The Roubaud Connection

by Estelle Ryan

  “Do you need Colin here?” He pressed the button for his floor and turned to me. “We can wait until he and Vinnie return.”

  “No. Colin’s expertise is not needed for this interview.”

  Phillip’s small smile indicated that he’d meant something else, but was nonetheless pleased with my answer. The elevator doors opened and we walked into the reception area. Tim looked up from his desk, saw Phillip’s face and got up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing we can’t handle.” It was clear that Phillip liked the young man. And that he appreciated the concern. “We are expecting a guest. Please show him to conference room two.”

  Tim’s eyes widened. “A guest. Ah. Okay. Anything else?”

  “Yes, treat him like an honoured guest.”

  “An honoured guest.” Tim looked at me, curiosity on his face. “Anything else?”

  “Yes.” Phillip waited until Tim looked at him. “Everyone will be watching the interview room from Genevieve’s place. Ask Francine to link you in as well.”

  His eyes widened in pleasure. “Thank you.”

  Phillip nodded and led me to his office. I knew it was probably nothing, but I simply had to clarify. “That building isn’t mine. It’s not my place. Colin bought it from a fund he, Vinnie and Francine set up many years ago.”

  “I know.” Phillip leaned his hip against his desk. “In my mind, the team is yours, ergo the building and the floor where your team room and viewing room are also belongs to you. Not literally, of course.”

  “They’re here, sir.” Tim leaned around the doorframe, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Who are ‘they’?” Was he referring to the GIPN team bringing in François or someone else?

  “The team brought in two men. One is a François Dumaux and the other his lawyer.”

  “His lawyer.” Phillip smiled. “This is going to be interesting.”

  Tim’s excitement intensified. “I’m going to make coffee now.”

  “Good.” Phillip looked at me. “Would you also like coffee?”

  “No.” My mind was too fragile with all the emotional strain to deal with the distraction of a cup of coffee while having to observe François’ reactions. Few neurotypicals understood the irrational sense of responsibility to finish a cup of coffee to the last drop—a sense that chose the most inopportune times to surface.

  In the three minutes we waited for Tim to deliver the coffee as well as for François and his lawyer to get comfortable, Phillip prepared himself mentally. I could see his facial muscles relaxing as he focused on his breathing. It was subtle, but it was there.

  Then he inhaled deeply and looked at me. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I’d been ready when we’d entered the reception area. He’d been the one who’d needed to prepare himself to face a person from his past. “You cared for him.”

  “I did.” Phillip pulled his shoulders back. “It was at a time when I still longed to have my own family. For a very short time I dreamed that François could be like a son to me.”

  I saw his hesitation. “How soon after he started with you did you suspect something was wrong?”

  “Nine months.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I suppose it was sooner, but I only admitted it to myself after nine months.”

  “Why keep him working for you so long then?”

  “He’d done nothing I could accuse him of. I couldn’t find any evidence that he was involved in illegal activities.”

  “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

  His smile was self-deprecating. “I was hoping he would become the man I knew he could be.”

  “That’s the same thing so many woman say about their abusive husbands.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “I never thought about it like that. Ours was by no means an abusive relationship. Not at all. Manipulative, yes. François was the person who taught me the most about manipulation and deception.”

  This was important information for me. It helped me build a better profile of the man we were about to interview. It also revealed just how much Phillip had been affected by the younger man’s betrayal of trust.

  “Here you are.” Daniel walked into the office. “How do you want to do the interview with François? Should I sit, stand, talk?”

  “Stand.” I thought about this some more. “By the door, but relaxed. When you have a better read on the situation, I trust you will know what to do then.”

  “Are you going to be doing the questioning?” he asked.

  “No.” Phillip straightened his already-straight tie. “I will. I know what buttons to push. If that’s acceptable to you, Genevieve?”

  “I’d prefer that.”

  “Then let’s do this.” Phillip led us to the conference room, his bearing confident and relaxed.

  We entered the room just as François moved to another painting. He glanced over his shoulder and stiffened when he saw Phillip. “You.”

  “Good day, François.”

  There was an immediate shift in François’ body language at the sound of Phillip’s voice. His pupils dilated, his confident posture that bordered on arrogant as well as his features softened.

  He was wearing high-quality wool trousers, a tailored shirt and designer shoes. He tugged at his sleeves in a manner similar to Phillip when he got ready to say something important.

  François waved at the paintings lining three of the four walls in the conference room. The birthmark on his hand was clearly visible. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He glanced at Daniel, then at me, some of his cunning returning. “You have all these... people working for you.”

  “We are here against my advice.” The man sitting at the table put his cup in the saucer and looked at Phillip. “I’ve advised my client not to say anything.”

  “Yes.” François’ zygomaticus major muscle pulled the left corner of his mouth into a smirk. “I’m not saying a word.”

  Phillip watched as he walked back to the table and sat down next to his lawyer. Then he pulled out two chairs and waited until I was seated before he sat down. His smile was genuine as he looked at François. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just talk and you can listen.” Phillip crossed his legs, which served to emphasise his relaxed confidence. “I’m surprised that you are condescending about these experts”—he tilted his head towards me—“when you’ve been working with low-class criminals yourself.”

  François flinched, all signs of deception gone. He looked at Phillip with raw emotion etched on his face. Longing, shame, regret and sadness warred for dominance. But it was fear that ruled his facial muscles.

  I thought back to all the materials I’d studied, all the people I’d seen interviewed. Seldom had I seen someone as expressive as François was right now. What added to my surprise was how well he had disguised his nonverbal cues when we’d spoken to him in the Robertsau forest. His history with Phillip must’ve left him vulnerable on a level much deeper than even Phillip suspected. His reaction had been pure, confirming Phillip’s statement.

  “Oh, wait.” Phillip’s tone was as if he was having a relaxed conversation. “Are you working with or working for... common criminals? Aha. For.”

  François’ increased blinking had been telling when Phillip had paused. This was most fascinating to observe.

  “You know, François, for all your sins, I can’t quite imagine that you tortured and killed those young people. Hmm. I see. You didn’t.” Phillip narrowed his eyes. “Do I see guilt though? I do. So you were the one who dumped their lifeless bodies in the forest. Ah. There’s that guilt. Hmm. So you really stooped low. Lower than I thought possible. You’re now cleaning up after brutal murderers.”

  François’ brow lowered—not in anger, but in anguish. Colour crept up his neck and he shifted in his chair.

  “Don’t say anything.” The lawyer put his hand on the table. “We should leave.”

  François shook his head like Francine did when she flicked her hair over her shoulder. “No, Adam.
We should stay. I like hearing these fairy tales.”

  I frowned. Not because of François’ obvious lie, but because of what I thought I’d seen. He looked at Phillip and there it was again. He was hoping to be caught out and arrested. The stark fear that flashed over his face had to be his motivation.

  Phillip’s calm demeanour didn’t waver. “So? Are you running a major drug distribution point from Rotterdam? Aha. Yes. And whatever happened to your passion for art? That was the one thing that was always honest about you.”

  “It’s still the only thing I care about.” François shook off the lawyer’s restraining hand on his shoulder. Phillip had touched a very deep and important point in François’ life. He had been completely truthful when he’d spoken.

  “Persian art?” Phillip smiled when François didn’t answer, but his reaction provided full confirmation. “All those beautiful artefacts. Did these drug-dealing and murdering criminals... or is it one criminal? Aha. One. Did he buy your help with artefacts?” Phillip sighed, his disappointment real. “Oh, François. You had so much potential.”

  Movement by the door caught my attention. Daniel put his phone back in his pocket and stepped closer to us. “Gilles Mahout is dead.”

  “What?” François jumped up from his chair, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. “How?”

  Daniel shrugged as if this was not important information. Or as if François’ reaction telling us that he’d known Gilles wasn’t significant. Daniel’s bored expression was convincing. “We’ve been looking for him for days. We got a lead and it must’ve happened mere minutes before we got to him. He was still bleeding out.” He shrugged again. “It happened about an hour ago.”

  “That’s it.” The lawyer also got up, this time not allowing François to shake off his hand. “We’re leaving.”

  “But...”

  “Not another word.” The lawyer lowered his voice and widened his eyes until François nodded. He turned to Daniel. “Is my client under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because you have nothing to justify an arrest.” The lawyer gave François a warning look and waited until the latter nodded. “We’re leaving.”

  “Don’t go too far.” Daniel stepped into the lawyer’s path. “Make sure your client is available for further questioning.”

  The lawyer didn’t answer Daniel, just stepped around him and led François out of the room. When they reached the hallway, François looked back, the stark fear from before again contracting his facial muscles, his eyes pleading as he stared at Phillip.

  The lawyer pulled him away, whispering furiously.

  “Well, that was unusual.” Daniel sat down.

  “Is Gilles really dead?” Phillip asked.

  “Yes.” Daniel looked at me. “I knew breaking the news to François was a risk, but I also thought we might get a lot from his reaction.”

  “We did.” I knew Francine had recorded this interview and I wanted to watch it again. This man was a fascinating study.

  “We know that he knew Gilles and he knew Gilles’ life was in danger.” Phillip leaned back in his chair. “The question is whether he worked for or with Gilles.”

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  “AND?” MANNY WAS WAITING for us when the elevator doors opened to the team room. He nodded once at Phillip, then looked back at me. “Is everything Phillip asked true?”

  “Yes.” I was tempted to expand on my answer since I found François such an interesting person to study, but Vinnie was standing by the round table, his arms crossed and his usual smile not present.

  “Come. Eat.” Vinnie waved at the table. “There’s plenty.”

  My eyes widened when I looked at the plates covering the table. “Plenty is an understatement—something you almost never... no, I can’t remember you understating anything.”

  His smile lifted his cheeks and he lowered his arms. “I might’ve gone a bit overboard.”

  “I’m not going to complain.” Phillip walked to the table and immediately put three pastries on a small plate.

  Daniel was already seated at the table. I sat down next to Colin and he kissed me on my cheek. “All well?”

  I nodded and reached for a pastry—one that didn’t make such a mess. It was only half past twelve, but my stomach reacted to the sight of the food as if I hadn’t eaten all day. I also was very grateful for the coffee Vinnie had prepared. Even though I hadn’t wanted any while talking to François, I needed the warmth as well as the caffeine.

  Vinnie sat down, but kept a wary eye on Manny. The latter was speaking to Francine at her desk. The concern on her face had not lessened. Neither had the dark rings under her eyes. I was becoming worried about her too.

  Colin’s phone rang and he lifted it off the table. And smiled. He swiped the screen. “Johan, I didn’t expect to hear from you again. Pardon? Wait, say that again.” Colin lowered his phone and put it on speaker. He motioned with his hand for us to be quiet.

  “People are dying, Isaac.” Johan’s clear English came through Colin’s phone. “You didn’t tell me Élodie was killed. And now I’m getting intel that people associated with Élodie are also being killed. Is that true?”

  Colin raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”

  Manny and Francine joined us at the table, sitting down quietly. No one was eating or drinking, everyone too interested in what the man who’d reproduced the Roubaud had to say.

  “Are you doing something to stop this? You know I only do art. I paint. I reproduce. I don’t forge and I’ve worked hard to make sure everyone knows that I’m not in the business of crime. I don’t want any connection to these murders.”

  Colin narrowed his eyes and tilted his head while listening to Johan. “What do you know?”

  I wished I could see the man’s face so I could better read the nuances of his communication. Colin had heard something in his voice or words I hadn’t noticed.

  For a few seconds there was no response. Then Johan cleared his throat. “Élodie provided me with paint. She was very specific about the paint she wanted me to use for the Roubaud. I’d told her that it was not ideal and it would affect the authenticity of the reproduction, but she wouldn’t budge.” He paused. “She also said she had a 3D-printed Pollock and loved it. But the person who did that one is no longer in the painting business. He’s now only doing statues. Then she asked me if I could do these paintings with a 3D printer if she provided me with the equipment and paint. She was talking about producing large quantities. Not as forgeries, of course. All of them would be clear reproductions.”

  “Did you agree?” Colin asked.

  “I told her I’d think about it. She never came back to me.”

  “Because she was killed.”

  “Yeah.” His laugh didn’t sound filled with humour. “My mind went crazy with conspiracy theories. I even thought she would ask me to put hidden messages in the paintings.”

  It happened so suddenly that I imagined the click in my head. That missing connection that had been lingering in the back of my mind rushed to the fore and took over. I barely heard Colin asking Johan a few more questions, but not getting any more useful answers. I wanted this inane conversation to end so I could rush to my viewing room to confirm my theory.

  The moment Colin ended his call, I pushed my chair back and ran to my room. I ignored Manny’s expletive, followed by a demand to know what I was doing.

  I sat down and opened my best graphics software programme. I uploaded the photos of the labels on the wine bottles and chose the one we’d found in Adèle’s basement. I zoomed in on the lines that formed the watermark.

  Then I zoomed in more. And more. This programme allowed me to zoom in extensively provided that the photo was of great quality. The photos were.

  I zoomed in until the lines changed shape.

  “Oh, my God!” Francine sat down in Colin’s chair and clapped her hands. “Micro-printing. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t.” I’d suspected. “There was so
mething not quite right about these lines.”

  “And when Johan talked about hidden messages, you made the connection.” Colin kissed me on the top of my head before walking to the back of the room.

  “What does it say, Doc?” Manny sat down next to me. “Iran, François and everything will have to wait for now. Let’s see if this can bloody tell us why all these people are dead and why Iran sent people here to spy on Caelan.”

  “We don’t know that.” I hated it when anyone made statements that were gross assumptions.

  “Just tell me what the hell is written there, missy.”

  I turned back to photo and tilted it until the writing was horizontal. “It’s a name.” I looked closer. “No, more than a name.”

  “A name and a place. Gerard Roux and Colmar.” Francine pointed at the monitor. “See how his name and place are repeated to form the line?”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “I need time.” Did he not see the impossibility of me knowing who this man was? I wanted to know as well.

  “Well, hurry up.”

  “I’ll help, girlfriend.” Francine took her tablet and started tapping and swiping. I was no longer amazed at the things she managed to achieve on that device. She’d upgraded it to the point where it no longer resembled the factory model.

  It took us fourteen minutes to go through all the photos and confirm there were nineteen sets of names and places. Each of the nineteen different labels had only one set—name and place—that was repeated throughout each line. I sat back and looked at the list Francine had made, putting an ID photo of some sort next to each name.

  “How many code names and places were on Adèle’s chart?” Colin’s quiet question brought an avalanche of revelations.

  I opened the folder with the photos of Adèle’s business organisational chart and looked at it with this newfound information. I gasped. “This wasn’t her business model.”

  “Then whose bloody business is this, Doc?” Manny was still sitting next to me, Daniel was with Colin at the back of my room and Vinnie in his usual place by the door. I didn’t see Phillip.