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

know, I’m afraid—that’s the point. Maybe an item of clothing? Or a piece of jewelry? Her purse?”

“What does this have to do with the murder?”

“Maybe nothing, but we have to pursue every line of investigation. So this doesn’t ring any bells for you—something she may have lost?”

He pauses to think for a moment, and then: “Actually, there was—”

He breaks off midsentence; I sense that his voice is tight with emotion. He starts again.

“It was one of the reasons we argued the last time she left our son with me. I was annoyed with her because she’d lost Gaspard’s favorite teddy bear; he couldn’t sleep without it. Virginie said she’d lost it in Parc Monceau. She was talking about the lost-and-found office there, but…”

Lost-and-found office…

My heart speeds up in my chest. A burst of pure adrenaline.

“Wait a minute, Monsieur André, I want to make sure I’ve fully understood. Had Virginie gone to the lost-and-found office herself or was she planning to go?”

“She told me she’d already been and that she’d filled out a form so they would let her know if the bear was found.”

I can’t believe my ears. “All right, thank you. I’ll call you back if I have any news.”

I remove the electrodes, stand up, and hurriedly get dressed. “I’m sorry, Rose-May, but I have to go.”

“No! This is ridiculous, Madame Schafer. In your state, you should—”

But I am already through the door. I am already in the elevator. I get out my phone to call a taxi. I shuffle my feet impatiently in the lobby while I wait for it to arrive.

This is my investigation.

My pride rises again. I think of all those cops in the Criminal Division who have gone through the victims’ diaries with a fine-tooth comb and yet may have missed something vital.

Something I have just found.

 

36 Rue des Morillons, fifteenth arrondissement, just behind Parc Georges-Brassens

The taxi drops me off at the door of the lost-and-found office, housed in a handsome 1920s building in pink brick and white stone. Although the department is part of the Paris police prefecture, there are no cops in this office, and I have never set foot here before.

I show my badge at the reception desk and ask to see the manager. While I wait, I glance around me. Behind the counters, a dozen employees apathetically deal with people turning in objects they’ve found or those who have lost something or come to pick something up.

“Stéphane Dalmasso, pleased to meet you.”

I look up. A bushy mustache, hanging jowls, little round glasses with colored plastic frames—the boss of the lost-and-found office has a pleasant face and a strong Marseille accent.

“Alice Schafer, Criminal Division.”

“Welcome. Are you due soon?” he asks, looking at my belly.

“Six weeks, maybe less.”

“A child, huh? Your life is about to change forever!” he says, inviting me into his office.

I enter a spacious room laid out like a little museum, an exhibition of the oddest objects ever handed in to the department: a Legion of Honor medal, a wooden leg, a human skull, a shard of metal from the World Trade Center, an urn containing the ashes of a cat, a yakuza sword, even a wedding dress.

“A taxi driver brought it here a few years ago,” he explains, pointing to the dress. “He was driving a couple who had just gotten married. They had a fight and broke up during the trip.”

“It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here…”

“Yes, but most of what we receive are wallets, glasses, keys, phones, and umbrellas.”

“Impressive,” I say, glancing at my watch.

“I have an endless store of anecdotes, but I imagine you’re in a hurry,” he says, gesturing for me to sit down. “So, to what do I owe this visit?”

“I’m working a murder case. I would like to know if a certain Virginie André came here recently.”

“In connection with what?”

“To ask if you’d found her son’s teddy bear, which he lost in Parc Monceau.”

Sitting on a wheeled office chair, Dalmasso rolls toward his desk and touches his computer keyboard. The machine hums in response.

“Virginie André, you said?” he asks, curling his mustache.

I nod. He types the name into his computer.

“No, sorry, there hasn’t been any request made under that name in the past few months.”

“She might have reported a missing object online or by phone.”

“It would have shown up if she had. All requests are automatically registered in our database. The forms our employees fill out are all electronic.”

“That’s strange—her husband told me she’d reported it missing with your office. Could you check three other names for me, please?”

I write the names on the spiral-bound notebook lying on the desk and turn it around so he can read what I’ve written.

Dalmasso deciphers my handwriting and enters the three names, one by one: Clara Maturin, Nathalie Roussel, Maud Morel.

“No, nothing for any of those.”

I feel so disappointed. It takes me a few seconds to accept my mistake.

“Oh, well, never mind. Thanks for your help.”

As I stand up, I feel a tingling sensation in my belly and put my hand to it. The baby is still moving a lot. He pushes so hard sometimes, it’s as if he’s trying to stretch my skin. At least I’m not having contractions.

“Are you all right?” Dalmasso asks. “Should I call you a taxi?”

“That would be great,” I say, sitting down again.

“Claudette!” he shouts to his secretary. “Please call a cab for Mademoiselle Schafer.”

Two minutes later, a small woman with a severe, irritable face and badly dyed red hair enters the office, carrying a steaming cup. “The taxi will be here very soon,” she assures me. “Would you like some sweet tea?”

I accept the drink and gradually start to feel better. Although I have no idea why, the little woman continues to give me a disapproving look. Out of nowhere, the question suddenly crosses my mind.

“Monsieur Dalmasso, I forgot to ask you: Do any of your employees own a three-wheel scooter?”

“Not that I’m aware of. That’s more a guy thing, isn’t it? And, as you can see, most of our