Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

“Good job for being put on the spot, Mademoiselle.” He winked, smiling. A nice smile. “I felt it necessary to go along but forgive me. I mean, for not rising to your defense. You see, we’re part of the consortium insuring this firm and so . . . You handled yourself quite well. Impressive.”

“So my firm passed?”

He nodded.

“We like to establish a relationship of confidence with our clients,” she said, relief flooding her.

“Exactly.” He said, “I’ve already apologized to Verlet, didn’t want him to have an attack of apoplexy in view of his crise de foie and high blood pressure.”

Crise de foie . Why did every Frenchman connect bad health to a mysterious ailment of the liver?

“I’m curious as to why the minister attended this meeting,” she said. She was aware of the rumors that Olf, a state-owned firm, had dealt in backdoor diplomacy since de Gaulle’s era. But she wanted to hear his explanation.

“Why, it’s common practice for the minister to keep informed about investments in unsettled countries. Here, if you need to contact me,” he said, handing her an oversized vellum card engraved with the name Julien de Lussigny.

She handed him hers. “I thought you said you were with the insurance consortium. . . .”

“But I am,” he said. “There are a few things for us to discuss.

Why don’t we have lunch?”

“With pleasure,” she said.

Eager to seal the deal, she tried to ignore the pangs of wariness she felt.

“Say tomorrow?” With people like this one had to smile and nod a lot.

“ Bon , I’ll call you to confirm the restaurant tomorrow,” he said.

De Lussigny was distinguished and a tad conservative for her but power oozed from him. His footsteps clicked on the marble floor as he joined the others from the conference room who were spilling into the corridor. By the time they reached the reception area, she’d slipped back into the room and was scanning the PetroVietnam charts. There were lots of arrows on the graph, all pointing upward, indicating profit, staggering profit, in the Gulf of Tonkin. Blue, black, and green triangles indicated British, Chinese, and French drilling areas. Her wariness increased.

“Here you are,” said the nice receptionist who had entered the room silently. “Monsieur Verlet’s engaged now but he asked me to tell you that he’ll sign the addendum and we’ll messenger it over with a check.”

Aimée turned away to hide her relief and the warm flush that now suffused her cheeks. She couldn’t wait to tell René.

Wednesday

RENÉ CHOKED ON THE oily rags filling his mouth. Ropes cut into his tightly bound legs and arms. He could barely move.

If only he’d paid more attenion—not walked into a trap!

His head throbbed from the blows they had inflicted on him. He was in darkness. He could just make out a beeping sound, or was it a muffled honking? But it continued . . . a car alarm? He tried to kick his legs, fighting the terror that flooded him as he lay on a hard surface, trussed like a pheasant. Dull rhythmic flapping echoed near his ear, like the tread of tire on asphalt.

Was he in the trunk of a car? He might be. How long had he been like this?

He worked the tight cord, trying to loosen it, but it only cut harder into his skin. His phone bulged in his jacket pocket, but he couldn’t reach it, or talk if he could.

Make a plan, René. Wasn’t that what Aimée would say? First things first, he must loosen his bonds and work his hands free. If this were a car trunk wouldn’t there be back taillights or a tirejack? Something sharp that might stick out.

And then he remembered his dead phone battery.

But his phone had beeped. He had a message. Was there some life still left in it? He had to reach his phone.

He wiggled his arms, found metal, and rubbed his hands back and forth. Nothing. Where were the rear taillights? Then his wrists struck a sharp edge. A small gleam of red behind it, the rear brakelights. He moved his wrists back and forth, sawing at the cord. Time after time, he missed, and sliced his skin. When he’d freed his hands, he’d try the phone. When the car stopped he’d be ready to spring out and drop kick his assailants.

Why hadn’t he seen the attack coming? All those years of training in martial arts, even a black belt! But hearing Aimée had been hurt, he’d panicked.

Was she? Were the captors taking him to her? Or was that just a ruse?

He’d never let her know. But considering his situation, this was a moot point. His legs hadn’t hurt so much since the doctor had broken, then reset them when he was six. They’d been so severely bowed he could hardly walk. Only after a year in casts with a bar between them to straighten the bones had he walked again.

His neck stung from where his carotid artery had been pinched until he passed out. With all the jerks and starts, he figured they were still in Paris traffic, not all that far from the city center.

He tried to ignore the sharp pain and keep sawing away. The rope finally loosened and gave way. With bloody hands he reached for the rope around his legs, tied in a double knot. Now the phone! He pulled it out of his pocket, sticky and mute. He punched the numbers. Nothing.

And then the car stopped. Panic gripped him. Footsteps crunched on gravel. His hands . . . what should he do with his hands?

Don’t freeze. Yell , he told himself. But he hadn’t yet worked the tape off his mouth.

The trunk opened. Dim light and the sway of branches overhead in the wind. Dark figures huddled; he couldn’t see their faces.

“Don’t his kind work in carnivals?” asked someone with a gravelly voice. “Freak shows? With two hundred kilo women and two-headed snakes.”

A blanket whipped over him, smothering him, blocking out the light. Arms gripped and carried him, bumping him over the back of the trunk.

“Over here,” a voice said.

A blow struck his jaw and he moaned.

“Quick!” Cold air and footsteps echoing on stone. Down, they were going down. A cellar . . . a basement? He was thrown down on something hard. Pain shot up his hip socket. The blanket was removed and a bag slipped over his head. Rough, with the texture of burlap.

“He’s been a quick worker,” the gravel voice said. “Tape those hands.”

“Water every four hours,” said a higher pitched voice. “Let him pee. Here’s his phone. Anyone got a battery charger?”

René shivered as hands taped up his bloody wrists.

“Does this cord fit?”

“ Bon ,” the voice said with a chuckle. “We’ll wait and use his own phone for the phone call. Have fun.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” the gravel-voice said.

Wednesday Early Evening

THE RINGING OF THE phone woke Aimée. She must have nodded off at her desk at Leduc Detective while finishing the stats. On the green computer screen her eyes focused on the bright cursor blinking by her face. Familiar and reassuring. She’d promised herself never to take her eyesight for granted again but of course she had, more and more, as she recovered and tried to forget.

“Oui . . . allô?”

“We’ll give you forty-eight hours ,” said a hoarse voice.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. Yellow rays from rue de Louvre’s streetlights slanted across her legs. The old station clock above her desk read 6 P.M.

“What? Who’s this?”

“Then we start sending you the dwarf. In little pieces.”

She froze.

René.

“What do you want?”

“Thadée’s backpack.”

Aimée stared at the flickering cursor, trying to think fast. They hadn’t mentioned jade. Did they know what was inside?

“Who are you?” She glanced at René’s untouched desk. “How do I know you have my partner?”