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

my God, you’re not even joking, are you? Did you really mount this entire ambush just because you don’t have the guts to admit your life choices to your family? Jesus! You don’t need a gynecologist, you need a psychiatrist.”

I take this on the chin, and then, after a few minutes of silence, I come back down to earth. He’s right, of course. I am a coward. And what was I expecting? Did I think he’d enjoy taking part in my role-playing game? Suddenly I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. It is both my strength and my weakness, acting on instinct rather than reason. It was thanks to this personality trait that I solved several difficult cases, enabling me to join the Criminal Division at only thirty-four. But sometimes my intuition fails me and I crash and burn. The idea of introducing this guy to my family now seems inappropriate and absurd.

Red-faced with shame, I surrender. “You’re right. I…I’m sorry. I’ll make a U-turn and take you back home.”

“You should stop at the next gas station. You’re almost empty.”

I fill up the tank. My hands are clammy and the gas fumes are making my head spin. When I return to my car, Paul Malaury is no longer in the passenger seat. I look up and see him through the window of the restaurant, beckoning me over.

“I got you a tea,” he says when I go inside, gesturing to the seat next to him.

“Ah, bad choice! I only drink coffee.”

“That would have been too easy.” He smiles, stands up, and heads back to the vending machine.

Something about this guy unsettles me—he’s unflappable, almost British in the way he maintains his composure in all circumstances.

He returns two minutes later and places a cup of coffee and a croissant in front of me.

“It’s not exactly Pierre Hermé, but it’s not as bad as it looks,” he says to defuse the tension. As if to back up his words, he bites into his own croissant and discreetly stifles a yawn. “I can’t believe you dragged me out of bed at seven a.m.! On the one day when I can sleep in!”

“I told you, I’m going to take you home. There’ll still be time for you to go back to bed with your sweetheart.”

He sips his tea and says, “I have to admit that I don’t really understand you. Why would you want to spend Christmas with people who obviously make you unhappy?”

“Drop it, Malaury. As you said, you’re not a shrink.”

“And what does your father think of all this?”

I sweep the question away. “My father died a long time ago.”

“Will you stop bullshitting me?” he exclaims, handing me his cell phone.

I look at the screen, knowing in advance what I will find. While I was putting gas in the car, Malaury Googled me. Unsurprisingly, his search led him to a news item, a few months old, detailing my father’s fall from grace.

Ex-Supercop Alain Schafer

Sentenced to Two Years in Prison

Three years ago, news of his arrest exploded like a bombshell within the Lille police department. On September 2, 2007, Chief of Police Alain Schafer was arrested at his home before dawn by Internal Affairs officers investigating his practices and acquaintances.

After an investigation lasting several months, the IA exposed a large-scale system of corruption and embezzlement set up by this high-ranking judicial police officer.

An old-style cop, respected—even admired—by his peers, Alain Schafer admitted while in custody to having “crossed the line” by staying on friendly terms with several well-known criminals. Thus began a downward spiral that led, in particular, to the misappropriation of cocaine and marijuana to pay informants before the drugs were sealed as evidence.

Yesterday, the criminal court in Lille found the former cop guilty of “passive corruption,” “association with criminals,” “drug trafficking,” and “breaches of professional confidentiality.”

My eyes tear up and I look away from the screen. I know my father’s crimes by heart. “So you’re just a lousy snooper.”

“Ha—that’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

“My dad’s in prison. So what?”

“Maybe you should go and see him at Christmas?”

“Mind your own business!”

He does not give up. “May I ask where he’s incarcerated?”

“What the hell is that to you?”

“In Lille?”

“No, in Luynes, near Aix-en-Provence. Where his third wife lives.”

“Why don’t you visit him?”

I sigh and then raise my voice: “Because I don’t speak to him anymore. He was the one who inspired me to choose this job. He was my role model, the only person I trusted, and he betrayed that trust. He lied to everyone. I’ll never forgive him.”

“He didn’t kill anyone.”

“You can’t understand.” Angrily, I jump to my feet, determined to escape from this trap I’ve caught myself in. He holds me back by my arm.

“Would you like me to go with you?”

“Listen, Paul, you’re a nice guy—you’re very polite and clearly a disciple of the Dalai Lama—but we don’t know each other. I messed up your morning, and I’ve apologized for that. But if I ever feel like seeing my father again, I think I’ll do it without you, okay?”

“Whatever you want. Still, Christmas does seem like the perfect time, don’t you think?”

“You’re getting on my nerves. This isn’t a Disney movie!”

He gives a thin smile.

Against my better judgment, I find myself saying to him: “And even if I did want to, I couldn’t. You can’t just turn up to visit a prisoner like that. You need authorization, you need—”

He interjects: “You’re a cop. You could sort that out over the phone.”

I decide to call his bluff.

“Aix-en-Provence is seven hours away. With the snow that’s supposed to fall on Paris this evening, we wouldn’t be able to come back.”

“Let’s do it!” he says. “I’ll drive.”

A fire roars in my chest. Unsettled by this turn of events, I hesitate for a few seconds. I want to yield to this crazy idea, but I am not sure of my real motives. Am I excited by the thought of seeing my father again or by the chance to spend time with this stranger