“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, b
ut 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?”
“Yes. You have my word, and my deepest gratitude.”
“We shall see. I will make arrangements to be in Paris by tomorrow. I can reach you at this number?”
“Yes. Should I arrange to pick you up at the airport?”
“No need. I will see you day after tomorrow. I’ll call you once I’m on the ground in France. Meanwhile, stay in your hotel in case Margaret contacts you there.”
“I’m getting quite tired of hearing that, but I will do as you say.”
Raja called Gloria to make preparations for his trip to France. That included notifying Mickey, his pilot. Mickey O’Toole had been flying food and medicine to the needy in Africa when Raja first met him. Now he worked full-time for Raja flying his custom Hawker 1000 wherever a case required. When Mickey wasn’t taking Raja somewhere he ran paid charter flights on the side and maintained the jet.
“Gloria, can you find out where Mickey is? I’m going to need him.”
“Already spoke to ’im, bwoy. He just got back from a charter to British Columbia. He will have the plane serviced and fueled for a flight to France by early morning.”
Raja laughed. “So you knew I would take the case.”
“What me see, you see,” said Gloria, which was her way of saying they think alike.
Next Raja called the one person he wanted with him on all his cases. That is, if she wasn’t off on some crazy adventure of her own.
She answered right away. “Yo.”
“Vinny, it’s Raja. You busy?”
“Always, boss, you know that.”
“We have a case.”
“Tell me it’s in London. The Olympics are happening there as we speak.” Vinny was partial to athletes, having dated a few, and having a martial arts black belt herself.
“Sorry. Paris, France. You ready?”
“Born ready, you know that, Raj. When do we go?”
“Daybreak if the plane’s ready. But, I do have some research you can start on tonight, if you are willing.” Vinny had amazing computer skills, and was a top hacker who had once worked for the U.S. government until she purposely made herself more trouble than they could handle so they would cut her loose. Now she was a valued partner on all Raja’s cases.
“You know I can go all night if you need,” said Vinny. She also had the good fortune of being one of those rare individuals who only need two or three hours of sleep a night to regenerate completely.
“Come by the house,” said Raja. “I’ll give you what you need.”
“That’s what she said.” Vinny loved to push Raja buttons with the hipster lingo she was constantly picking up on the internet.
“Let me rephrase that. Come by and I’ll have the information you’ll need for your research.” With his Oxford education, Raja’s language sensibilities were an easy target. Despite her teasing, Vinny was his best friend.
Later at his home on the north end of Clearwater Beach, Raja outlined what they knew. “Professor Browning has lost his wife Margaret. There was a murder coincident with her disappearance. My contact in Paris also says there is a manhunt underway for a cop killer.” He handed Vinny his notes.
“I’m on it, boss.” Vinny insisted on calling Raja boss, despite the fact he saw them as equals. She pulled out her iPad. Despite its small size, it gave her access to everything she needed, including the customized cloud computing programs she had designed.
Raja could still not get his wits around the revolutionary nature of cloud computing. Although he had purchased a state of the art computer setup for Vinny, including a huge interactive screen with all the bells and whistles, she preferred her iPad.
Raja made one more call. He left a message, as always, saying he would be in Paris on a case within twenty-four hours.
Gloria came in to report that Mickey would have the jet ready an hour before dawn. “You gonna take care a dat man, okay bwoy?”
“We will do our best,” said Raja.
“Make sure your best be good enough.”
Chapter Three: Rude American
Raja, needing more sleep than Vinny, had gone to bed at midnight. Vinny worked through the night on her computer, researching everything she could find on the scene in Paris. She woke Raja well before daybreak and they drove to the St. Petersburg - Clearwater Airport where Mickey was waiting with the jet.
A sling shot takeoff got them airborne. The grueling twelve hour non-stop flight gave Vinny time to brief Raja on what she had discovered.
“What did you find out about the Brownings?” asked Raja.
“They seem like a nice couple, and I found no reason for either to be involved in anything illegal. Financials are clean, no skeletons I could find. Whoever grabbed Mrs. Browning had their own fish to fry.”
“Ransom?”
“No way.”
“But why her?”
“W-P-W-T.”
“What?”
“WPWT. Wrong place, wrong time. I think she was completely non sequitur to whatever is going on. She’s a red herring, boss.”
“Okay, what else?”
“The murdered shopkeeper and his two employees could be a robbery gone bad. Margaret Browning was in the vicinity and may have witnessed something. However, I think the cop killer is our best lead.”
“How does that tie in?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know yet, but a report mentioned a woman fitting Margaret Browning’s description at the scene where the policemen were killed. I pulled that off a local media interview, but the police are keeping the report under wraps.”
“Good work, Vinny.”
“True dat, boss.” Vinny explored more of the data she had gathered and began modifying the Venn diagram program she used during their investigations. Afterward she and Raja both grabbed a nap.
Landing in Paris required clearance through the customs service and the Gendarmerie, the French military police. The Le Bourget Airport was small and served private jets and planes almost exclusively. However, even with Raja’s connections it took two hours, thanks to the new international bogeyman, terrorism. It was already after three in the morning Paris time when they got to the parking garage where Raja kept one of the many sports cars he owned. He never met a classic sports car he didn’t like, and kept them in many cities. No one else knew how many he owned, and he had lost count at twenty-five. He and Vinny climbed into the burnt orange 1969 Porsche 911S that he called Napoleon and headed to Paris. The car’s throaty hum eased the headache that told Raja they were heading straight for trouble on this case. Vinny shook her hair out of the Rays baseball cap she often wore, letting the wind blow through. Certainly pretty enough to be a runway model, she preferred hacking computers to haute couture.
They arrived at 33 Quai Voltaire where Raja maintained a flat on the top floor. Simply decorated, it provided a base of operations. A wide bay window looked out over the Seine River and the Louvre Museum stood visible to the right across the river. After settling in, they talked about the case.
“I’ve got a line on the inspector who is handling the investigation, if you can call it that,” said Vinny. “Most of the police and media attention is on finding whoever killed three French policemen. Mrs. Browning has been lost in the shuffle.”
“We will change that,” said Raja. “What’s the inspector’s name
?”
“Pierre Gilliard.”
The next morning Raja called the British Embassy to grease the wheels with the Paris police. Although no police force likes outside interference with their business, the French were particularly insular. Raja had earned a little sway with the British Royal family, having pulled one princely ass out of a nasty fire a couple of years back. It was a story he had sworn not to repeat, but one which got him a direct order from London into the British Embassy in Paris instructing them to use their pull to open the door to the French police, a notoriously tight-lipped bunch. God save the Queen. While giving the British Embassy time to push the message through proper channels and down the chain of command, Raja called the professor at his hotel.
“Hello,” said Professor Browning.
The dull lack of expectation in Browning’s voice told Raja he was rapidly losing hope. “It’s Raja Williams. I’m in Paris. I’m already working on finding your wife and I wanted to meet with you.” Raja didn’t think the professor had any more pertinent information, but it would certainly raise the professor’s spirits if he felt useful. There is nothing like the feeling of helplessness to drive a man into apathy.
“Yes, yes. Where should I meet you?” said Browning. He sounded better already.
“I’ll pick you up at your hotel. Wait out front. Bring any pictures you have of Margaret. Give me about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Waiting was another thing that could sink a man emotionally. After hanging up, Raja made a mental note to leave promptly. “Vinny, I’m heading to Professor Browning’s hotel. Then to the antique shop. After that I’ll go to the police station. Get me the addresses, would you?”
Vinny knew that going to see the professor was an unnecessary side trip, but she said nothing. No matter how intent Raja was on solving a case, and he could be very intent, he never lost sight of the client’s feelings. It was a characteristic Vinny admired.
C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series) Page 2