C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series) (4 page)

Then the French policeman said, “It would be better for both of us, I think, if we spoke in English. I am Inspector Gilliard.” Knowing the American custom, he extended his hand for a handshake. Like many Frenchmen, the inspector had been raised to think of Americans as arrogant, vulgar and uneducated. However, experience as a police inspector gave him the opportunity to meet a wide variety of people. He had learned not to be too quick to judge a person and found that doing so often dulls one’s perceptions. “No offense to your French. You speak it well
—
for an American.”

Raja shook his hand and said, “I learned from a Haitian girl in my youth. Granted, it is certainly not Parisian French.”

“Perhaps language is not all you learned from her, no?” said the inspector, hoping to throw Raja off balance.

“What about the shopkeeper?” asked Raja, ignoring the innuendo.

The two eyed each other like fighters circling in the ring.

“As I said,” continued Gilliard, “no one seems to know what the shopkeeper had in the safe. The two other employees who worked there and also might have known are both dead. Whatever it was, it must have been valuable enough to kill three people over.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Raja was not going to assume anything.

“They are dead, are they not?”

“Provided your coroner is competent, I would have to agree. That they are dead appears to be all that you know.”

Seeing that Raja would not be easily deflected, Gilliard changed tactics. “I can give you all the reports on the antique shop murders, if that would help.”

“I would appreciate that, Inspector. As you know, I am most interested in recovering Professor Browning’s wife—preferably unharmed. And I will do everything I can to assist you. What I would like to understand is why a simple shopkeeper was tortured to obtain what would have to be a meager amount in his safe.”

The inspector was running short on patience. “You are here only as a courtesy to the British ambassador. If you intend to insult our police work, I’m sure he will understand my cutting your visit short.”

“I don’t think he will. One of his citizens who was in police custody is now missing, possibly dead, and the French police refuse to cooperate. No, he will certainly not understand.
Comprenez vous?
”

Now the inspector turned an ugly shade of red, but somehow he held his tongue. He did not like being baited, but the Director-general himself had ordered him to cooperate with the American.

Seeing no disagreement with his statement, Raja continued. “I’m more interested in the woman who was observed at the scene where your three officers were shot. It was Margaret Browning, was it not?”

The inspector had the look of a cornered animal. Raja would not have been surprised had Gilliard leaped at him and bitten his throat.

Instead, Gilliard sighed and said, “Yes, I believe it was.”

Raja only nodded, waiting for more. He made a mental note to have Vinny look into the inspector.

“The whole sequence of events has me puzzled,” said Gilliard, shaking his head. It was an obvious attempt at obfuscation.

“Then you can imagine how puzzled Professor Browning must be. And distraught.”

“We are looking into a number of things, including the professor. I did not see the point in upsetting him any further.”

“Or alerting him. You are considering him a suspect, are you not?” Raja knew the compulsion police everywhere had for investigating the victim of the crime.

Gilliard had other reasons for trying to keep the details under wraps, but said, “We are looking into the professor’s background and his reasons for coming to France.”

“And?”

“We have found nothing suspicious,” said Gilliard.

“Then it seems we are on the same page.”

“Look, Monsieur Williams, we have three dead police officers and a missing British citizen. As you can imagine, there is a great deal of pressure to find the killer. We can overlook no one.”

“I would like to see the autopsy and ballistics reports.”

“I’m afraid that is information I cannot release at this time.”

“Can not or will not?”

“The terrorist division of the Gendarmerie has taken control of the investigation and has locked down the reports until they complete their review. There is nothing more I can give you.”

Raja wasn’t going to get anything more. “You have already helped more than you know,” he said. Then he promptly turned and left the room.

Once Raja was gone, the inspector dialed his phone. “Yes. His name is Raja Williams. He is pushing hard on the woman’s case ... No, he’s going to be trouble. Make sure you keep her out of sight.” He ended the call.

Raja knew it wasn’t unusual for the police to stonewall his intrusion into their turf. They were very territorial. As a private investigator, it came with the job. Besides, no one likes a johnny-come-lately outsider marching in the front door and making trouble. He would have to find another way in. Once he was outside the police station he called Vinny.

“Did the inspector appreciate your helping him with his investigation?” asked Vinny, always the optimist.

“Like a kick to the groin. I had to threaten an international incident to get any information. All in all, it went better than I expected.”

“Always the master of gentle persuasion,” said Vinny, knowing Raja’s penchant for the boots first, storm trooper approach.

“He’s hiding something, but I don’t know what—yet. You find out anything?”

“The shopkeeper’s funeral is on Sunday. So far I’ve found no witnesses to the antique shop shooting. I’m not sure where we go with that one.”

“We go to the funeral. Margaret Browning’s disappearance has to be connected. Besides, funerals are always a good place to meet people. What about the cop shootings?”

“The reports are not accessible anywhere online. The Paris police need a serious tech upgrade. I had to download some ancient programs just to access their main system. Did you get any hard copy forensics reports from the inspector?”

“Not a chance. They are deliberately keeping that data under wraps.”

“CYA?” asked Vinny.

“That’s what I’m thinking, but I don’t know who’s covering for whom. I’m coming back to the flat. We are going to need to gather more intel before we make our next move. Keep digging.”

Raja got into his Porsche and drove off, never noticing the blue Peugeot sedan that pulled out and followed, staying several cars back.

Chapter Four: Nightmare

At first everything was dark. Not the darkness of a pleasant moonlit night, but the heavy, palpable black that paints a nightmare. And yet, Margaret knew she was awake. She could feel the cords that bound her bite painfully into her wrists when she struggled to free her hands. The hard edges of the seat back dug into the inside of her arms. She shook her head and felt nothing covering her eyes. Why couldn’t she see? Panic choked her, and she struggled in vain, only tightening the cords and hurting herself more. When the impulse to scream rose up in her throat, she clamped it down quickly, fearing what response her cries might bring. She had no idea where she was or who had taken her. Or why. She tried to recall what had happened, but the oppressive blackness pressed in from all sides, preventing her from focusing her thoughts.

A concentrated mental effort brought one picture into her mind
—
an image of a man
—
Phillip. Yes, her husband Phillip. Her beloved Phillip. She said a short prayer. Where was Phillip? Another wave of panic crashed over Margaret and she sank back into unconsciousness.

Chapter Five: Life is a Cabaret

At the Paris flat Raja poured himself a glass of The Macallan, his favorite single malt scotch, from a heavy crystal decanter. He sat back on the black leather sofa to consider what they knew about the case, hoping to figure out more before the shopkeeper’s funeral in three days. “I find it strange that there were no witnesses near the antique shop at the time of the murders or Margaret Browning’s disappearance. Broad daylight on a fairly busy street. That makes no sense.”

Vinny plopped down next to him, grabbing his glass. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose and handed it back to him. “Perhaps something has silenced them,” she said.

“Or someone. Who owns the antique shop?”

Vinny bounced up and walked over to the large glass screen of the new computer setup that Raja had put in for her use. She waved her hand and a picture opened on the screen. “The shop is listed under the name Corinne Reneau. She is the younger sister of Claude Reneau.”

“The shopkeeper who was tortured and shot?”

“Yes. She dances at the Cabaret d’Artois in the eighth district.”

“It seems odd for a dancer to own an antique business. What exactly is this Cabaret d’Artois?”

“It’s a club with shows, bands and topless dancers.”

“Topless? You mean a strip club?”

“Down, boy. Not by the American definition. In Paris the line is blurry between legitimate dance and strip entertainment.”

“Well, if I see boobs I’m thinking strip club.”

“Men and breasts.” Vinny shook her head. “You know, other than feeding babies, they are udderly useless.”

“I beg to differ. Don’t spoil that for me.”

“Dude, I wouldn’t get too excited. No poles, no lap dances. It’s more like a show in Las Vegas.”

“I bet there is prostitution.”

“Most likely. It is still a legal profession in Paris.”

“Sounds like we should investigate further.”

“Why did I know you would say that.”

“Vive la France.”

The drive to the eighth district took them through the red light area of Paris. Although prostitution was legal, there were limits. You didn’t often see the streetwalkers you find in most American cities. Pimping was a crime, as was solicitation. The girls of Paris worked indoors as courtesans for the most part, getting their clients in clubs or hotels. It was a French cross between out of sight, out of mind and don’t ask, don’t tell.

Raja drove past the club and parked around the corner. He had decided to keep Vinny undercover in Paris, partly because of the possibility of police involvement, and partly because of the throbbing in his head that grew as they worked this case. He still hadn’t gotten over nearly losing her to that psychopath Fernando in Los Angeles during their last case.

The Cabaret d’Artois stood on a small street away from the main arteries of the city. A large neon sign jutted out high above the entrance to the three-story brick building. A fire-engine-red canopy was decorated with black silhouettes depicting women in various poses. Although more artful, it reminded Raja of the chrome mudflap girls seen on the back of big-rig trucks in America.

Despite being early afternoon, music pulsed from inside the club. Vinny went in first. Raja waited one minute and followed along a narrow red-lit walkway that sloped downward to a basement floor. The floor flattened out at the bottom and opened into a spacious hall with thirty-foot ceilings. Black metal catwalks crisscrossed above them, holding banks of spotlights for the show.

On the ground, a large black and white checkered dance area with a wide curved stage at the far end dominated the hall. Many small circular chrome tables for customers encircled the dance floor. Second floor balconies looked down from three sides of the hall, providing private seating with a view of the stage and the floor below. The balconies were divided into twenty-foot sections, each section separated from the next by small round platforms that hung between the balconies. Each had room for a single, spotlighted dancer. Raja noted the wide expanse of blacked-out glass on the second floor above the stage which he figured to be a one-way mirror behind which management could inconspicuously survey the club. The cabaret reminded Raja of the retro dance club in Miami where Vinny had once dragged him for one of her dance-a-thons. That girl loved to dance.

Right now the place was empty, with only a few girls practicing dance moves on the stage, and a smattering of customers drinking at the tables, attended by one waitress in a skimpy form-fitting black and white French maid outfit. Canned dance music thumped through the sound system.

A small group of men sitting in a booth at the rear of the club were involved in a serious conversation. The one doing most of the talking was a burly man in his thirties who had a bold tattoo of a nasty three-pronged blade tipped in blood running up the side of his neck. Two other men in business suits listened intently. The last in the group was a small bald man with round wire-rimmed glasses who was busy making notes in a ledger while the others talked.

Raja drifted over to the bar unnoticed, leaving Vinny to do her magic. And magic it was. Although Vinny was probably attractive enough to headline for Victoria’s Secret, most of the time you would never know it to look at her. She wore little makeup, and usually dressed like a tomboy; her baseball cap was a constant companion. She much preferred computer screens to camera flashbulbs. However, when it was needed, she could strut her stuff with the best of them. Today she had come prepared. She took off her jacket, slung it over her shoulder, and brushed back her strawberry-blond hair. She had already knotted her shirt above her waist revealing her toned abdomen. Tight jeans and high heels finished the look. By the time she sashayed halfway across the dance floor most heads were turning, and she had the undivided attention of two men who had been standing in the wings, but now moved toward her.

“
Bonjour, Mademoiselle
,” said the first one to reach her side. “My name is Luc. You are a dancer, yes?”

Vinny laughed and flirted overtly, and told him that while she had done some dancing, she was only looking for a waitress job.

The second man, Marcelo, arrived and spoke to Luc. Then Marcelo told Vinny to wait while he went to talk to the manager. He walked to the booth in the back. Raja watched how Marcelo waited and did not interrupt until the man with the tattoo had finished speaking and looked up. He was the boss. He listened as Marcelo explained, then looked toward Vinny and waved her to approach. Luc walked her to the back table. The tattooed man looked her up and down twice and smiled widely.