by Seeley James
We skipped commenting on the irony with a thoughtful—and awkward—glance at each other.
“Why weren’t you at the Gottleib funeral?”
“Does that bother you?” He grinned and sipped his tequila slowly, never taking his bloodshot eyes off me. “Those boys were Koven’s, followed him all over the world. I never knew them that well. Besides, I was in the hospital. Anemia.”
I polished off the first taco and resisted licking my fingers. “What do you think of Daryl Koven?”
He leaned back and let his smile light up his face. “Ah. Now we get to why she sent you. She thinks Koven did it.”
“She’ll let the gendarmes point fingers. Do you feel the need to watch your back?”
“Usurpers lurk behind every curtain, don’t they? I have people who watch my back for me.” He hacked up another laugh. “Maybe you should watch yours.”
I finished the last bite while he sipped his drink. I wiped my mouth, dropped my napkin on the plate, and pushed out of the booth.
“I’m not as smart as you, Senator, but I have some valuable advice.” Standing in front of him, I pulled Jago’s empty 1911, weighed it in my hand, then tossed it on the table. “Don’t let amateurs watch your back.”
CHAPTER 12
From the walkway above the courtyard, Pia watched a hawk screeching to scare pigeons from their roosts in the château’s towers. The bird formed a black silhouette sailing against a ceiling of dark clouds.
Sometimes she felt like the hawk. Circling around others, never in the conversation, too tall or too rich or too accomplished for people at ground level to warm up to. Sometimes that distance worked to her advantage, and other times kept her out of the fun. People saw her as intimidating, almost scary when she simply stood still. In college she’d see a circle of girls talking about a party, they’d look up at her with furtive glances and scatter like field mice from the hawk.
Owning a company made her more distant than ever. They were afraid of her in a strange new way. They thought her capable of firing them for the slightest gaffe even though the Major handled all personnel matters. Jacob was different. She would fire him from time to time just for fun. And there was Tania. The first time they met, Tania called her a “rich bitch”. She found the honesty refreshing. Those were her two strongest relationships in many years. The only two who didn’t see her as a hawk, circling before diving in for the kill.
She wanted justice for Duncan and the unfortunate Velox guards but couldn’t think of how to employ her intimidating nature to her advantage. Koven spun his story and everyone believed him. If the police were as naïve, she’d have to do that one terrible thing she never wanted to do: ask her father for advice.
Below her, at ground level, the castle walls echoed with the subdued voices of policemen trying to calm her impatient father. Outside the walls, the rattle of reporters and gawkers echoed through the woods as they pried information from the officers who’d held a tight perimeter since dawn.
She drew in the sterile, frozen air and went back inside. Carlos fell in behind her, quiet as a château mouse.
Rip Blackson stood with Brent Zola at the far end of the Great Hall, the chairs and tables having been pushed to one side. A circle of French police held the center space. Kasey Earl, the last Velox agent onsite, leaned against an oak beam, his eyes barely open.
Pia and her agents stood near a stone hallway that led to a cramped kitchen.
Deeper in the dark passageway, Daryl and Marthe held each other in a tight embrace like teenagers.
Pia studied Carlos. The man’s eyes never stopped moving. They sized up each policeman in turn, then the Kovens, followed by the windows and doors and gloomier nooks. He repeated his visual rounds, always suspicious, always vigilant, as if he’d spent his life expecting death at any moment from any corner.
She knew that feeling. She also grew up under a constant threat, but she had an advantage Carlos could never have afforded: Sabel Security. Alan created it to make her feel safe after her parents’ murders.
Two new men came in the main door. They stamped their feet, shook off their coats, and surveyed the room. The cadre of police in the center of the room straightened up and faced them. Marthe Koven nearly ran to the thin one. She spoke a flurry of French that escaped Pia’s limited knowledge. The man nodded gravely without speaking, then looked over her head at the other officials. Marthe took him by the hand and led him there, bouncing on her toes. Then she waved her husband out of the dark shoals.
Pia watched Koven, a shadowy form in the murky corridor. He patted the pockets of his overcoat, pulled a fistful of something out, and dropped whatever it was on a serving table. Moving into the light, he met his wife and reached for her hand.
She introduced him to the Capitaine of the Gendarmerie in Metz.
The thin man nodded and turned away. With an abrupt statement and a wave of his hand, everyone scattered. The Capitaine crossed to Rip Blackson, pulled up a chair, and spoke to both Blackson and Zola in English.
Pia slipped back a few steps and wandered with a bored gait toward the serving table. On it she saw three devices. One was a keychain with three buttons and a red light. The other two were rubber cylinders the diameter of her little finger.
Using only the tip of her fingernail, she tapped one of the keychain buttons. Its red light blinked and a corresponding light on one of the cylinders blinked. The cylinder swelled to the size of a golf ball, then deflated. She knew right away what they were for and how they’d been used. She pressed the buttons again and took a video of the resulting actions.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Marthe Koven asked.
Pia turned to her. “I found the most curious device. I think your husband used—”
“You have no right to take pictures here! For god’s sake, this is not some reality TV show for spoiled rich girls. There’s been a murder. I demand you delete all those pictures this minute.”
Without looking at her phone, Pia clicked an app.
She closed the short distance between them, using her height to intimidate her hostess. “Why delete them? The Capitaine might find them interesting.”
Marthe stomped a foot and spun away. She strode straight to the Capitaine and spoke to him.
He held up a finger to stop her, excused Blackson and Zola, and sent them to have their statements taken by separate detectives. He waved over Daryl and allowed Marthe to speak.
Marthe’s voice was too low to hear, but her finger pointed at Pia. The Capitaine’s disdainful gaze fell on her. He motioned for her to join them.
Pia took her time.
The Capitaine said, “Our investigation is not for you to interfere. You have taken photographs. Now you are to delete them.”
Pia showed him her camera roll, selected the offending pictures, and deleted them. “Satisfied?”
Marthe rose to her full height and crossed her arms.
Pia paused a moment, looking at the Capitaine’s aquiline nose and chin. She studied the same features on Marthe. “Such a strong resemblance. Are you related?”
“Enough of your impudence,” Marthe said.
“Daughter of my cousin,” Capitaine said at the same time.
Pia bowed and returned to her agents, where she remained in an unblinking staring contest with Marthe the whole time the Kovens spoke to the Capitaine.
When he handed them off to detectives for formal statements, he summoned Pia and Tania.
After a few pleasantries and general questions in fair English, he asked, “You heard gunfire and yet you enter the room?”
“Four years in the military police,” Tania said. “I’m fully qualified to handle active shooter situations.”
He nodded. “Mssr. Koven is not qualified, yet he subdued his attackers without your help.”
“Wait, you believe his crap?” Tania nearly shouted.
“His story is consistent with the evidence. Do you have reasons to contradict his version of events?”
Pia grabbed her shoulder and pressed her back.
“Capitaine,” Pia said, “I don’t have your ballistics expertise. Could you tell me, if you are standing, and your adversary is standing, and you shoot him in the head, where would you expect to find the blood splatter?”
“If you are near a wall, on the wall. In the center of a round room, it may not spray far. There are involved many variables.”
“Would you expect to find the blood on a chair, directly beneath the victim?”
“The victim is Tom Duncan.”
“Would the bullet continue through the skull, more or less on its original trajectory?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mind if I ask the questions?”
He finished his interrogation and sent them to the detectives for formal statements.
While giving hers, Pia noticed three attractive blondes, one in front of a video camera, interviewing Daryl Koven under an explosion of bright light. Marthe sat next to him, holding his hand. She heard him say, “They were deranged on drugs, shooting at me.”
Near the door, Blackson and Zola bowed their heads together in a conspiratorial shadow.
When Pia finished giving her statement, she approached the duo.
They broke their conversation mid-syllable.
“Mr. Blackson,” she said, “I’m leaving shortly. Do you need a ride back to London?”
The two men glanced at each other. Blackson shook his head. “I should stay and help here. We’ve cancelled the symposium and have to make arrangements for the guests.”
“Please extend my condolences to your boss.” She nodded at the interview. “He seems to be occupied with the most important aspects of Mr. Duncan’s murder.”
They watched Koven under the lights for a moment with what she surmised was either bewilderment or regret. Reading people in grief is difficult under any circumstance and she left her opinion of them open for the time being.
A glance at her buzzing phone told her Jacob was calling. She excused herself and took the call.
“Whooee, Hyde can drink,” Jacob said. “A guy that drunk couldn’t have made the Gottleib shot. That one was through the heart in the dark, tough to make in daylight if you’re sober.”
He reported on his day at DHK. “He might not be drunk all the time though. I think Hellman and Hyde were having a quickie in his office if the lipstick is any indicator.”
“At their age?” Pia asked. “Never mind, love is ageless.”
Pia updated him on what she’d seen and they clicked off.
As soon as the police released them, Pia led her group to the parking lot and climbed in the limousine. Tania rode with the driver, Carlos sat on the jump seat facing Alan and Pia.
They drove in silence into the sunless cold.
The limo swayed down the hill and through the village of Manderen before Alan spoke. “I can’t believe Tom’s gone.”
“How rough is the lobbying business?” Pia asked.
“Heated debates and vicious emails, but until now it remained non-violent.” He rubbed his chin. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Marthe Koven,” Pia said.
Alan gave her a sharp look of disapproval. “Why would she do it at her husband’s symposium? This was his moment to shine.”
“I don’t have that part figured out. But I know what happened in that tower.”
“I heard your disagreement with the police. I’m sure you have theories.” He held up a hand to stop her outburst before she began. “But think this through. There is no statute of limitations on murder. Take your time to check your facts. Let the killer weave his web of lies before you reveal the truth.”
“What’s my next step, then?”
“Learn more about their motivation.” Alan thought for a moment. “Koven brought me three deals a while back. One of them was the Oman deal. One was a Saudi and the other was in Dresden, Lars Müller. Maybe he could shed some light on the firm’s inner workings.”
And there it was, advice from Dad—and it hadn’t even hurt to ask. Maybe the big guy did know a few things. She allowed herself a smile.
Carlos looked at his phone. “A reporter for the Post is trying to reach you on Skype.”
Pia nodded, reached out, and took his phone.
On the small screen, Emily Lunger’s face was red. “How could you do this to me? I thought we were friends?”
“Of course we’re friends—”
“The Three Blondes are breaking a murder story—and you don’t call me?” Emily huffed. “Hummingbird Online, FNC, and the Chronicle are live-streaming from a castle in France. Are you telling me you don’t know anything about a murder? ’Cause they’re implying you did it.”
Pia took a deep breath and brought up Fuchs News Channel’s streaming site on her phone. A former Miss America, her forty-something face plastered with enough makeup to hide the smallest of wrinkles, prattled on about the bucolic region. A headline scroll at the bottom read, “…no suspects in custody. Two Velox Deployment Services employees dead, a Washington attorney murdered at a French château…”
Holding a phone in each hand, Pia turned up the volume on the news. The reporter said, “Repeating the headline story, Daryl Koven, partner in the venerable Washington law firm, Duncan, Hyde and Koven, shot and killed two drug-crazed security guards after they killed his senior partner, Tom Duncan. A spokesman for the Gendarmes lauded Mr. Koven’s courage in this horrific incident as ‘beyond exceptional’. Sabel Security owner, Pia Sabel, a competitor to the dead security men, arrived on the scene shortly before the discovery of Mr. Duncan’s murder. She fled abruptly after a heated argument with local police. She refused to make a statement. Our exclusive interview with the brave Daryl Koven will begin right after these important messages.”
Pia closed the link and watched the branches of trees clawing at the low hanging clouds outside her window.
Emily tapped her screen. “Hello. Earth to Pia. If you have breaking news, I can fix it.”
She looked at the reporter and blinked.
“Well?” Emily said. “Did you kill him?”
CHAPTER 13
Koven inhaled the clear, frozen country air and admired the blue skies opening above the château’s curtain wall. The late afternoon sun delivered weak rays to his upturned face. It was all coming together. The Three Blondes had come through as promised; Tweets and Facebook memes hailed his heroism. A morning talk show scheduled an interview. The police inquiry had concluded for the day. His destiny lay within his grasp. He smiled, descended the steps, crossed the courtyard, and entered the Great Hall.
Marthe’s voice floated in from the kitchen, instructing the staff on some detail or another.
Blackson and Zola huddled at a table. Their pale faces hung on slumped shoulders. A tired, defeated posture sure to introduce depression to his triumph.
Zola glanced up at him for a split second. What was in that look, disrespect? Did Zola know something? The boy had been talking to Pia Sabel before she left. Had she planted some ridiculous ideas in his impressionable mind? And was he now relaying those doubts to Blackson? He would have to keep them busy, off balance.
“Have all the arrangements been made?” His voice boomed across the room. “Are all the guests satisfied with their schedules? Do they understand the symposium will reconvene in two weeks?”
The young men muttered a response.
“What’s that?” Koven asked as he strode toward them, stopping a few yards away. “Speak up.”
“Sorry sir,” Zola said. “Mr. Benning’s wife is wigging out. His corporate jet went on to Dubai and won’t return for two days. Warren Buffer wanted—”
“Did you call FlexJets or XOJets to get the Bennings home?”
Blackson and Zola stared at each other.
“Well?” Koven demanded.
Blackson rose and smoothed his rumpled suit. “To be honest, sir, we were taking a moment to reflect on Mr. Dunca
n’s life and career.”
Koven studied their red eyes and haggard faces. Neither man would look at him. “Seven billion people in this world and only a handful ever heard the man’s name. The rest of them expect their lights to go on when they flip the switch. They don’t expect us to sit on our butts, crying about the dead when there’s work to be done. Your careers won’t be marked by how you grieved over the loss of some old man long past his prime. You’ll be judged by how hard you worked under the most difficult of circumstances. Now is not the time to wring your hands. Now is the time to prove our clients can rely on us.”
Blackson turned his wide eyes to Zola. They said nothing.
Koven came closer. “I don’t understand. What happened to those swaggering young men who blew through Tulane, drinking and carousing every night? Where are the boisterous boys who bragged and pushed each other from Basrah to Baghdad?”
Zola rubbed his face. “With all due respect, sir, one of those swaggering young men was shredded two days ago. Instead of hanging with his family we were here, working. And now Duncan. The strain is … we’re trashed. I don’t expect—”
“That reminds me,” Koven stepped toe-to-toe with Blackson. “What were you doing in London?”
Blackson looked away. “Following up on some business between Mr. Sabel and Mr. Duncan, sir.”
“What,” Koven paused, “business was it?”
“A few details about their meetings.”
“I’ll be handling those meetings going forward. Fill me in.”
“Um.” Blackson flushed. “Mr. Duncan thought the Sabels, being in the security business, might know who killed David or why.”
“And did they?”
“Ms. Sabel is not easy to work with.”
“Did you fail to find out what they know?” Koven asked.
“They were preoccupied by some legislation that could hurt Sabel Security, sir.”
“Who told them about the Mercenary Restrictions Act?”