I continued reading. Angélique Guibal, a journalist with the Nouvel Observateur, had managed to gain access to the police file. Although her article was primarily focused on the destruction of the Sean Lorenz painting, she mentioned the other break-ins in Aurelia Park. From what she had been able to discover, Francis Biancardini was still alive when his attackers left the villa; he had dragged himself to the window and tried to scrawl a name in blood on the glass. As though he had known his assailants.

The story made my blood run cold. I had been fond of Francis long before he helped us dispose of the body of Alexis Clément. He had always been kind to me. I felt sick at the thought of the horrors he endured in his dying moments.

I looked up from the dossier. “What was stolen in the break-in at your father’s villa?”

“Just one thing, his collection of watches. Though according to the insurance, they were worth upward of three hundred thousand euros.”

I remembered Francis’s obsession with wristwatches, in particular his passion for Patek Philippe. He owned a dozen different models that were the pride of his collection. When I was a teenager, he loved to show them to me and tell me about them, and I inherited something of his passion. I still remembered the 1930s Calatrava, the Grand Complications, and the 1970s Nautilus designed by the legendary Gérald Genta.

A question had been nagging at me since the morning.

“How long had your father been living in Aurelia Park? I always assumed he still lived next door.”

Maxime looked a little embarrassed.

“He had been shuttling between the two for years, even before my mother died. Aurelia Park was his project. He was one of the primary investors in the development early on, and he earmarked one of the most beautiful villas for himself. To be honest, I never wanted to set foot in the fucking place. Even after his death, I let the caretaker clear it out. It was a sort of bachelor pad where he took mistresses or call girls. I even heard he organized orgies there.”

Francis had had a reputation as a womanizer. I knew he openly bragged about his conquests, though I didn’t remember any names. Despite this—and despite myself—I still liked the man. He seemed to me a tortured, neurotic character. I had always felt there was something exaggerated and histrionic about his racist tirades and his macho, antifeminist rants. They seemed completely at odds with his behavior. Most of his laborers hailed from North Africa, and they worshipped him. He was an old-fashioned boss, a little paternalistic, maybe, but they knew they could count on him. As for his attitude toward the female sex, it was my mother who once pointed out that most of the senior figures in his company were in fact women.