Kill Shot

Chapter 38
NEVILLE was dressed for the cameras: black pumps, dark gray tights, black skirt, and a cerulean silk blouse. She'd called it a day after her confrontation with Fournier. The encounter had left her in such a foul mood that she had told Martin Simon she didn't want to be disturbed for the rest of the day. She'd gone home to an empty apartment and remembered that her husband had taken the kids to see his parents. The bare apartment only served to worsen her mood until she realized that with a two-and-half-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter, she needed to take advantage of a little solitude. She drew a bath, lit some candles, turned on some jazz music, got in the tub, and began to plot the destruction of Paul Fournier.

Neville had been a police officer for sixteen years, and she'd developed a very good ear for lies. Fournier was one of the best liars she'd ever met. He demonstrated none of the telltale signs. He could lie without blinking if it served the moment and he could do it while frowning or smiling, or with a completely passive face. The only thing that was safe to assume was that when his mouth was moving, he was lying. As accurate as she knew her assessment to be, she needed more than a hunch to get her bosses to move. She was going to have to present some evidence. By the end of the long bath she had done a 180. What she needed to show was that the DGSE had no place in a police investigation. And then with Simon's help she needed to share their opinion that someone from the Directorate had manipulated evidence. If she could get her bosses to believe Fournier and his minions were interfering with her investigation, it could start a turf battle and people might push back.

It was the kind of juicy governmental tidbit that the press would fall all over. The Directorate had no business playing their games inside the borders of France. Their mission was abroad. Inside France it was the National Police. The National Assembly and the Senate were filled with politicians who would be furious at the mere perception that the Directorate was up to its old games. That was where Neville knew she had to take this. Fournier was like a vampire. He could only operate in darkness. Expose him and sic the politicians and press on him and he would crumble.

Neville arrived at her office early to help prepare for her meeting and the first press conference that was scheduled to discuss the massacre at the hotel early Saturday morning. She found her deputy, Martin Simon, sitting at his desk looking as if he hadn't been home in two days, which turned out to be the case.

"What do you mean you stayed here last night? What could have possibly happened in the investigation?"

Simon smoothed his red hair and said, "There were two murders last night, and one of the deceased is an agent with the Directorate, or I should say was."

Neville was incredulous. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Because you told me you didn't want to be bothered. You said you needed to be left alone so you could figure out how you were going to handle your ex-boyfriend."

Neville lifted her hand as if she might slap Simon. "I told you . . . do not call him my boyfriend. If you do it again, I'm going to hurt you."

"Don't be so sensitive. I didn't get much sleep last night, so I can't remember which of your ex-boyfriends I can still refer to as your exes and which ones I must call by their first names. It's all very confusing."

"What else do you have?"

"A second DGSE agent in the hospital. He's in critical condition. And a deceased unidentified Caucasian." Simon opened the file on his desk and showed her the crime scene photos.

Neville gave them a quick glance. "So this guy shoots these two DGSE agents and the wounded agent shoots back and kills him."

"If only it were that simple. This guy," Simon said as he pointed at the corpse in the street, "was shot in the back of the head at point-blank range . . . less than a foot away. Gun powder residue was all over his head, but his hands were clean and his gun was not fired."

"So he didn't shoot the two DGSE agents."

"That's the assumption so far."

"Have you talked to the wounded man?"

Simon gave her a bitter laugh. "What do you think?"

Neville thought about it for a second. "They won't let you anywhere near him."

"You got that right."

"I'm so sick of this bullshit. Was Fournier there last night?"

"He was there briefly to issue some orders and then he disappeared."

Neville folded her arms across her chest and studied the crime scene photos. She tapped the photo of the man in the street. "No wallet . . . no ID. Nothing."

"No, but I just left the morgue an hour ago and our people found something very interesting. They think his dental work looks American, but the big break came when they inspected the body. They were using the UV black light to check for gunshot residue, and they found faint traces of a tattoo that the man had had removed." Simon found the photo and showed her.

Neville read the words aloud. "Rangers Lead. What does that mean?"

"Rangers are U.S. Army Special Forces. Rangers Lead is their motto."

"Ballistics?"

"That's where things get really interesting. We found shell casings from four different weapons, only one of which was recovered at the scene. It belonged to the deceased DGSE agent, and he only fired one shot. The rough count on shell casings is sixty-two."

"Sixty-two," Neville repeated, not really believing the number.

"And we found five different types of blood at the scene."

"Three bodies and five different types of blood."

"So we can assume at least five people were involved, and my guess is more than that."

"And the DGSE isn't telling us a thing."

"That's right."

Neville shook her head in disgust. "Anything else?"

Simon glanced down at the file. "There is one other slightly odd piece of information. The first two witnesses on the scene were Americans. I've already checked them out. One of them is a network TV correspondent and the other one is his cameraman. When they showed up there was a man delivering first aid to the wounded DGSE agent. He yelled at the two Americans to help and then he ran off to get help."

"And he never came back?"

"That's right."

"Was he French?"

"They think so."

"Have the Americans given us a description of the man?"

"Yes, but it's pretty generic."

Neville shrugged and said, "Could be nothing."

"Or it could be the key to everything."

"The key is to get in and talk to that DGSE agent before Fournier has him shipped off to Polynesia."

"Good luck with that."

The thought of having to butt heads with Fournier again was enough to make her decide she would assign the case to someone else. They had their hands full. She looked at Simon and said, "We need to get upstairs for the meeting with Mutz."

Simon pictured Michael Mutz, the newly appointed prefecture of police. He had a high, sloping forehead, a hook nose, and an ample body that was soft in all the wrong places. "And why would I want to go see Mutz with you?"

"Want has nothing to do with it. I'm ordering you."

Simon rose and followed her to the stairs. The top cop's office was only two floors up. Simon followed in silence, and was thinking how nice it would be to get through this meeting without having to speak. Mutz was a political creature who cared more for the pomp and circumstance of the office than the sometimes dirty nature of police work. When they reached the outer office Simon got his first hint that this wasn't going to be an easy meeting. The prefect's secretary gave them a nervous look and told them to head in. Neville was so focused she missed it.

It was a large corner office, fitting both the title and the ego of the man who occupied the space. There were four floor-to-ceiling windows, two on each of the outer walls, and twelve-foot bookcases filled with dusty tomes, antiques, and dozens of photographs of Prefect Mutz and the rich, famous, and notorious. Simon picked up on two clues the moment he walked into the office. The first was the absence of coffee and pastries. Mutz loved both and he'd never been in the office without both items being offered. The second clue was more obvious.

Not only was Prefect Mutz waiting for them, but his boss, Director General Jacques Gisquet, and his boss's boss, Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot, were waiting for them. Neville saw this as a sign that they were taking her accusations seriously. Simon saw the potential for something very different, but before he could stop his boss, she started in.

"Minister Blot, good to see you. Director Gisquet, thank you for coming. Prefect Mutz, thank you for taking the time to hear me out."

Simon didn't say a word. He watched as Neville charged in, unaware that the mood in the room was anything but welcoming. She began to present her case, explaining to her three superiors the strange behavior of Paul Fournier and his uncooperative nature. She was building toward the tampered evidence when Director General Gisquet waved her off.

"Commandant Neville, I'm afraid I'm going to have to stop you. Minister Blot received a rather serious call last night from the prime minister."

"The prime minister," Neville said, not understanding what this could have to do with Paul Fournier interfering with her investigation.

"Yes, the prime minister. He received a very serious complaint from the minister of defense that you have been harassing one of his top people."

"Harassing," Neville said in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Who?"

Blot said, "Paul Fournier."

"You can't be serious?"

"Unfortunately, I am. Fournier claims that the two of you dated briefly a number of years ago and that when he broke it off you became despondent and threatened suicide."

"Suicide," Neville repeated, her mouth agape. "I caught him cheating on me. I was the one who broke up with him, and I was happy to do it. The man is a selfish prick, but that's beside the point."

"He alleges that you have been stalking him for several years."

"I haven't seen him in five years."

Blot cleared his throat. "He has sworn testimonies from three women who claim you intimidated and harassed them because they were dating Fournier."

Neville was on the verge of losing it, but fortunately Simon asked, "May we see the file?"

All three men looked at Simon with disappointment. There was a long period of silence, and then Blot said, "I saw the file last night, but I was not allowed to take it with me. It looked genuine. Very damning."

"And why do you think you weren't given a copy?" Neville asked. "Because it's all made up. It's fake. Fournier is the very man who has been interfering in our investigation. You don't find it a little strange that the night before I'm going to bring you a formal complaint, a file magically appears that says I'm the problem?" Neville looked at each man and asked, "You don't smell anything rotten here?"

Director General Gisquet answered her question. "I don't like any of this. I don't trust Fournier, I don't believe that this file magically appeared, but there isn't a lot we can do right now."

"You can demand that he bring the file and his accusers down here right now. File a formal complaint."

Blot cleared his throat. "The DGSE would prefer to keep this under wraps. They have no desire to adversely affect your career. All they are asking is that you be reassigned from your current case and you stay away from Deputy Director Fournier."

"And why do you think they want me assigned away from the hotel massacre? I'll tell you why. Because I caught Fournier and his people tampering with evidence. I'm telling all three of you, the DGSE was involved in what happened the other night. I don't know how deeply or in what way, but they were involved."

Blot twisted his wedding ring and asked, "Were you at the Hotel Balzac yesterday afternoon?"

Neville had a bad feeling that the little confrontation had been twisted and blown out of proportion to serve Fournier's purpose. "Yes, I was there."

"Deputy Director Fournier has sworn statements from five individuals that you accosted him."

"Accosted him! I asked him why he was interfering in my investigation."

"The file says you yelled at him and made a scene. To make matters worse, he was conducting a meeting with a foreign intelligence asset."

Neville was thunderstruck. "Am I the only person who sees what's going on here? The Libyan oil minister is assassinated in our beautiful city the other night, the prostitute lying next to him is killed, two hotel guests are killed, a hotel employee is killed, and so are the minister's four bodyguards. There's only one problem. The minister was traveling without security. We can't find a single person who saw him arrive or leave the hotel with a security detail, yet these four men magically appear in the middle of the night, and with silenced weapons." Neville zeroed in on the minister of the interior. "You travel with security. When was the last time your men carried silenced weapons?"

Blot let out a heavy sigh. "These are all interesting points and I'm sure they'll be sorted out by someone, but it won't be you, Commandant Neville. We are removing you from the investigation. Prefect Mutz will be reassigning you this morning. If you handle this with grace, I can promise you that none of this will go on your record and there will be no formal investigation. Your career will continue to progress based on the merits of your work."

Neville was speechless for a long moment, and then Prefect Mutz spoke up. "Francine, this is for the best. I'll give you an extra week. Take the kids and go visit your parents. When you come back all of this will be over."

Two things were ringing in her mind. The first was that it wouldn't be over in a week and the second was that Fournier must be really nervous to pull a move like this. That knowledge gave her the strength to speak to her bosses in a way she would never have dreamed of before today. "So this is how we do things now. A sneaky little agency like the DGSE, which has no business doing anything inside the borders of this country, can pull in some favors with well-connected politicians, make some wild, completely unfounded accusations, and the mighty National Police of France surrender."

Prefect Mutz gave her a stern look. "Francine, you're out of line."

"No, she isn't," Director General Gisquet growled. "This entire thing stinks. Paul Fournier is a snake and he's playing us. I don't like it one bit . . . but . . ."

"But what?" Neville asked, hoping that there was still a chance.

Gisquet looked her in eye and said, "For the moment, we have to play this game, but I promise you, Francine, this is not going to hurt you. We need to follow through with this request because it came from some very serious people and then in a few weeks when things cool down, we will take a good look at the facts."

"In a few weeks," Neville said, her impatience showing through. "You mean after Fournier and his goons have destroyed all the evidence and eliminated any witnesses who could help us solve the case."

"I'm sorry, Francine, but it's the best we can do right now."

"I'm sorry, too." Neville looked at each of her bosses, stopping with Minister of the Interior Blot. "I'm sorry that you men don't have the balls to stand up against an agency that has no jurisdiction in Paris. Why bother with laws? I'm sure the people of Paris will appreciate the fact that their police department is afraid of an a*shole like Paul Fournier." Neville turned and started for the door. At the last second she turned and said, "Are the two of you aware that two DGSE agents were shot last night? One of them is dead. The other one is in the hospital, but Mr. Fournier will not allow the police to question him." She could tell by the startled look on their faces that this was the first they'd heard of this. "Over sixty shots were fired. In addition to the DGSE agents we have an unidentified American with a Rangers tattoo. The media are going to be all over this and I sure hope for your sake they don't find out that you were complicit in covering up whatever the hell it is that Paul Fournier is up to."

Simon couldn't follow her out the door fast enough. Halfway down the first flight of stairs he said, "Well, I'm glad I came along for that. I think it's really going to help my career. Thank you for bringing me with you."

"Sorry," Neville tried to say with some sincerity despite the anger that was flowing through her veins.

Simon followed in silence for a while and then said, "You know, they might be doing you a favor . . . if what you said up there is true."

"How so?"

"They just removed you from the front lines of a battle that looks like it's going to end badly. The press will devour anyone involved in this."

"The press?"

"Yes, the people who write for newspapers and magazines. They do news shows on this thing called television. As a group they're often referred to as the press."

Neville was so used to his smartass personality that she ignored him. "The press conference." She checked her watch. "It's supposed to start in twenty minutes."

"I think it's probably going to be canceled."

"Maybe." Neville stopped at their floor and looked down the stairwell. "I bet they're all gathered right now. Waiting for it to start."

"I'm sure Mutz is going to have it canceled, or your replacement will get up and read a brief statement."

"What about me?"

"They'll probably say you had to take a leave of absence. Your cramps are really bad this month. You know, something nice and misogynistic."

"Stop being such a smartass for a second. I think I should make a statement."

"I don't think you could come up with a worse idea."

"It's the perfect idea." Neville turned for her office. "I need to gather my stuff."

"I think you should, because they'll probably fire you and throw you out of the building."

"They can't fire me for telling the truth, Martin."

"Sure they can. People do it all the time. Especially the police."

Neville had her mind made up. She grabbed her jacket and purse and on the way out closed and locked her office door. "You can come along if you want," she told Simon, "but I won't blame you if you stay up here and hide under your desk."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world. The opportunity to see one of the brightest minds in law enforcement destroy her career in front of an entire nation. It'll be pure Schadenfreude."