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

favors. People who know people who know people. You know how it works.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“I have snitches who are taxi drivers. One of them had Erik Vaughn in his cab near Porte de Saint-Cloud on the evening you were attacked. He left his phone when he realized he’d been identified.”

I feel as if my heart is about to explode. My father continues.

“The taxi took him to Seine-Saint-Denis, in Aulnay-sous-Bois, to a crappy hotel near Place du Général-Leclerc.”

He takes the folder from me and pulls a few photographs from it, the kind of pictures cops take when they are on a stakeout.

“While everyone thought he’d gone overseas, this piece of shit was hiding less than twenty minutes from Paris. He stayed there for five days under an assumed name using a fake ID. He didn’t go out much, but he needed a fake passport. On the fifth day, around eleven p.m., he came outside. He was alone. He stayed close to the walls, head down. That was when I got him.”

“Just like that, in the street?”

“That place is deserted at night. I hit him twice with a crowbar on his head and neck. He was already dead when I loaded him in the trunk of my Range Rover.”

I try to swallow, but my throat is too tight. I grip the metal security bar at the edge of my bed. “What did you do with the body?”

“I drove most of the night toward Lorraine. I’d spotted the perfect place to dump this monster, an abandoned sugar factory between Sarrebourg and Sarreguemines.”

He hands me other pictures. The place looks like something from a horror movie: a series of derelict buildings hidden behind chain-link fences out in the middle of nowhere. Boarded-up windows. Redbrick chimneys that look like they’re about to collapse. Huge metal crates half buried in the ground. Busted conveyor belts. Carts on rails overgrown with weeds. Rusted old backhoes.

He points to one of the pictures. “Behind the storage area, there are three stone wells, built side by side, that lead down to an underground tank. Vaughn’s corpse is rotting in the middle one. No one will ever find him there.” He shows me the last photo—the edge of a well covered by a heavy metal grate.

“This vengeance is ours,” my father says, hugging me. “The case will fade away now, partly because there won’t be any more murders. And anyway, Vaughn has family in Ireland and the States, so everyone will think he’s gone overseas or that he’s committed suicide.”

I hold his gaze, unblinking. I am paralyzed, unable to say a single word, filled with violent and contradictory feelings.

After the first wave of relief comes a sort of blind rage. I ball my fists, digging my nails into the flesh of my hands. My whole body contracts. Tears rush to my eyes and I feel my cheeks go hot.

Why did my father deprive me of this vengeance? Of my vengeance?

After the death of my husband and my baby, finding and killing Erik Vaughn was the only reason I had to stay alive.

Now I have nothing at all.

Part ThreeBlood and Fury

16Tracking the Killer

THE MILES RUSHED past.

Lost in his thoughts, chain-smoking, Gabriel drove with his eyes fixed on the road.

A road sign announced NEXT EXIT HARTFORD, then immediately afterward, there was another: BOSTON 105 MILES. At this speed, they would be at the FBI office in less than two hours.

Leaning her forehead against the window, Alice tried to put her thoughts in some kind of order. In light of recent revelations, she categorized her information, rearranging evidence and facts in imaginary folders in her brain.

One thing bothered her—what Seymour had said about the security camera footage. The camera picked up your license plate, but the inside of the car is too dark to see.

If only she could see those images herself…

Always this need to control everything.

To check every detail.

But how could she? Call Seymour back? Pointless. I went over to Franklin-Roosevelt and looked at their tapes, but you can’t see much, he’d said. Seymour had watched the video, but he didn’t have it with him. That was logical. Without a warrant, he wouldn’t have been able to seize the tapes. He had gone to the parking garage and had to negotiate with the security guy just to watch them.

In her head, she went through her contacts list. Then she picked up her phone and typed in the number for Captain Maréchal, the regional transportation police chief.

“Hi, Franck, it’s Schafer.”

“Alice? Where are you? My phone says you’re calling from an international number.”

“I’m in New York.”

“For work?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay, I get it. Working your own personal investigation, as usual. You’ll never change!”

“Actually, that’s true. And it’s also why I’m calling you.”

“Alice, it’s after ten at night! I’m at home. What do you want?”

“Security-camera footage. The Vinci parking garage on Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt. I’m trying to find out everything I can about a silver Audi TT—”

“Well, let me stop you there. It’s a private garage!”

After a silence, he spoke again: “What do you want me to do?”

“Do what you do best. You know people at Vinci—negotiate with them, threaten them, persuade them. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“I’m not—”

“Remember how I arrested your kid when I was working for the drug squad? You were pretty happy that he didn’t go to jail, weren’t you? Want me to remind you how much shit he had on him?”

“God, Schafer, that was nearly ten years ago! I’m not going to owe you for the rest of my life, am I?”

“Of course you are. That’s the rule. So, are you ready to write down the license number?”

Maréchal sighed with resignation.

Alice gave him the information, then said, “As soon as you have the images, send them to my personal e-mail address, okay? And be quick; I need them tonight.”

Alice hung up, satisfied, and then, in response to Gabriel’s raised eyebrows, summarized the conversation. The FBI agent wanted another cigarette, but his pack was empty.

“Still no word from