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“Fred thought that in a few minutes, the investigation had progressed much more than in the past few days, and that reassured him. It was time for him to go meet Seb and Francesco for an evening that would keep him, if only for a while, away from this case that was taking on quite an unusual turn.”
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The morning had an almost summery air on the Promenade des Anglais, and walkers, cyclists, and various runners were beginning to fill it up little by little. Fred was driving slowly and observing the thousand colors of the landscape, thinking that, definitely, he could not live anywhere else but here. He was now passing near Place Masséna, adorned with its large grandstands for the traditional carnival, and for the first time, Fred paid more attention to the theme of this year, and for good reason, “The Carnival of Gastronomy.” If the killer had to strike at the right time, he thought, it was probably the right year with the carnival theme, the 100th anniversary of Lycée Paul Augier, or even Agecotel.
In a few seconds, he was transported to Avenue Jean Médecin, on his uncle’s shoulders to see the floats, the big heads, but especially the impressive cavalcades with those superb stallions and the princesses riding them. Fred thought that if Seb had been there, he would have loved the image…
The arrival at the police station quickly brought him back to reality. “Hi Fred, a black coffee?” asked Céline.”Yes, thank you. Everyone in my office!” Fred replied.
“So, how did the meeting with the boss go?” Jeff asked.
“Yes, very well, we can count on their collaboration,” the inspector replied, without mentioning the presence of the surprise guest as he had pledged.
“But the trail of Madame Graglia is by far the best one, I think. And you, with the fraternity?” Fred asked.
“Meh, nothing very interesting, they were both members but their work left them very little time to participate in events. They were appreciated by everyone and frankly didn’t have any known enemies in the industry,” summarized the deputy inspector.
The morning didn’t allow them to learn much more, despite the last two reports from the forensic pathologists and the forensic police. “Gee, experts in Miami work much faster…” Céline threw the joke as she closed the last file, bringing the necessary dose of good humor to the almost too studious atmosphere.
“It’s true that with your new hairstyle, you’re looking more and more like the blonde, minus the 95D…” And the slap soon landed on Jeff’s head, which he somewhat deserved. “Ah, it’s certain that if they aren’t mixed with a Normandy milkmaid, you don’t even look at them…” Céline remarked wryly.
“Enough, you two; come on, let’s go grab a bite to eat, it’ll do us good.” Fred had stood up, waiting for the clock to strike noon.
“Hey, boss, did you win the lottery or something!” joked Jeff, narrowly avoiding a second slap. The three colleagues left the office heading towards Vieux-Nice. Dining at Acchiardo’s was like taking a break in the day, as the place was inviting and welcoming, much like its owners, from father to son… and daughters. It was a bit like eating at home. And indeed, the moment was good and, as usual, the meal was delicious.
“I’m going to stop by the Masonic temple this afternoon, and I’ll meet you at the station,” Fred declared while paying the bill.
“So, has the blue house eaten well, or should I offer you a limoncello?” quipped Virginie, who had approached the table, winking and handing the bill to Fred.
“Thanks, with what we’ve eaten, we’re set for the day and even for tomorrow if needed…” Fred replied as he grabbed the bill to settle it at the counter, as was the custom. No sooner had he arrived than “Mister” Acchiardo caught him in the common dialect of their region of origin: Piedmontese. Every time his colleagues heard Fred speak this dialect, they were always surprised because it was the only place where Fred used this skill of his.
The afternoon was going to pass quickly enough, and Fred left the office around 5 PM to wander for an hour before his meeting. It was the first time in his life that Fred was going to enter a Masonic temple, and he quite liked the idea. Another discovery, he thought as he arrived at Place Garibaldi, where his two “informants” were already waiting for him. After a short walk of a few minutes, they arrived in front of a large wooden door with a brass plaque indicating the presence of a “Private Philosophical Club.”
The electric mechanism activated, and Fred pushed the heavy door to enter a vestibule devoid of any inscriptions or annotations. The other door opened, and he was invited to enter the temple. He followed his hosts and tried to take in as much as possible: large display cases housed sorts of trophies, old documents, and ancient photographs all stamped with the square and compass, well-known symbols of Freemasonry. A large hall that could accommodate a hundred guests led to an enormous wooden counter behind which stood a beautiful bar. They took a large oak staircase that led them to an office where Fred was invited in. “Please, Mr. Ségur, take a seat.” Fred settled into a large brown leather club chair that had certainly seen many things.
“Here are the details you requested, and I would ask you not to disclose them to anyone under any circumstances. These are confidential pieces of information you wouldn’t normally have access to. I also ask that if you suspect or wish to question any of these brothers, you inform me before taking any action.” The rules were set, and Fred allowed his eyes to wander over the immense library that filled almost the entire office. Sixteen shelves in height and about a dozen meters in width, it was quite a collection of books, he thought, before snapping back to reality, noticing his host’s silence, who looked at him, almost amused.
“Of course, and I thank you immensely for your help,” Fred replied while taking the file in his hands. “I am helping you personally because I have received all the guarantees of your integrity and seriousness. Do not disappoint us, Mr. Ségur.” The phrase was heavy with meaning, and the tone could even be interpreted as threatening.
“You have my word as a man,” the inspector concluded, and the two men, after a firm handshake, descended to the bar to have a coffee and continue the conversation.
Once on the street, Fred did not feel quite in his usual state, and he tried to remember how many times he had passed by this door without knowing it was the largest temple in the Nice region. The fresh air from the motorcycle ride cleared his thoughts before arriving at the police station, which was abuzz with activity upon his arrival.
Céline ran out of the courtyard towards Fred. “I’ve been trying to call you for 5 minutes, there’s been a new murder on the hills. Are you following me on your bike?” Fred realized he had turned off his phone before entering the temple and had forgotten to turn it back on upon leaving, which was unusual for him. He put his helmet back on and followed, or rather, led the way with his colleague.
After about ten minutes, Céline parked her vehicle in front of “The Inn on the Hill” and Fred closely followed her car, asking the police officer on duty to notify him in case of obstruction.
“Ha, you’re here, come, it’s this way!” snapped Jeff.
“It’s the establishment’s day off, and it was workers coming to make repairs on the telephone network who found him like this…” Jeff pointed to the large oven in the central kitchen containing the body of Pierre Salducci, owner of the place and head chef of this Nice institution.
The chef was cooked, and it was aptly put, as his body was placed in the center of a large iron baking sheet on a bed of dough covered with a mixture of caramelized onions, anchovies, and black olives. The smell was particularly unpleasant. It had been a long time, but Fred felt a wave of nausea.
“But this is madness! He was killed in the form of a giant pissaladière! Renée Graglia is absolutely right. This case is completely insane…” Fred was really not at ease and decided to continue the conversation outside with his two deputies.
“I had the owner’s daughter who told me her father was supposed to prepare some dishes for their family reunion over the weekend and that he had an appointment with workers. It was them who found him and called us. I interviewed the two, but there’s nothing to gain, they’re clean. The oven was still on when we arrived, and the timer was set for an hour of cooking, meaning we missed it by a narrow margin,” Jeff summarized.
“Yes, or it means he’s taunting us more and more by reducing the time between his work’s completion and our intervention,” Fred replied.
“At least now there’s no doubt about the link between the three murders. But, three in five days, the pace is quite intense,” Céline worried.
“Jeff, you stay there to follow the analyses and receive the forensic police and meet us at the office as soon as you’re done. Céline, we’re going back to the office, I’ve got some calls to make,” the chief ordered, and the two headed to their respective vehicles towards the station.
Traffic was light at this hour, and it only took about a quarter of an hour to reach the police station, in front of which dozens of journalists had already gathered with cameras, microphones, and other tablets. One of them recognized Fred’s bike and approached him as he parked it in the lot.
“Inspector, another murder, can you tell us more, please.” The tone was there, but Fred wanted to get inside as quickly as possible, while the other journalists followed his path.
“I just need a few minutes, and I’ll come back to tell you more, go inside the press room, and I’ll be with you shortly.” Helmet in arm, Fred quickly climbed the six steps leading to the “office” entrance and headed directly to the chief’s office.
“Alright Chief, we have no more doubt about the motive, I think this guy, or this woman, is wiping out these chefs with a ritual directly related to Niçoise cuisine. It’s completely insane!” Vincent looked at him, stunned. “Niçoise cuisine appears to be the motive.”
“The Mayor just called me, and he wants us in his office tonight. Is that okay with you?” asked the Chief.
“No problem, but we have to answer to the dozens of journalists waiting for us in the press room because it’s starting to stir vigorously. What should we say, Vincent?”
“What are you going to tell them, it’s your investigation, and you have by far the best intuition in the squad. What do you think?” Vincent replied.
“I think we should play it straight, tell them what we know about the motive and that we’re on the trail of a suspect. It might make him make his first mistake!” the inspector retorted.
“See, I told you that you had the right intuition; I couldn’t have put it better,” Vincent jokingly acknowledged, following his inspector towards the press room.
The room was clearly too small, and about ten journalists waited outside one of the access doors. Vincent and Fred entered through the back door to emerge behind the desk already equipped with about twenty cameras and microphones. The first flashes went off as the two men took their places behind the desk.
“Gentlemen, a killer with a taste for Niçoise cuisine, are we dealing with a serial killer?” It was the BFM journalist who had been the quickest and who, in a few words, had succinctly summarized the situation. Fred allowed himself to think that he was really good at his job. The response came quickly as usual with Fred. “Indeed, the three murders are connected, and it seems that our killer uses Niçoise cuisine as the motive for his murders. We don’t know more at the moment, but we will keep you updated as our investigations progress.” The answer was also clear, and all subsequent question/answer exchanges became less significant. The ordeal lasted a good half hour, and with a full set of images, and certainly eye-catching headlines, one after the other, the journalists left the police station.
“We managed it rather well, but I can already see tomorrow’s Nice Matin headline!” Vincent sighed.
“We really needed a serial killer, for TF1 and other France Télévisions to send in the cavalry,” Fred replied, somewhat annoyed, adding, “I’ll go pick up Francesco, and we’ll meet in front of City Hall later, okay?”
“Let’s do it that way, and I’ll meet the Parisian experts who should be landing in less than an hour. I hope they don’t send us some difficult ones this time…” Vincent concluded as he returned to his office.
To be continued…
