Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

“You’re right, I’m not a doctor. I’m a cop and I’m swamped right now. So don’t waste my time with an examination that’ll take forever!”

“That is precisely what I’m going to do,” he says, handing me a urinalysis cup. “And I am also going to order a cytobacteriological test to be done at the lab.”

“God, stop being so stubborn and just give me the antibiotics! I need to get out of here!”

“Please be reasonable and stop acting like a drug addict! There is more to life than antibiotics.”

I feel suddenly weary and stupid. Another shooting pain tears through my groin. The fatigue that has built up since I joined the Criminal Division rises in me like lava in a volcano. Too many sleepless nights, too much violence and horror, too many ghosts that won’t leave me alone.

I’m at the end of my rope, exhausted. I need sun, a hot bath, a haircut, a more feminine wardrobe, and a two-week vacation a long way from Paris. A long way from me.

I look at this guy—elegant, mannered, serene. His handsome face is relaxed; his smile is gentle and charming. I am exasperated by his improbably blond and curly hair. Even the little lines around his eyes are gorgeous. And I feel ugly and dull. Some ridiculous harpy telling him about my bladder problems.

“Are you drinking enough water?” he asks. “Half of cystitis cases can be treated just by drinking two quarts of water a day.”

I am no longer listening. This is my strength: I am never discouraged for very long. Images flash up in my mind. The corpse of that woman at the crime scene this morning, Clara Maturin, strangled with a nylon stocking. Her eyes were rolled back, her face frozen in terror. I can’t afford to waste time. Can’t afford to let myself get distracted. I have to catch the murderer before he kills again.

“What about phytotherapy?” the handsome doctor asks me. “Plants can be very useful, you know, especially cranberries.”

With a quick, sudden movement, I go behind his desk and pull off a prescription sheet from his pad.

“You’re right, I am going to write the prescription myself!”

He is so stunned that he doesn’t even try to stop me.

I turn on my heel and leave the room, slamming the door behind me.

Paris, tenth arrondissement

One month later

December 24, 2010

7:00 a.m.

The Audi speeds through the night and comes out onto Place du Colonel Fabien. The lights of the city are reflected in the imposing glass-and-concrete structure of the Communist Party headquarters. It is freezing cold. I turn the heating up full blast and enter the traffic circle before driving onto Rue Louis-Blanc. I switch on the radio as I’m crossing the Saint-Martin canal.

France Info—it is seven o’clock. Today’s news is brought to you by Bernard Thomasson.

Good morning, Florence; good morning, everyone. It looks as if we may well be in for a white Christmas, but no one will be celebrating. The bad weather is, once again, set to dominate today’s news. Météo France has just announced an orange alert, indicating the strong possibility of a major snowstorm due to reach Paris in the late morning. The snow is likely to cause serious traffic disruptions on Île-de-France…

Stupid goddamn holidays! Stupid goddamn family obligations! Thank God Christmas comes only once a year. For me, though, even that is too much.

Paris has not yet been hit by the storm, but the respite won’t last long. I take advantage of the light traffic to roar past the Gare de l’Est, get on Boulevard Magenta, and cross the tenth arrondissement from north to south with my foot to the floor.

I hate my mother, I hate my sister, I hate my brother. And I hate these annual family reunions that always end up a disaster. Bérénice, my little sister, lives in London, where she runs an art gallery on New Bond Street. Fabrice, the middle child, works in finance in Singapore. Every year, with their spouses and children, they spend two days in my mother’s villa near Bordeaux to celebrate Christmas before flying off to exotic, sun-filled destinations: the Maldives, Mauritius, the Caribbean.

The traffic information service strongly recommends that drivers avoid using their cars in Paris and in the regions to the west, a warning that would seem difficult to obey on Christmas Eve. The Paris prefecture is also warning that the snow might give way to black ice by early evening, when temperatures will fall below zero.

Rue Réaumur, then Rue Beaubourg. I drive west through the Marais and emerge in the Place de l’Hôtel-de-Ville; the building seems to sag under the weight of its Christmas lights. From a distance, the outline of the two huge towers and the spire of Notre-Dame are visible against the night sky.

Every year, during these two days at my mother’s house, we go through more or less the same farce. My mother goes into raptures about my siblings’ successful careers, the choices they have made in their lives. She swoons over their kids, praising their schools and their fantastic grades. The conversation that follows is always the same: immigration, financial gloom, the terrible state of the country.

For her, for them, I do not exist. I’m not one of them. I am just an overgrown tomboy, without elegance or distinction. A lowly government employee. I am my father’s daughter.

The travel chaos threatens to extend to certain Métro and RER commuter-rail train lines. And the same problems will affect air traffic. The Paris airports have warned of multiple delays and cancellations, with thousands of passengers stranded.

The heavy snowfall should, however, spare the Rhône Valley as well as the Mediterranean region. In Bordeaux, Toulouse, and Marseille, temperatures will be between fifteen and eighteen degrees Celsius, while in Nice and Antibes, lucky residents will be able to eat lunch outside, with temperatures rising into the low twenties.

Sick of being judged by those jerks. Sick of their endless predictable remarks: “Still no boyfriend?” “Doesn’t look like you’ll be having children anytime soon.” “Why do