The City of Blood Read online

  Praise for The City of Blood

  “At the end, Cassian likens Nico to Georges Simenon’s great detective: ‘Inspector Maigret can sleep soundly. He has a worthy successor.’ Many readers will agree.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Molay can give CSI writers a run for their money... The book transported me to Paris.”

  —Marienela

  “Classy French police procedural.”

  —Netgalley review

  “A great series set in a beautiful city.”

  — Reader review

  “Suspense lovers will get their fill.”

  —Le Journal

  “A taut novel, with likeable characters and optimism. Fresh and a real pleasure to read.”

  —Blue Moon

  “Magical. Written by a master.”

  —Aventure Littéraire

  Also in the Paris Homicide Series

  The 7th Woman

  Crossing the Line

  Praise for the Series

  “A highly entertaining and intellectually stimulating read… unreservedly recommended.”

  —Thinking about Books

  “If you’re looking for a chilling novel that will keep you guessing until the case is solved, this is the book for you.”

  —Criminal Element

  “If you enjoy your crime set in a foreign clime, then this is the book for you.”

  —Crime Fiction Lover

  “Procedural fans will appreciate the fresh take.”

  —Booklist

  “For readers who enjoy a low-key approach with detailed descriptions, Molay is just the ticket.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Readers will find it impossible to put down. Highly recommended.”

  —Goodreads

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

  —RTL

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

  —Lire

  “Extremely enjoyable, thought-provoking read.”

  —Books are Cool

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

  —Foreword Reviews

  “Frédérique Molay is the French Michael Connelly.”

  —Jean Miot, Agence France Presse (AFP)

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

  —Paris mystery writer Cara Black

  “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

  Best Crime Fiction Novel of the Year

  (Lire Magazine)

  Winner of France’s prestigious

  Prix du Quai des Orfèvres award

  The City of Blood

  A Paris Homicide Mystery

  Frédérique Molay

  Translated from French by Jeffrey Zuckerman

  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

  Déjeuner sous l’herbe

  by Librairie Arthème Fayard.

  World copyright ©2012 Librairie Arthème Fayard

  English translation ©2015 Jeffrey Zuckerman

  First published in English in 2015

  by Le French Book, Inc., New York

  www.lefrenchbook.com

  To Anna Kern (poem), Alexander Pushkin,

  translated by James Falen, from Selected Lyric Poetry,

  Northwestern University Press, 2009

  Translator: Jeffrey Zuckerman

  Translation editor: Amy Richards

  Proofreader: Chris Gage

  Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

  Book design: Le French Book

  ISBNs

  978-1-939474-18-6 (Trade paperback)

  978-1-939474-17-9 (E-book)

  978-1-939474-19-3 (Hardback)

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

  To the best of all worlds,

  Filled with kind people and false criminals;

  The world I dream of for my children.

  To the students whose paths have crossed mine,

  and to their teachers.

  Don’t take the tableau-piège for a work of art.

  It’s a piece of information, a provocation.

  —Daniel Spoerri

  “There is in all things a pattern that is part of our universe. It has symmetry, elegance, and grace—those qualities you find always in that which the true artist captures. You can find it in the turning of the seasons, in the way sand trails along a ridge, in the branch clusters of the creosote bush or the pattern of its leaves. We try to copy these patterns in our lives and our society, seeking the rhythms, the dances, the forms that comfort. Yet, it is possible to see peril in the finding of ultimate perfection. It is clear that the ultimate pattern contains it own fixity. In such perfection, all things move toward death.”

  —Frank Herbert, Dune

  from “The Sayings of Muad’Dib”

  by the Princess Irulan

  1

  Footsteps, the stench of a cigar. Chief Nico Sirsky looked up from his files and glanced at his watch: 1:11 p.m. Deputy Police Commissioner Michel Cohen, his boss, walked into the office without knocking.

  “If I were you, I’d turn on the news,” Cohen advised.

  No hello. It was an order. Nico grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the television. The news anchor appeared. Black eyeliner and smoky shadow accentuated her eyes. Not a hair was out of place. In a panel at the bottom of the screen, a reporter was clutching his microphone.

  “Just watch,” Cohen said.

  Directly behind the reporter was the Géode, the gigantic steel globe at the Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie. The huge Cité complex in northeast Paris encompassed a science, technology, and cultural center, a museum, and much more. It attracted visitors from around the world. Nico raised the volume.

  “I can only imagine the consternation there,” the newscaster lamented, a touch theatrically.

  “Absolutely, Élise. This story has gripped people in France and beyond.”

  “Arnaud, please bring those viewers who have just tuned in up to speed on this horrible discovery. I must warn those watching that this may not be appropriate for young children.”

  The camera panned to an open pit next to the Canal de l’Ourcq in the Parc de la Villette.

  “Here, at this exact spot, archaeologists, artists, and others started an extraordinary excavation three days ago,” the reporter said. “Now that dig has taken a strange and ghastly twist.”

  The camera zoomed in slowly on the pit. It was possible to make out dirt-covered tables, dishes, and bottles. The shot then turned into a full close-up of an inconceivable sight.

  “You see what all the commotion’s about?” Cohen asked.

  Several men in orange vests were pushing back spectators on the Prairie du Cercle meadow and forming a security perimeter.

  The news anchor was talking. “Arnaud, we can hear the sirens. Is that the police?”

  “Yes, Élise, officers are arriving now.”

  Those were the local precinct officers, who would guard the crime scene and take down witness accounts. Normally, they would then call in the public prosecutor and his underlings—“the devil and his minions,” as Cohen liked to put it. That was in theory. But this was not a normal situation. The television n
ews had already tipped everyone off, and Nico was betting that Christine Lormes, the public prosecutor, was putting on her coat at that very minute.

  “Looks like we’re going to be on the news,” Cohen said with a note of sarcasm. “We’re set to meet the prosecutor in the courtyard. Which squad are you putting on this?”

  “Kriven’s.”

  Nico could forget about his sandwich. The week was off to a bad start.

  2

  Sirsky and Cohen hurried down Stairwell A, its black linoleum worn down to the cement, and made their way to the interior quad of the courthouse complex, where Lormes was waiting for them. From there, they walked quickly to their car, a black sedan with tinted windows. Nico got behind the wheel, while Michel Cohen offered the passenger seat to the prosecutor. The deputy commissioner slipped into the back. Commander David Kriven and his men would follow in other cars. Nico turned the key. The guitar licks of the Young brothers and Bon Scott’s raw tenor flooded the car. “Touch Too Much” by AC/DC—a song about a guy going crazy over his girlfriend, or in other words, the story of his love affair with Caroline.

  Startled by the music, the prosecutor almost hit her head on the ceiling. Nico switched off the CD player.

  “Are you trying to kill me, Chief?” she asked.

  “There are worse ways to die,” Nico said, grinning.

  “Things sure have changed,” Cohen muttered. “The head of France’s legendary criminal investigation division doesn’t wear a dark suit, and he listens to hard rock.”

  Lormes stared at Nico, taking in his build, his blond hair, and his eyes as blue as the waters of Norway’s fjords. He smiled at her innocently. The car made its way out of the 36 Quai des Orfèvres parking lot and headed along the Seine, its blue lights flashing.

  “The minister of culture was at the archaeological dig’s opening three days ago,” she said. “He shoveled the first pile of dirt, just like his predecessor thirty years ago, when they were burying Samuel Cassian’s tableau-piège.”

  “Cassian was what they called a new realist in the sixties and seventies, right?” Nico said.

  “Yeah, he glued the remains of meals—plates, silverware, glasses, cooking utensils, bottles, and the like—to panels, and art collectors who liked that sort of thing hung them on their walls,” Cohen said.

  “I remember reading something about his work,” Nico said, swerving around several cars. “He was considered an anticonsumerist. He used food and ordinary kitchen items to make a statement about wealth and hunger.”

  “Cassian was no starving artist, though,” the prosecutor said. “He made a surgeon’s fortune from his pieces. Then he opened pop-up restaurants and organized interactive banquets.”

  “In the eighties he got tired of doing the same thing over and over and decided to have a final banquet,” Cohen said. “He wanted his guests to bury the remains, and he planned to have the whole thing dug up years later.”

  The excavation had started a few days earlier, when reporters, scientists, and artists came together to disinter the fragments. They planned to study the remnants and determine the work’s sustainability. It was nothing less than the first excavation of modern art.

  “This is quite a scandal,” the prosecutor said. “Samuel Cassian is a prominent figure. The organizations sponsoring the event are going to go ballistic.”

  “We’ll have to get to the bottom of this quickly,” Cohen said.

  Nico turned onto the Quai de Jemmapes to go up the Canal Saint-Martin, which was lined with chestnut and plane trees and romantic footbridges. The other drivers slowed down to avoid the speeding sedan. This neighborhood, where the famed Hôtel du Nord still stood and the ghost of actress Arletty lurked, had the feel of prewar Paris, with bargemen ready to jump the lock gates to the reservoir linking the Villette basin to the Seine.

  At the Place de la Bataille-de-Stalingrad, Nico took the Avenue Jean-Jaurès toward the Porte de Pantin. Then he got stuck in a tangle of cars, heavy trucks, motorcycles, and pedestrians wholly unaware of the specific lanes marked for their use. Nico watched the bikes pass him by and leaned on the horn before skillfully weaving through the traffic like a king of the jungle, careful to keep his distance and avoid bumpers and doors. The prosecutor gripped the handhold without emitting the least objection or interrupting their shared train of thought. What were human remains doing in the middle of tables, tablecloths, dishes, silverware, the leftovers, and trinkets?

  They arrived at the Place de la Fontaine-aux-Lions, across from the Grande Halle, where uniformed men were holding back the crowd and the reporters. Nico parked in front of the Pavillon Janvier, named for the head architect of Villette’s former cattle markets and slaughterhouses. The large stone building housed the park’s administration. They got out of the car under the eyes of the television cameras. A man in his sixties with a military crew cut walked up to them, his stare unyielding.

  “Louis Roche, chief of security for the Parc de la Villette. We’ll drive to the scene. A few of my men will lead the way. The local precinct chief and Laurence Clavel, the park director, are waiting for you,” the man said, climbing into the back seat.

  “Don’t you have camera surveillance?” Nico asked, scanning the area.

  “We favor human surveillance, and that’s been more than sufficient. Our stats would put the neighboring precincts to shame.”

  His tone was surprisingly relaxed. An old man from yesteryear, a relic, Nico thought. Maybe a former cop or a retired firefighter. Private security services had recruited from their ranks for ages. Now, however, specialized university graduates prevailed in these careers.

  “The park has three to four million visitors every year,” the head of security was saying. “All told, we’ve only had about twenty gang incidents, thirty acts of vandalism, and as many thefts. Fifty percent of the time, the criminals were caught by park agents and brought to the Pavillon Janvier, where police took them into custody.”

  “How many people work for you?” Michel Cohen asked as the car made its way out of the parking lot.

  “Nineteen, all patrolling on foot or by car. I recruit dog handlers for the night shift and hire temporary reinforcements for bigger events like open-air movie screenings and the Bastille Day fireworks. Our role is to prevent and intervene, and we can handle first aid, fire hazards, and emergencies. For everything else, we call the police.”

  “You’re from the force, aren’t you?” Nico said.

  “I stepped down as captain,” Roche confirmed with a quick smile.

  “So you’re employed by the park and the Grand Halle de la Villette?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Yes, the concessions and other businesses in the park have their own security.”

  They skirted around the Zénith concert arena, crossed the Canal de l’Ourcq—the “Little Venice of Paris”—and passed the Cabaret Sauvage. They also drove by several of the park’s famous architectural follies, thirty-five large red sculptures in various geometric shapes.

  “Some have been made into playrooms and information, ticketing, and first-aid centers. One is a restaurant, and another is a coffee shop,” Roche explained. “But most are merely decorative. The director calls them hollow teeth.”

  Nico was reminded of Bruno Guedj, a pharmacist from a case a few months earlier. He had been clever enough to hide an incriminating note in one of his teeth.

  They stopped at the edge of the Prairie du Cercle.

  “The canal runs down the middle of the meadow,” Roche said as he opened the car door. On both sides, the Observatoire and Belvédère follies offered a bird’s-eye view of the site.

  Roche brightened up. He was in his element.

  They had barely stepped out of the car when the local precinct chief swooped down on them. In the distance, Nico saw a man who was hunched over. Someone was offering him water. It was the artist himself, Samuel Cassian. The prosecutor and Michel Cohen were already heading toward him, amid shouts from reporters hoping for answers to their question
s.

  Nico shook the precinct chief’s hand.

  “Glad you’re here,” the precinct official said without ceremony. “Let me introduce you to the general director of the park, Laurence Clavel.”

  The director extended her hand. “The park’s president is away on a business trip,” she said. “He’ll get here as soon as he can.”

  Nico recalled that the park president had been an actor in a police show on television.

  “There’s no rush,” Nico replied amiably. It was always best to put people at ease.

  “The body’s been there for quite a while,” said the precinct chief. “There’s nothing but bones left.”

  “It’s revolting,” Clavel said, looking away with a frown.

  Nico was thinking about Samuel Cassian and his 120 dinner guests three decades earlier. The news had to be upsetting for those who were still alive.

  “Has the site been cordoned off?” Nico asked. “Nobody should get near the pit.”

  “Of course. But we can’t take too long. I don’t have enough staff for that,” the precinct chief said.

  “We’ll remedy that situation as soon as we can,” Nico assured him.

  They would soon know the victim’s age, gender, height, and ethnicity. They would also know the cause of death and whether he or she had suffered any injuries. Forensic anthropology was a specialty of the chief medical examiner.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with my team,” Nico said.

  Accompanied by two members of Kriven’s team, Captain Franck Plassard was taking the first witness accounts, for what they were worth. Memory was fickle, and using it required the greatest vigilance. No matter how many people were in a room with a suspect, half would swear that he was wearing a black pullover, and the other half would insist that the sweater was white. Every description came from someone’s subjective perception. Of course his teams all used techniques developed by psychologists, but there was still a margin of error.