Chapter 30
That Friday, Gérard Depardieu managed to free up some time to go over to the courthouse to see what he could find out about Milo Brunelle in the archives of the family court.
The archives were classified in chronological order, but since he didn’t know the date, he had to use the registry’s various research tools, alphabetical and chronological almanacs, and different lists.
It took him fifteen minutes to find what he was looking for.
He found out that the family court for the Brunelles had been composed of a representative of the general council, émile Trudert, someone Gérard had never heard of whose name was put forward by the council president; and two board members of a charity that worked with families, whom he did know, having dealt with them both several times: twenty-six-year-old Judith Bertrix and fifty-five-year-old Mélinda Hernandez.
Of the two, the younger was the more unyielding.
There was also Madame Lenoix, Milo’s teacher at the time he’d lost his parents, who belonged to an association of caregivers for young children, a key element of the family court.
And then there were two other women: Milo’s therapist, Justine Philippot, and Tiphaine Geniot, his godmother.
So Tiphaine Geniot was the boy’s godmother!
The boy’s godmother’s husband was hitting on his wife!
Depardieu’s knuckles were white from the pressure of his fingers gripping the file as he agitatedly made his way through it.
There was mention of Milo’s assets, which included the house at 28, rue Edmond-Petit.
Everything that had belonged to his parents was now rightfully his.
Gérard assumed that it was the godmother who had made the decision that they should move in, although the idea of living in the house where his father had hanged himself and his mother had died from a barbiturate overdose did not strike him as being in the best possible taste.
He turned the page to find confirmation that the boy’s godmother, Tiphaine Geniot, was also his legal guardian, along with her partner, Sylvain Geniot.
The report concluded with details about each of the committee members present: profession, marital status, and address.
That was when he discovered something he hadn’t even known he was looking for.
When he saw where Tiphaine Geniot had been living at the time of the events, his face froze, his body flooded with adrenaline, and he swallowed an expletive, which he eventually released, relishing the clack of the consonants.
“What the actual fucking fuck.”
Tiphaine Geniot. 26, rue Edmond-Petit.
Nora’s house.
So Tiphaine must be the neighbor whom his client had accused of murdering Ernest Wilmot, his probation officer.
And she was the person David Brunelle had been afraid might hurt Milo.
How on earth was it possible that the woman who, according to Brunelle, was the source of all his misfortunes and a danger to his family had gone on to be entrusted with bringing up his son?
Gérard lifted his head, lost in thought.
Perhaps it was time to put into practice one of the precepts that had secured him numerous victories in court: attack is the best defense.
He decided to stop vacillating and go to interview the interested parties about what exactly had taken place the night he’d dropped his client back at his house.
In other words, he decided to investigate Milo’s parents’ double suicide.
Aside from his intuition, the lawyer didn’t have anything much to go on, except for one memory that remained crystal clear even after eight years: when he had dropped David Brunelle at his house, the man had not seemed remotely suicidal.
This was what was bothering Gérard, besides of course his extreme prejudice against one of the two people implicated in the affair.
Not to mention that the Geniots had, if David Brunelle was right, gotten away with murder once already.
Never underestimate your enemy. If David Brunelle’s accusation turned out to be true, the Geniots had already slipped through the net of the justice system.
Gérard was well placed to know that conjecture does not amount to proof, and while he had more than a few theories, hard evidence was conspicuous by its absence.
His professional integrity told him to consult the police report for more details.
He was seething with impatience at the prospect of pushing this foolish dandy off his pedestal.
A fair amount of time had passed since the Brunelles’ joint suicide, and evidently the Geniots, whether they had been directly or indirectly involved in the drama, had in the meantime gotten on with their lives.
Gérard knew he could learn a lot from their reactions by marshaling his not inconsiderable interrogation skills.
He figured that exploiting the surprise effect would be key.
He looked at his watch and tried to remember what he had scheduled, firmly intending to find the time to pay a visit to the Geniots later that day. He had to strike while the iron was hot. And boy, was he ready to strike.
On the way back to the car he called his secretary and asked her to push his last meeting of the day back by an hour. She told him that would be impossible. He’d suspected as much. She began a lengthy catalog of justifications, but he cut her short.
“Tell Martel I’ll pop over to see him tonight.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“You have the children this week.”
“Damn.”
He slowed his step. “Tell Martel,” he said with a sigh, “I’m on my way.”
He ended the call as he got to his car, muttering an expletive under his breath.
He drove off in the direction of the office.
He would have preferred to collar Sylvain Geniot at work, but perhaps the option of cornering him at home wasn’t such a bad idea.
The possibility that Milo Brunelle would be there would create an additional pressure that he would be a fool not to exploit.
As he drove, Gérard tried to figure out a strategy for tackling the subject on his mind: how to introduce himself to the Geniots.
Should he act na?ve or suspicious? Should he pretend to know nothing about the ins and outs of the tragedy or, on the contrary, make them think he knew all about it?
He went through the various options, anticipating their potential reactions, elaborating theories that he thought interesting.
Eventually he decided to trust his instincts.
The meeting with Martel seemed to go on forever. It took Gérard two hours to get rid of the man. At last, he told his secretary he was off. She asked where he was going.
“It’s a private matter,” he said. Then, glancing at his watch, his tone became more courteous.
“Mélanie, would you mind fetching Nassim from school and taking him back to my place? Inès should already be on her way home. I’ll be an hour at most.”
“The thing is, well, I have plans for this evening, and I was hoping . . .”
“What time do you need to leave?”
“No later than seven.”
“I’ll be back by six thirty, six forty-five at the absolute latest.”
Mélanie knew her boss well enough to know there was no point arguing. She nodded her assent.
“Thank you so much, Mélanie. I owe you!”
She tried to hold him back with a brief rundown of various work matters to which he listened distractedly, before at last setting off for rue Edmond-Petit.
Just like the previous time, he didn’t want to take the risk of being spotted in the neighborhood: he couldn’t think of a solid excuse if Nora saw him and asked what he was doing there.
Much better to avoid an embarrassing encounter.
He parked his car in a nearby street and walked the rest of the way, crouching down as he passed Nora’s house, until he arrived at number 28.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed his finger to the bell.
Tiphaine opened the door.
“Madame Geniot?”
“Yes?”
“Is Monsieur Geniot at home?”
“What’s this about?”
“My name is Gérard Depardieu, I’m an attorney. I’d like to talk to your husband.”
Tiphaine frowned and regarded Depardieu with a penetrating expression that was both curious and skeptical. She looked at her watch.
“He’s not home yet, but he shouldn’t be long.”
“Would you mind if I came in to wait?” Depardieu asked in an ingratiating tone that irritated Tiphaine. She took a moment to reply, clearly not very keen to let him in.
“First you can tell me what this is all about. How do I know you’re really an attorney?”
Gérard gave a broad smile that indicated the obviousness of her request, giving Tiphaine the unpleasant feeling that this was exactly what he had wanted her to ask.
She had no need to beg: he drew his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and, as he showed Tiphaine the card that indicated he was a member of the French bar, remarked in a tone that was coolly polite, “Eight years ago I was appointed to represent a certain”—he pretended to search for the name in the file folder he was clutching under his arm—“Monsieur David Brunelle while he was in police custody. He committed suicide not long afterward. As Monsieur Geniot and you are now the legal guardians of my former client’s son, Milo Brunelle, I have a few questions for you. ”
Tiphaine felt the ground opening beneath her feet, engulfing her in a vast wave of panic.