Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [78]
He opened the other files to find several dozen messages similar to the ones he’d already found in his investigation of Flavien Carvel: testimony from all the disasters that had struck the planet in the course of recent history—tsunamis, earthquakes, environmental disasters, suicide bombings, tornados, volcanic eruptions … Every message corresponded to visual imagery and was labeled with its source—last name, first name, and a telephone number or an e-mail address—followed by a sum in euros. A group of tourists in the Philippines running wildly from an incandescent cloud was 300 euros; the confession of a Hezbollah martyr child wearing an explosive belt was valued at 200 euros; while the pictures of an old man swept away by a gigantic wave in Thailand was worth 1,000. Just one paragraph had no price tag on it:
the one relating exactly how the Pentagon’s outer rings had been destroyed. Yet the alleged source of this document was listed: Fidel Hernandez. The lieutenant figured this might be the elegant guy with the Spanish accent who had been with Flavien Carvel in the Mauvoisin café shortly before his death. It took his assistant less than two hours to locate the address Hernandez had given for his cell phone bill: a hotel near the stock exchange.
“It doesn’t seem fake. I was able to check calls from his cell over the last three days; a number of them were traced to that neighborhood.”
“Thanks, Mélanie.”
Mattéo walked around the Opéra building and headed toward the old library, the Bibliothêque Nationale. The Royal Richelieu, wedged between two banks, displayed its gilded, intertwined initials under the windows of all six stories of this Haussmannian building. The police officer set his forearms on the reception desk.
“Good morning. I would like to talk to Monsieur Fidel Hernandez. I don’t have his room number …”
The receptionist looked at her reservation screen.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have anybody with that name.”
“I was told he was still here yesterday.”
She typed on her keyboard, consulted several pages of listings. “No, no Hernandez over the past few weeks … None.”
Mattéo slid his police card over the varnished wood. “I can’t explain, but it’s very important … This Hernandez may have registered here under another name. Very elegant, fairly short, round face, a slight Spanish accent …”
“That doesn’t ring a bell.”
Mattéo pointed his forefinger at his temple. “He has a birthmark right there, which he tries to hide by pulling his hair over it …”
Her face lit up with a smile.
“That’s not Monsieur Hernandez, it’s Monsieur Herrera! You have the wrong name. He’s been a guest here for a week. Room 227, third floor. Do you want me to call him?”
He stopped the hand about to pick up the phone.
“Absolutely not. Hand me the duplicate keys for his room, I’m going to give him a little surprise.”
When the lieutenant reached the floor, he drew his revolver before opening the lock. Hernandez was stretched out naked on his bed watching TV; he jumped when he heard the click. To Mattéo’s surprise, instead of trying to grab a weapon, he clapped his two hands over his penis.
When the manager opened the safe under the name Herrera in the hotel strong room, Mattéo recovered Carvel’s computer and palm pilot stolen from his temporary apartment above the offices of Tristanne Dupré. Fidel Hernandez wasn’t really named Herrera either, but Miguel Cordez. Originally from Mexico, he had been in France for about ten years, living lavishly through a series of swindles, each one more clever than the last. The development of sites like Flickr, Dailymotion, Starbucks, and YouTube, with pay-per-view amateur videos on them, had attracted his attention. Too big for him. He had then set his sights on a little upstart, NewsCoop, created a few months back by Flavien Carvel.
“I knew a lot of guys who worked in planes. As soon as there was a disaster somewhere, I’d run off to Roissy or New York to get the photos or video tapes