C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series)

by Jack Thompson

  “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.

  “I am Bruno Laurent, the manager of this cabaret. And you?”

  “Livinia.”

  “Livinia, a beautiful name.” He looked her over again. “So apropos. You need a job, and I need a waitress. When can you start?”

  “You are the boss,” said Vinny passively, knowing that men like Bruno liked to think they own and control women.

  “Good girl,” said Bruno. “I need you here Friday night, on the floor at nine. That’s when the first show starts and the place gets busy. You work until four in the morning. Luc will fill you in on the rules and show you where to get a uniform. You will make most of your money from tips, so I’d pick a small uniform size if I were you.” Bruno laughed, but not a laugh that puts someone at ease. Rather, it made the hair stand up on Vinny’s neck.

  Luc walked her into a large room that had a long counter with mirrors and chairs on one side, and lockers on the other side. A few randomly placed couches sat in the middle of the space.

  Luc explained the waitress operation. “We use a tab system for many of the regulars, and the rest pay as they go. Any time you have a question about a customer’s payment, come and see me.” He showed Vinny where the waitress uniforms were kept and made no attempt to leave, hoping to watch her undress and try one on.

  Vinny picked one that was her size. “This one will do,” she said, hanging it back in an empty locker. She turned the key to lock the door and pulled it out.

  “Don’t you think you should try it on first?” said Luc, sounding much too eager.

  Vinny cocked an eyebrow and said, “Nice try. I’ll be back Friday night.”

  Raja was waiting outside when Vinny came out. Making sure they weren’t being watched, they walked around the corner, climbed in the Porsche and drove off.

  “Okay, I’m in,” said Vinny. “But I don’t like that place, Raj.”

  “I understand, however, we need you on the inside. And we better keep you undercover for a while.”

  “You should see the outfit I have to wear. Not much for cover. The things I do for you, Raj.”

  “Not for me, but now you have piqued my curiosity.”

  Vinny punched him. “Curiosity? I have a different word.”

  “Be nice, Vinny. Remember, you are doing it for the client.”

  Vinny glared.

  “In the meantime, I need to break through the thick-headed blue wall.” That is what Raja called the extremely insular position most police departments took in protecting their own. “Or whatever color it is here among the French police.”

  Raja drove to his flat on Quai Voltaire and dropped off Vinny. “Do some of your computer magic and see what you can find out about the policemen who were killed. I’m going up the official chain of command to shake the tree.”

  “Better watch out for falling fruit,” said Vinny.

  Chapter Six: Raja Goes to Bat

  Certain that Inspector Gilliard was hiding something, Raja’s first stop was at the Gendarmerie. They were the military branch of police who had jurisdiction over internal security matters in the police department, among other specific areas like terrorism threats and riot control. The three policemen who were killed would certainly be on their radar. Whether they would tell Raja anything was another matter.

  Inside the government building, Raja checked in with the uniformed receptionist. “My name is Raja Williams. I am an American investigator who is here assisting on a kidnapping case. I have information on the three policemen who were shot and killed.” The truth was he needed information, but he had to get his foot in the door first.

  While he waited Raja called Vinny. “Any luck on the dead policemen? I could use some information to trade.”

  “There are sparse reports on the shootings available. I did find an ongoing investigation into police corruption that included two names you will be interested in.”

  “How did you—I shouldn’t ask. Who are they?”

  “Inspector Pierre Gilliard and Bruno Laurent, the manager of the club.”

  “That seems like an unlikely pair.”

  “Their connection was not clear.”

  “That’s okay, I can use it. Keep digging.”

  When the officer at the front desk got an internal call he looked up at Raja.

  “Gotta go,” Raja whispered and ended the call to Vinny.

  “Monsieur Williams.”

  Raja stepped up to the desk.

  “Do you have any weapons?”

  “No.”

  “Very good. Wear this badge. It will get you through the first scanner.” The officer pointed. “Wait on the other side. Someone will meet you shortly.”

  Raja pinned the visitor badge on his collar, and walked through the arch of the scanner at the far side of the room. He paused until the light went green, and continued on through. Now he would have to bluff his way through the live screener who would be next.

  A man walked briskly out of a side hallway and made a beeline to Raja. He moved like he was late for something. Average height and weight, dressed in a pressed uniform, he fit Raja’s idea of the perfect bureaucrat to a T.

  Raja smiled. This would be a piece of cake.

  “Bonjour. Mr. Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me.” The man turned abruptly and hurried off.

  A silly song from Alice in Wonderland popped into Raja’s head. I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. Raja smiled, remembering that it was the white rabbit who sang the ditty, just as the man disappeared around a corner. Raja hurried to catch up.

  “Yes, come along now. The captain is very, very busy.” The white rabbit indicated an open door. Apparently he was merely an usher. Raja reached the doorway and stepped inside. The white rabbit closed the door behind him.

  “You will have to excuse Jean-Luc. What he lacks in manners he more than makes up for in efficiency,” said an attractive but serious-looking woman sitting behind a desk. She stood up. “Bonjour. You are Monsieur Raja Williams. My name is Captain Milan. I will be conducting this interview.”

  Raja didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Okay,” he said.

  The woman shook Raja’s hand. She had a firm steady grip that said I’m in control. She was all business. The fact that she called it an interview did not bode well. Strike one.

  Raja was not prepared for a challenge. He had to shift gears. He put his other hand on top of hers and smiled. “Thank you for taking time to see me,” he said, trying some not-so-subtle Raja Williams charm.

  The woman managed easily to resist his attempt, and withdrew her hand. “Please sit down,” she said. She pulled out a keyboard, preparing to take notes of their interview. Strike two.

  All Raja had left was the direct approach, something he was more comfortable using. “I am here helping the police on a kidnapping case.”

  “I know why you are here. You are the American who was hired on the Margaret Browning disappearance.”

  “Yes. I was hoping to get your help on the specifics of the three policemen who were killed. I’m sure the cases are related, but I’m getting no help from the police. If you—”

  “And rightfully so,” she said, cutting him off at the knees. “You said you have evidence on the policemen who were murde
red?”

  Getting information from someone is often incredibly easy. Most people, by nature, like to talk. It’s just a matter of finding the right prompt. Or giving a little tit for tat. Of course, when you have nothing and are bluffing, it’s strictly finesse. Something like fly fishing. You have to drag the bait lightly and hope for a bite. “Not actually evidence. Information. I have reason to suspect that the case involves Bruno Laurent, the club manager, and Inspector Pierre Gilliard, of the French police.”

  Captain Milan showed no surprise at the mention of the police inspector. “Those are serious accusations, Monsieur Williams. What evidence do you have?”

  Now Raja was busted. “I am still working on that. I was hoping for your help—”

  “And fishing for information. I do understand, Monsieur Williams. I’m afraid your bait will not catch any fish in these waters. Do you have anything else?”

  When your bluff is called all you can do is fold. Raja stared at Captain Milan, trying to recall why she seemed so familiar. It was his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Hess. After a long pause Raja said, “No,” feeling like the schoolboy who has been caught without having his homework done. He had nothing. Strike three.

  The gendarme captain pushed an intercom button. “Jean-Luc, will you escort Monsieur Williams to the front entrance?”

  “Right away, sir.” Five seconds later the white rabbit hurried into the office and hustled Raja back out the way he had come in.

  “I’ll take that badge now,” said Jean-Luc, once they had walked through the last metal detector. He turned and hurried off, as usual, looking like he was late.

  Wham, bam, no thank you, ma’am, and Raja was out of there.

  Chapter Seven: Back to the Drawing Board

  Raja arrived back at the flat with his tail between his legs.

  “So?” asked Vinny.

  “So, nothing. My visit wasn’t as successful as I had hoped. That woman was cold as ice. I’m still shivering.”

  “What woman? You were supposed to be going to the Gendarmerie, not out on a date.”

  “You’re right. I went to the Gendarmerie. And trust me, it was no date. No question about that. I got nothing. How did you do?”

  “I’ve come across some interesting facts.” With her hand, Vinny opened a file on the glass screen. “I’ve been studying the activities at the club. I also hacked into their books for the past few months. The income on the club records from alcohol sales exceeds their restocking amount by a factor of five. That’s just what is on the books.”

  “Watering the booze?”

  “Of course. But they couldn’t get away with diluting the drinks that much. My theory is they are selling drugs and reporting it on the drink tab. Designer drugs are a common sideline for nightclubs, but I have no idea where they are coming from or how they get into the club. I’ll find out more when I start working there.”

  “We can work the old inside-out game,” said Raja.

  “Say what?”

  “It’s a basketball term, where you—never mind—you work undercover inside the club to find out how the drugs are dispensed, and I’ll work outside the club tracking down the supply lines.”

  “Bam shizzaam.”

  “Exactly.” Although Raja was starting to understand more and more of Vinny’s lingo, he wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing.

  “I am just wondering how doing all this will help us find Mrs. Browning,” said Vinny.

  “Ahh, you doubt me, grasshopper.”

  “Not doubt, dude. Just a statistical improbability. I VAP’d it, and it looks like a long shot.” Vinny pulled up the data probability analysis program she had designed that displayed results as a complex Venn diagram of circles. She called it VAP, for Venn Analysis Program. The circle that represented Mrs. Browning showed up far away from the circle for the club, with tenuous connections through Corinne and her dead brother. “There has to be missing data and people.”

  Raja smiled. “Rule number three,” he said. While Raja appreciated Vinny’s computer programs and logic, and there were many occasions they helped solve cases, he knew there were things that could not be explained by logic. His intuitive sense often defied logic and yet broke cases. And the headaches that haunted him whenever they got close to a particular kind of evil could not be analyzed with zeros and ones. Raja thought of it as inside and outside the box thinking. Both had their place and use.

  “Rule number three: Trust your instincts,” said Vinny. She was the one who had started numbering them and calling them Raja’s Rules. Raja felt that first impressions and gut instincts were raw feedback that rarely lie. Sometimes you just know.

  Raja and Vinny held a deep respect for and unwavering confidence in each other’s skills. Because neither of them invalidated what the other could do, they operated as an extremely competent and effective team. Right now Raja felt the club was the key to finding Margaret Browning. “I’m sure you will find the data and the people you need.”

  “True dat, boss,” said Vinny. “I found several illegal activities local to the city that may be tied to the club. One is the pill trade—ecstasy and other designer drug pills—that are moving through the night clubs for ‘social use.’ Odds are we will find them at the club, although not the kind of large volume trafficking that would get people tortured and killed. I also found no busts on record for the club. That could mean the drug dealing is a relatively minor activity, or that it is under police protection, or both.”

  “Sounds like a good lead to follow. Anything else?”

  “Prostitution is well established, but as I said before, courtesans are legal in Paris.”

  “What about the police corruption angle?”

  “The word is that there are cops with ties to organized crime, but what’s new? I’m still digging on that one. I’m also digging for dirt on your friend Inspector Gilliard. Nothing yet. And I’m betting that the club manager, Bruno Laurent, has his fingers in any illegal pies we turn up. He appears to be one nasty dude. There are a half dozen beatings in the police records with his name attached, although no arrests.”

  “Do we have anything else on the policemen who were killed?”

  “I have tapped into the Gendarmerie computer system for traffic on that case. For all the media pressure and man power on that case, there is not much progress being made. And still no sign of poor Mrs. Browning.”

  “I think another visit to the local police is in order.”

  “Could you try making friends this time?”

  “I just might. Maybe I can show the inspector how helpful we can be.”

  “Good luck with that. I’ll work on the police shootings.”

  Raja showed up at the police station just before dinner. Officers were coming in for a shift change. He followed them in and stepped up to the officer on the front desk. “I’m here to see Inspector Gilliard. Raja Williams. He knows me.”

  The officer picked up the phone, then hung up. “Second door on the left.” He pointed.

  Raja made his way to the inspector’s office. The door was open.

  The inspector was at his desk. He sighed deeply. “I am sure there must be a good reason for you to be here. For the moment, I just can’t think of one.”

  Raja sat down across from Inspector Gilliard. “I know we got off to a bad start, but I am really on your side. I am trying to help.”

  “Easy to say, not so easy to prove. I heard about your visit to the Gendarmerie.”

  Raja was surprised by that news, but kept his cool. “I see.”

  “As I’m sure you are aware, there are a number of sensitive overlapping investigations that make this a difficult time to bring in someone from the outside.”

  Raja loved that word “sensitive” that was so popular with government types. Like someone was going to get their feelings hurt if anyone found out. It sounded like the typical excuses he ran into so often when dealing with any U.S. government agency. Why would France be any different? The one thing that made governm
ents so vulnerable was the one thing people in government couldn’t resist doing. That was hiding their dirty laundry for political reasons. One secret requires another, then another, then ten more and eventually, with everyone hiding something from everyone else, no one is left with enough integrity to keep the show on the road.

  Raja decided to sidestep the whole thing. “Since we talked last, I found out a little about the drug trade in the clubs of Paris. Designer drugs like ecstasy or amphetamines. I might be able to help the police on that, if you are interested.”

  Inspector Gilliard was more than happy to get the nosy American onto something else besides Margaret Browning. “Yes, club drugs are a problem in Paris. What have you found out?”

  “I’m looking into how they launder their money through the clubs. It would help to know who controls the drug traffic locally.”

  “Narcotics is not my area, but I believe his name is Bruno Laurent. He runs the Cabaret d’Artois. You know of it?”

  “Yes, in the eighth district.”

  “Correct. Bruno has managed to avoid arrest so far, mostly through threats, from what I have seen. He is a rough character, not one to be trifled with.”

  “What about suppliers? Are they local?”

  “Probably. Let me look up a file.” The inspector fiddled with his computer and then the printer in the corner of his office began to whir. He walked over and when the machine stopped, he tore off a page. It was a list of five names and addresses. “These are suspected to be local traffickers who distribute for Bruno. They are small time, but they may get you to the suppliers.”