with an appealing protagonist and a fresh setting... procedural fans will appreciate the fresh take.”

  —Booklist

  “Frédérique Molay is the French Michael Connelly.”

  —Jean Miot, Agence France Presse (AFP)

  “The kind of suspense that makes you miss your subway stop.”

  —RTL

  “An excellent mystery, the kind you read in one sitting.”

  —Lire

  “A fast-paced story that you don’t want to end.”

  —Nord-Eclair

  “Another adventure full of suspense with a personable hero and a brisk investigation.”

  —Chroniques Littéraires

  “Molay has the art of leading us through the streets, cafés and hidden places in Paris, and she knows her police procedure like the best of them. A treat to read, truer than true. The pace is perfect.”

  —Polar collectif

  Crossing the Line

  A Paris Homicide Novel

  Frédérique Molay

  Translated from French by Anne Trager

  All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in France as

  Dent pour dent

  by Librairie Arthème Fayard

  World copyright © 2011 Librairie Arthème Fayard

  English translation © 2014 Anne Trager

  First published in English in 2014

  by Le French Book, Inc., New York

  www.lefrenchbook.com

  Copyediting by Amy Richards

  Proofreading by Chris Gage

  Cover design by Jeroen ten Berge

  Book design by Le French Book

  ISBNs:

  978-1-939474-14-8 (Trade paperback)

  978-1-939474-15-5 (E-book)

  978-1-939474-16-2 (Hardback)

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To my dear children.

  To those I love, here and elsewhere.

  To Zira and Cornélius.

  Now, mystery I love passionately, hoping each time to unravel it.

  —Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen

  Prologue

  With a trembling hand, the man set down the tiny piece of plastic. He had found a way to get a message to the right people. It had to work. He studied the words he had written. How odd to contemplate a future he wouldn’t be a part of. But he wasn’t dead yet, and he would do everything he could to protect his loved ones.

  § § §

  1

  Nico Sirsky breathed deeply, concentrating on his stride. His arms were bent at ninety degrees, and his eyes were focused straight ahead. The harsh cold bit his cheeks, but he kept a good pace, pain notwithstanding. He had been shot in the leg a few months earlier, and he was still recovering from the injury. The endorphins raced through his body. The effort felt good.

  A Radiohead album given to him by his son, Dimitri, hammered his ears. The hit “Creep” brought his thoughts back to Caroline. “You’re just like an angel. Your skin makes me cry... I wish I was special. You’re so fucking special.” This morning, she was already at Saint Antoine Hospital, where she ran the gastroenterology department. Nico had gotten up and gone for a run when she left. The exercise helped him chase away the ghosts of those he had locked up and their ravaged victims. This curious moment at dawn, between night and morning, put him in a parallel universe. The glow of the city dazed him with its dance of headlights, streetlamps, window neon, and floating strings of Christmas decorations setting the trees ablaze. The silent forms that crossed his path went from shadow to light before disappearing around a bend or into a subway entrance. Everything seemed unreal, and with the music, he felt as though he were racing through a movie set. There he was, an extra amid overall indifference, belting along as if the devil were hot on his tail.

  Nico had started his jog at the Esplanade des Invalides, skimmed around the Eiffel Tower, circumvented the Arc de Triomphe, and made his way along the Champs-Élysées to the Concorde. Then he ran past the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre. His next milepost: the Luxembourg Gardens. He could hear Commander David Kriven, one of the Criminal Investigation Division’s twelve squad chiefs, teasing him about how ridiculous it was to take the right bank to get from the Invalides to the Sénat. There were more direct routes and certainly less strenuous means of transportation than on his one good leg.

  It had been only three months since the surgeon had operated on Nico’s leg. After that, he had dived into intensive physical therapy—there was no way he would concede the slightest victory to the bastard who had targeted him. Nico had braved it all, even if it meant clenching his teeth and swallowing painkillers. Spread the word: Chief Nico Sirsky was back full time in his fourth-floor office at the Paris police headquarters, 36 Quai des Orfèvres. He had returned to his old brown-leather chair and his giant worktable filled with case files and police complaints. He was once again leading his team of a hundred or so elite crime fighters. Just as important, he had put his stormy divorce and the sudden departure of his depressed ex-wife behind him. He had custody of their fourteen-year-old son, and now Dimitri, Caroline, and he were a real family.

  In the middle of the Pont des Arts, Nico felt transported to a snowy scene in Russia, his family homeland. The roofs resembled mountaintops in the Caucasus. In front of him, in place of the golden dome of the Institut de France—home of the Académie Française—he imagined the red façade of Moscow’s Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Nico smiled at the thought of Paris strutting its stuff, no matter the weather. Come rain, wind, or snow, his city revealed all her finery with the same charm, like an experienced, elegant, and spellbinding woman. The Seine River rippling beneath him complemented the magic.

  Returning to the Left Bank, Nico slipped on a thin layer of white powder that carpeted the pavement. He recovered his footing just as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Who could be calling at such an early hour? Going by probability alone, he guessed it was headquarters. Like a praying mantis lying in wait for its quarry, death stalked the city’s alleys, dead ends, and gardens in the hours before dawn. And the most pious-looking killer could strike at dizzying speed.

  Caroline’s name appeared on the screen with a text message. “I love you. Be careful.” Nico felt a knot in his throat; never before had he had such strong feelings for a woman. “Luv U 2,” he ans
wered as he sped up, running in pace with the sensual harmony of The xx, with its distant guitars and troubling blend of refinement and brutality.

  He finished with a sprint down the Rue Oudinot. He typed in the gate code and pushed his way into a small private alley lined with a few handsome homes. This was his corner of paradise, near the Tour Montparnasse. He entered his house and took off his sopping-wet running shoes. In the hallway, a note was hanging from the coat rack: “Hi, Dad. Hope you’re okay. Off to school. Later. D.” Nico looked at his watch. It was seven thirty. He sighed and went upstairs, in great need of a hot shower. The water spurted out, calming him, and Nico imagined Caroline’s gentle hands soaping him up, her mouth glued to his.

  “Stop that, would you!” he said out loud.

  He rinsed quickly and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and going into his room—their room. Caroline had kept her apartment but came here more and more often.

  Nico put on a suit and tie and then unlocked the safe at the back of the closet. He grabbed his holstered gun and felt its weight in his hand. Friend or enemy? Life or death? A gun protected as much as it threatened. As he attached it to his belt, the cold, hard reality struck him again. He hated having to use his gun, but like so many other things in this world—crime, separation, illness, loss—he had to deal with it.

  A half hour later, Nico turned onto the Quai des Orfèvres. The faux-medieval tower of police headquarters rose up alongside the Seine. He parked in his reserved spot next to the building. Security guards saluted him with deference as he entered the cobblestone passageway that led to the interior courtyard. He felt ready and alert, as if he were going into a stadium. He walked along the outside wall until he reached the glass door to Stairwell A. The headquarters were cramped and in a sorry state, but the police prefect was working hard on a plan to move the operations to a new building in the Batignolles neighborhood. Despite the additional space and better conditions the new quarters would offer, Nico was not thrilled about leaving 36 Quai des Orfèvres. He liked the old-fashioned feel of the building, with its stairs covered in black linoleum and crumbling hallways haunted by the ghosts of his illustrious predecessors.

  On the fourth floor, a lit sign that looked like it belonged in a train station signaled the hallway. In dark blue letters on a white background, it read Brigade Criminelle. It was La Crim’, otherwise known as the Criminal Investigation Division. At the entry to the hallway, a showcase held merchandise sold to support the Police Benevolent Association. The mugs, key rings, caps, T-shirts, and Champagne were all branded with a thistle, the elite division’s emblem. The division’s slogan was posted on the wall: “Brush against us and you get stung.” There was no ambiguity in those words.

  Nico gave a few instructions to his secretaries and headed down the hallway to his office, one of the few on the floor that was large enough to be comfortable. The mandatory portrait of the president of France welcomed him. The furniture was outdated, but the space was pleasant enough and offered a breathtaking view of the Seine. He barely had time to sit down in his large leather chair when the phone rang. It was Claire Le Marec, his deputy chief. She was a competent police officer who had skillfully taken over for him while he was in the hospital, preserving his higher-ranking position and never trying to grab the spotlight.

  “We’re ready when you are,” she said, referring to Nico’s daily meeting with his four section chiefs to review their active cases. Before, they would have knocked on his door and entered without any ceremony. But Le Marec continued to serve as a buffer, perhaps out of guilt for not having been there three months earlier, when a murderer had spread terror throughout the city, challenging Nico and trying to kill both him and Caroline.

  “You’ve been slaving away these last few weeks, Claire. Lighten up. I’m not made of eggshells. The proof is in my running shoes, which just flew over six miles of sidewalk and are begging for more.”

  “See. You’re already overdoing it.”

  Nico smiled. “Come on. I bet I could outrun Yann anytime.” Claire’s husband was from coastal Brittany and good at sea but inept on land. “I’m waiting for you,” he said, his tone professional again. He hung up, lost in thought. He knew he was no more invincible than Captain Amélie Ader, one of the six members of David Kriven’s squad. Ader had been murdered by the serial killer who had targeted Nico. The case had burst the bubble of protection that he had thought surrounded those close to him just because he embodied the police force. It had never really existed.

  No Christmas elf could change that.

  2

  Dr. Patrice Rieux walked quickly along the Rue des Saints-Pères, which bordered Paris Descartes University. He glanced down an alley to a door that led to a grimy basement. Students found the ghoulish atmosphere in the basement perfect for hazing. Broken cabinets, decrepit work surfaces, dented water basins, burst file boxes, and battered carts were scattered all over the floor. A confusion of pipes covered the ceiling, like snakes ready to drop and bite under the dull fluorescent light. Not a place for the sensitive soul.

  A little farther along, at 45 Rue des Saints-Pères, a group of young men, cigarettes between their lips and deep circles under their eyes, milled at the entrance, stamping their feet against the cold. Dr. Rieux passed a large pine tree and made his way into the university’s main hall. He squeezed through a crowd of students, most of whom would never make it beyond their first year. They were overworked, tired, and pushed to their limits. The dentist climbed to the sixth floor. A yellowing piece of paper taped to a glass door pointed to the anatomy department. It was past the body donation office. A grim waiting area was reserved for those who were willing to give their bodies to science after they died but had questions while they were still alive. The area consisted of a small wooden bench against a wall. Posts with unrolling straps closed off a nine-square-foot zone. The space was almost always empty, as if sitting there could bring bad luck. Actually, the bench had an aura of death.

  The legendary red door at the end of the hallway opened with an ominous creak. Marcel appeared in the hallway in his usual outfit, which was like a second skin: jeans, immaculate white coat, and plastic clogs. He was short and heavyset, with thick hands, white hair, and a sharp eye. The man was a good sixty years old, and the red door was his. It led to his own private suite next to the Farabeuf Lab. Marcel was the most experienced body processor at the university. It was best not to know his production secrets.

  Patrice Rieux greeted him warmly at the entry to the lab. Marcel said hello, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and then he reassured the dentist that the specimens were ready.

  Inside the lab, forty or so dentists were jostling at the buffet table for coffee, fruit juice, and pastries before putting on their uniforms. In his tailored nineteen-seventies-style floral shirt, the kind he wore when he haunted these halls as a student, Dr. Rieux clearly enjoyed playing host. And he now frequented this place regularly, thanks to the postgraduate training clinic run in partnership with the university. His company offered a full anatomy and pathology course of studies for practicing dentists who wanted to perfect their emergency surgery skills. The coursework was practical, and the techniques were taught on fresh subjects—fresh, but dead. Dr. Rieux had hired a team of teaching-hospital practitioners and private-practice dentists to oversee the students. They wore white coats and name tags. The students were in single-use smocks, shoe covers, and blue caps.

  Patrice Rieux entered the classroom and felt the usual shiver run up his spine. He loved being in this temple of medicine. Temple: there was no better word for it. The ceiling was nearly twenty feet high. Huge shuttered windows towered above the blackboards, and a giant screen rose up in the front of the room. Fluorescent fixtures as big as bathtubs diffused a uniform white light over the twenty-four dissection tables lined up in four rows. The environment was perfect for surgery, which offered an emotional ride one hundred times more exhilarating than a roller coaster. Contrary to popular belie
f, doctors did not think of themselves as all-powerful gods. They were too aware that the slip of a needle or a minute scalpel error could endanger a patient’s health and even a patient’s life. Wasn’t that fear of making a costly mistake indispensable in this profession? The job required extraordinary concentration, unwavering energy, and comprehensive knowledge.

  This day’s patients, however, did not need such crucial attention.

  While his colleagues checked the equipment, Dr. Rieux greeted Professor Francis Étienne, head of the anatomy department at Paris Descartes University. The man was planning to retire, which was bad news for the students. Étienne was a master in human anatomy and organ topography. He knew exactly where to slice into the flesh so that it left barely a trace. But cemeteries were filled with irreplaceable professionals, all of whom had wound up being replaced.

  The professor grinned at Dr. Rieux. He was nearly quivering with excitement: a fish in his element. “I’m ready,” he said.

  A lab tech stood next to the professor, ready to hand over instruments and aim the operating lamp. He also had the task of running the camera so the students could follow the procedure on the screen.

  The metallic sound of trolley wheels on the floor tiles signaled Marcel’s arrival. Silence fell in the Farabeuf Lab, and the room felt a few degrees warmer. In one quick, smooth gesture, Marcel whisked away the large blue sheet that covered the stainless-steel cart, and all the students looked away. The heads of twenty men and women of all ages stared out. The decapitations had been done according to the rules of the art, and the body processor had acquitted the task with skill. Marcel started handing out the specimens, setting them on holders on the tables, next to surgical instruments and rolls of paper towels. The students took their places at their assigned tables. Professor Étienne prompted his assistant to start the camera and zoom in on the head he had been given.