C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series) (2 page)

“
Monsieur, s’il vous plaît
,” said the officer, pointing to a long wooden bench across from his desk.

The professor had no intention of sitting down. “Is anyone going to help me find my wife?” he said loudly.

“Professor Browning,” said a new voice from behind him. Intimate knowledge of how upset a man could be over losing his wife tempered Inspector Gilliard’s voice. “I will help you. Please come with me.”

Professor Browning whirled toward the voice, eyes wild and desperate. Seeing kindness and calm in the inspector’s eyes gave him hope. “Yes, yes, whatever you need,” he said, and obediently followed Gilliard down a hallway and into another office.

After sitting in the plain wooden chair in front of the inspector’s desk, Professor Browning took a deep breath and asked, “What have you found out? Where is my Margaret?”

Inspector Gilliard paused, knowing he must choose his words carefully. “We do have witnesses who confirm her whereabouts on Rue des Écoles at the time you spoke with her.” Gilliard did not want to give any details of the brutal triple murder inside the very antique shop where Margaret Browning was shopping. “We have not yet located her, but I’m confident we will. We did find her cell phone.” He placed a black smart phone on the desk.

Phillip Browning recognized the phone. Margaret kept it with her at all times. It was a running joke between the two of them that she would leave him before she would leave that phone. His heart pounded in his chest. “Witnesses? To what?”

“There is no need to panic. We are investigating every possibility. It is standard police procedure.”

“You haven’t seen panic. I may be merely an academic with no sense of your police work, but I’m an intelligent man, Inspector. And I know you are keeping something from me. This is my wife we are talking about, please.”

“There has been a murder in the vicinity. Not your wife,” the inspector quickly added. “There is likely no connection at all.”

“Oh, dear God,” said the professor.

The inspector had the same sentiment. He did not mention that a witness had seen a woman fitting Margaret Browning’s description getting into a police van near the scene. Or that the van had been found several blocks away, along with three dead policemen and no sign of the woman. The Director-general was already raining fire on the police department to find the killer. He couldn’t let the professor find out the connection.

“Do you know of any reason your wife would be in trouble?”

“No, of course not.”

“Has she been to Paris before?”

“No.”

“How were the two of you getting along?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I am looking for a reason for her disappearance. Sometimes with a spouse the cause is, how shall I say it, closer to home.”

“I assure you that our marital relationship had nothing to do with her disappearance. Moreover, it is none of your business. I demand you do something to find my wife. Otherwise, I shall be forced to go to the British Embassy.”

The inspector’s attempt to sidetrack the professor had blown up in his face. He said stiffly, “I have a half dozen men tracking down every lead. We will find her. Let us do our job. You should go to your hotel in the event that she shows up there.” Gilliard called the front desk and arranged for a car to take the professor home. When an officer came to escort the professor, Gilliard said, “I will personally contact you as soon as we know anything. I have your cell number.”

Once outside, Professor Browning refused to go to back to the hotel. “Take me to the British Embassy or I march right back inside.”

The officer decided bringing the professor back into the station would be worse for his career. Ten minutes later he dropped the professor at the front gate to the embassy.

Using the intercom, the professor gained entry into the embassy compound by briefly explaining his predicament. The main hall of the building was decorated with intricate gold leaf that was at least one hundred fifty years old and the walls displayed portraits of English kings going back even further. On another day he might have felt compelled to study them more closely. Today he barely noticed.

A pleasant young woman hustled out to meet him. “Professor Browning, I presume,” she said, offering her hand. “Please, follow me. The deputy ambassador is eager to see you.”

The expressed urgency gave the professor hope. He followed the woman into an office no less ornate than the hall. The queen looked down from the wall behind a small man seated at a desk that seemed too large for his petite stature.

“Deputy Ambassador, this is Professor Phillip Browning,” said the woman. “Professor—the Deputy Ambassador, Reginald Hamm.” As the men shook hands, the woman left the room, closing the heavy carved wooden door behind her.

“Please be seated. I have received word from the police that you think your wife has been the victim of foul play.”

“Not think. I know.” Browning told his story to the ambassador who listened intently.

The ambassador nodded frequently until the professor paused for a breath. “I have been assured that the local police are searching city wide for her as we speak,” said the ambassador, continuing to nod. “I’m sure she will turn up soon.”

The professor knew patronizing when he heard it. “Look
—
Deputy Ambassador, is it? The police are hiding something from me. They mentioned a murder. I want you to force them to cooperate. I demand it,” he said, raising his voice to a volume he was not comfortable using.

“I can understand your frustration. But you must keep in mind it has only been a few hours. There is a matter of police protocol. I will check into the investigation.” The ambassador kept nodding, like one of those bobble-head dolls. “I will stay in close contact with the inspector who is handling the case. Otherwise, there is nothing I can do. My driver can take you to your hotel.”

Just like that Professor Browning found himself walking back down the hallway to the front of the building. Only hours ago he had been passionately engaged in his research while his wife Margaret enjoyed Paris. Now she was missing, maybe dead and being referred to as “the case.” Staggered by the realization no one was going to help him, he steadied himself against the wall beneath a portrait of Prince Charles. He remembered a news story about a man who, after being refused insurance, went berserk and shot up the company offices. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t own a gun.

The pleasant woman greeted him in the entry hall and walked him to the door. Just outside, she grabbed his arm gently. “Here. Call this number. My brother met him at Oxford. He can help.” She slipped a card into his jacket pocket. “I’m so sorry. I hope your wife turns up safe.”

Before he could say anything she turned and went back inside.

The diplomatic car pulled up in front of the steps. “Sir, where are you staying?” said the driver as he opened the rear door.

“The Hotel Regina.”

“Very good, sir.”

The rage had passed, and the professor sank into the car’s soft leather seat, finally giving in to the hopelessness he had been resisting. He idly fingered the business card in his side pocket. What could this one man, a stranger at that, do for his Margaret? He let the card go. He would have to do something himself.

When the driver drove off after dropping him in front of his hotel, Professor Browning lingered near the door, waiting for the car to disappear from sight. Then he asked the doorman to hail a taxi.

“Rue des Écoles—
Les Antiquités D’or
shop,
s’il vous plaît
,” said Browning, as he climbed into the vehicle.

“Yes, sir,” said the cabby, recognizing the professor’s English accent. When the taxi drove past the antique shop there were two policemen posted outside. Barricades and crime scene tape blocked the sidewalk on both sides.

“Pull over here,” said Browning, once they had passed by the shop. He handed the driver too many euros and scanned the crime scene. The driver folded the money and quickly drove away. A closer approach revealed a yellow evidence marker on the ground outside the window of the shop. Browning recalled the moment when he lost contact with his wife, and imagined the phone landing where the marker now stood. “Unrelated murder,” he said out loud, but under his breath. That is what the inspector had said. He was lying. When one of the policemen guarding the shop took notice of him, the professor turned and walked away from the scene. He stopped half a block away and sat down at a small outside cafe. Realizing he had no plan and no clue what to do next, he pulled the business card from his pocket.

The card featured an embossed gold crown over a falcon holding a sword in the upper left corner. The name Raja Williams was printed across the middle of the card. Beneath was a phone number. As a scholar of literature, the professor couldn’t help noting that the font was 14 point Baskerville Bold. He had no idea who this
Raja Williams
was, but he needed help. He pulled out his phone and punched in the number.

Chapter Two: Prayer for an Angel

For a long month after the Randall Hope case in Los Angeles had ended, Raja stayed close to his home on the north end of Clearwater Beach in the Tampa Bay area of Florida. The fallout from that case was still raining down, including the resignation of the California governor, and a number of congressional investigations into fraud and misuse of government monies. It was a long month because his beloved Tampa Bay Rays were in a slump, dropping from first to last in the American League East. Raja dutifully attended the home games, yelling encouragement from his box seats behind the home dugout. However, lately he could barely stand to see the hangdog faces on the players as they trudged back from home plate after what were all too frequent strikeouts.

Raja loved the underdog status his Rays held due to being in the small-market town. As a private detective, he appreciated the challenges someone small could face in a world of mega-corporations and heavily armed governments. For that reason he spent his time and fortune leveling the playing field for those who needed a hand.

Raja was walking out of Tropicana Field after a satisfying come-from-behind win over the Yankees when Gloria called.

“Well?” she asked.

“A rally in the ninth gave us a win in a squeaker,” said Raja.

“Irie, irie, bwoy. Glad to hear dat. Maybe you not so happy after I tell you about da call you got today.” Gloria was the one person who sat between Raja and the requests that came in for his help. Although starting out as a housekeeper and house sitter of sorts that Raja needed because he was a bachelor who traveled frequently, Gloria had become a trusted confidante and adviser. As word of Raja’s role as an investigator in the fiasco last month involving the governor of California spread, the volume of calls coming in made it necessary for Raja to use Gloria as a filter. She was a Jamaican woman who reminded him of his childhood roots in the Caribbean and kept him grounded.

“I promise I won’t hold it against you, Gloria.”

“Don’t be foolish, bwoy. I just be warning you. A man called from overseas. Says he can’t find ’is wife.”

“Did you ask him the obvious question?”

“Why he still looking? Don’t be no smart ass, bwoy. He sounds real bad. I think you should talk wit ’im. Real bad.” If there was one thing Gloria could sense, it was true human suffering. There was a legend among the Jamaican people about their first ancestor Loka, an angel who had the task of painting the heavens. When the gods had criticized his work, he cast himself down to earth in a fit of suffering and self pity. Although the gods refused to bring him back to heaven, they gave him the gift of empathy so that he could better understand his own fate and also help others. Legend or not, Gloria had the gift. No one could fake being troubled. She always knew.

Raja trusted her judgment and asked for the phone number.

“Yes, Mr. Williams. I do so appreciate your returning my call.”

“Call me Raja. And you?”

“I beg your pardon. The dire circumstances have apparently compromised my manners. My name is Browning. Dr. Phillip Browning. I have a desperate situation that needs resolving. I was given your name and number. Excuse my presumption, but I was told you could help.”

“It has been known to happen. Where are you and what exactly is the situation?”

“I am in Paris, France working with the museum here on
—
well, that isn’t important. My wife Margaret has been here with me on holiday and she has disappeared. There must have been witnesses, but the local police claim to know nothing. Apparently there was a murder nearby no one wants to talk about. I am getting no cooperation despite going to the British Embassy here in Paris. I’m afraid I had nearly given up when a kind woman at the embassy gave me your card. She said that one of her relatives knew of you from Oxford University. You attended?”

“Yes.”

“I teach at King’s College London.”

“About your wife. Was there any reason for you to expect trouble?”

“No, no. Nothing.”

“Perhaps your work. What do you do?”

“It is rather unlikely to be my work. You see, I am a professor with a PhD in literature. I came to Paris to study a newly discovered text from the nineteenth century. I’m afraid it isn’t very interesting to anyone outside of a small group of highly specialized academics, and certainly without any controversy I am aware of that would endanger either myself or my wife. I brought Margaret along for a holiday. She went out shopping for antiques. Then she was gone. Please, Mr. Williams, I need your help. I am far from being a wealthy man, but I assure you, I will arrange to pay you whatever is required. On my honor.”

Raja already knew he was going to help Dr. Browning. The back of his head had been buzzing long before he called the professor. He had an ability for reading people and an internal sense for trouble that served him well in his chosen profession. However, it came with a price. The bigger the trouble, the more his head would ache. Right now there was a full percussion section pounding in the back of his skull. He would be taking this case. “Payment won’t be necessary,” said Raja. “You can cover some expenses if you would like, and provided I can help you, you will agree to return that help at some future time should I call on your services. Is that agreeable?”