by Sam Waite
"If you expect your month's salary, sit back down. We aren't finished."
I tried to keep my face stoic, but I couldn't. A little Mona Lisa smile formed of its own will. As a comic, the guy was good. Even his straight lines were funny.
"Lucky for you, we are finished." I walked out.
It wouldn't take long to pack and find a place to stay other than Sabine's until I could book a flight home. If the firm paid for a month, I'd come out ahead. If not, I hadn't lost much. Either way it was good to be going. I figured fate had taken enough odd turns the past week to last me a while.
I was wrong.
Chapter 5
One glance at the man waiting in Sabine's flat told me it was her husband. I think I might have recognized him, even if we'd passed in the street. He was around fifty, more than six feet tall, and trim. He moved with athletic grace, but most telling were his eyes. They were like hers. I would have expected to see anger or jealously. Instead, I saw curiosity and anticipation of something outside my grasp.
"Mick Sanchez?"
I nodded.
"I suppose you know who I am."
"Mr. Duveau."
"No, I am—I was—Sabine's husband, but my name is Geir Oddsson." A smile brushed his face like a distant memory. "A wise choice, don't you think, to keep her maiden name."
"Ms. Duveau thought I should stay here to work. To avoid questions at the office."
"Sabine and I had no secrets from each other, at least I don't think so. It had been that way for years. I won't say it didn't bother me at first, but she could not deny who she was. I could accept that or live without her. For me it was an easy choice. Besides, I took my cue from her and decided that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. I have no regrets, but there was no one like Sabine."
"She said she loved you as passionately as the day you married."
Mr. Oddsson's smile was thin. "As did I. You loved her, didn't you Mr. Sanchez?"
I drew a breath and held it. That admission somehow felt like a greater transgression than physical intimacy.
"You must have, in some fashion," he said.
"Who could not?"
"Quite so. Why don't we sit down? Would you like a drink, Mr. Sanchez? May I call you Mick?"
I could have used a few shots of tequila, but accepted the offered wine. Oddsson explained that he was, in one sense, a househusband and, in another, Sabine's private banker. She made the income; he invested it. Very shrewdly, by his own admission. They had amassed considerable wealth, he said. I believed him.
"What do you know about Sabine's death?" he said.
"Just that it was sudden."
"There was a gray pallor in her face that implied a heart attack, but she was in excellent health. She trained hard and had physical examinations regularly. I know professional athletes, people who appear in perfect health, die suddenly from undetected heart conditions, but there's more." Geir stared at his hands as he spoke. "She was in her study. There was a disturbance around her. A lamp was tipped over. Items from her desk were on the floor. I thought she might have tried to stand. Perhaps grabbed for things as she fell. But the positions—when I picked up—they didn't look right. I haven't set a date for the funeral. I've ordered every examination possible. I want to know exactly what happened."
He looked up at me.
"I want your help, Mick."
I hadn't expected the encounter. Certainly not the overture. I shook my head. "I'm not the man you're looking for. If you want to hire an investigator, I can recommend someone."
"You're exactly who I'm looking for. When Sabine told me about you, I had your background checked. Your former supervisor, Abe Granger, was enthusiastic in his praise of your professional skill and, more importantly, your integrity."
Abe had been my commander in Vietnam and my boss at Global Risk Management. My departure from that agency hadn't exactly been on friendly terms, but I still respected him.
"Sabine told me about the work you did for Trevor Jones. I also understand that you successfully directed a politically charged murder investigation in Japan."
"I had a lot of help with that. I'm used to working in a team. I thought I could take that experience and apply it to a one-man operation. Now I'm not so sure. I've gotten nowhere in locating Trevor."
"There could be a lot of reasons for Trevor to have vanished. Do you think it was coincidence that two men broke into his home the day he disappeared and that the only thing missing was his computer?"
A simple burglary was a possibility. After I hit the guy who went into the study, they might have panicked, grabbed the easiest thing to sell and run. I shrugged.
Oddsson dismissed my doubt with a flick of his hand. "You said you were used to teamwork. Assemble a team. This flat is valued at more than seven hundred thousand euros. I intend to sell it. It was Sabine's private lair. What better way to use part of that money than to find the truth of her death."
"I had planned to take the first available flight home. I think that's what I should do. You can find a better investigator than me, Geir."
"Perhaps, locally. But, what if the investigation goes beyond France?"
"Hire Abe."
"It isn't just about professional skill. If the medical tests indicate Sabine's death was not from natural causes, I will be the first suspect. That's how the minds of policemen work. There are motives—a cuckold whose jealousy finally consumed him, a grasping wretch who coveted his wife's share of their wealth. Another investigator might share those suspicions."
Oddsson swirled his wine slowly. "I have neither jealously nor greed. I believe you know that. Even before you responded to my question, I knew how you felt about Sabine. Would you grant me, and her memory, the favor of staying until the tests are complete? You can decide then whether to go home or accept my request. If my instincts are correct, the investigation will be difficult. We'll need more than competence. We will need the impassioned tenacity, the love, of an avenging angel, Mick Sanchez." He raised a toast.
As well as I can remember, no one had ever mistaken me for an angel, avenging or otherwise. Oddsson obviously couldn't hold his wine as well as he appeared to. Nevertheless, I agreed to wait for the results. Two days later, medical examiners reported they had found in Sabine's body traces of a muscle relaxant that could induce heart failure.
I took the job.
Chapter 6
The MEs couldn't say positively whether the drug had induced Sabine's heart attack, but they found no physical defect. As Oddsson had predicted, police grilled him about his relationship with Sabine and about family finances.
I met him at their home, and he took me to her study where she died. He laid a waist-high urn on its side.
"It had fallen so."
He pulled her chair about three feet away from her desk and adjusted its angle, until he appeared satisfied.
"And books were there." He took three volumes from her desk and laid them just to the left of her chair.
"Is that all?" I said.
"Yes."
It wasn't much, but it looked like a lot of action for someone suffering a heart attack.
"What did the police say?"
"Nothing."
"Can you show me all possible entries into the house?"
The doors had high-tech locks. The windows were secured in ways that could not be violated without breaking them. A functioning alarm system had not gone off.
Oddsson offered a month's advance. I told him I had already hired Jorge to help me, and I might need more help. It could get expensive. He repeated the value of the flat, seven hundred thousand euros. Use whatever I needed, he said.
I would use the extra cash to pay off Jorge's source in the president's office and to broaden the investigation. Caracas was covered; that left England. There were things in that country that I wanted checked. I called Rocky McNulty, a former pro featherweight with a heavyweight name. He was Scottish, but he worked for a London investigative agency. He had a cha
meleon's personality. Grim as a gravedigger in private, but on the job, he could charm his way past the palace guard. I'd also seen him knock out a man half again his size with one punch. He agreed to find what he could on Mumby, the investment banker, as well as on Trevor.
I called Alexandra. She was on another line.
Four calls later, I got through and asked her to meet me.
She refused.
I called back.
Her secretary said she was busy.
I had Gavizon call from Venezuela and pose as a PDVSA employee. He told Alexandra that a company executive was in Paris on business. The client wanted a personal briefing at his hotel.
She arrived on time.
I was right behind her. "Bonsoir," I said with a smile.
She turned around and scowled. "What do you want?"
"About thirty minutes, minimum."
She kept the scowl while deciding whether to leave or talk to me.
"Sabine might have been murdered," I said. "No evidence of that, but not beyond the possible."
Alexandra tried to speak, but the words seemed to catch in her throat.
"Police are investigating. Sabine's husband is sure he'll be a suspect. He's already been interrogated and he's hired me to double-check the police. I don't know much yet, but I'm working on the assumption that it's related to the study. Will you talk to me? This PDVSA study looks like a dangerous piece of work."
We went to the hotel lounge and ordered drinks.
"First, I'd like to ask you to keep whatever I tell you confidential," I said.
"That's awkward for me. If I know anything that could affect the study, I should tell the project manager."
"Ian Graham? He's a pompous twit."
Alexandra turned down the corners of her mouth. "He's no twit."
"OK, so I'm only half right."
"Most of the partners are pompous. Our clients expect it."
A joke. Progress. I smiled. "All right then, would you agree to tell me what you want to tell Graham or anyone else, before you say it?"
She nodded, but then wagged her index finger at me. "I will talk to you first, but, you don't have a veto on what I say to anyone else."
I showed her a copy of Trevor's chart.
She studied the notations for several minutes, but I couldn't guess what she made of them. Her face was placid as usual. "Do you know what these mean?"
"No, but there's a name next to one of the equations, Bizet. I found a Philippe Bizet in Trevor's address book. I'm going to call him."
If I hadn't been watching closely, I might not have noticed Alexandra's jaw clench, as she slipped into deep-thought mode, but her frown was obvious.
"Philippe Bizet used to be in the firm. I can contact him for you. Do you mind if I keep the chart?"
"No, but..."
"There's no point in speculation. Are you still staying at Sabine's flat?"
"Yes."
"I'll call you." She stood, put on her coat and slipped the chart into her pocket. "You'll get the check, won't you?"
She sauntered away, her heels languid castanets striking the flagstone floor. Bonne nuit, Alexandra.
As I sipped another nightcap, I shifted as many mental gears as I could. Maybe Trevor was a bad guy in something that I didn't know about. If so, why had he called me? Maybe Sabine's husband really was a jealous cuckold and was playing me like a double-string banjo. So why would he order medical tests, if they might implicate him? Who was the Saudi Gavizon had told me about?
The only idea I had was another way to spend Oddsson's money. I could run checks, in Venezuela and Paris, on each client team member. Of the original five, there were only two left on a permanent basis.
I went back to the flat and called Gavizon. For an extra two hundred dollars, he said he would tell his agency to pull him off his other cases. He was a good man to work with. Cash defined his loyalties, and the bidding was low.
I also needed help in Paris. It didn't take me long to decide on Pascal Lucet. A few years back, we'd worked together on an industrial espionage case for a handbag manufacturer. Someone in the company had been selling design specs to pirates. Merchants in Korea and Hong Kong were coming out with copies before the legitimate items hit the market. Pascal was savvy, with the right touch of sleaze for that kind of undercover work. He was born in Algiers and spoke Arabic along with French and English. Those skills could be useful if the Saudi meant a Mideast connection. Besides, he ran a one-man operation. He might teach me something about the business. I left a message on his answering machine, then flicked on CNN and watched until eleven thirty-six, when the phone rang.
"Mick Sanchez," I answered.
"Och aye, Irish."
Irish? Och aye? Scottish Gaelic with a Gaulish tinge, "Pascal?"
"Who else? You got work for me?"
At least his English was American. "I do." For the next fifteen minutes, I explained the situation. My briefing included the names, resumes and current hotels and phone numbers of the two men from PDVSA.
After Sabine died, I'd been ready to pack it in. Thanks to Oddsson, I now hungered for the hunt. Like a hound, my brain was alive with scents, not of the prey but of the victim, of her hair, her skin, her essence that lingered in the flat. If Sabine had been murdered, I would track the killer down as an avenging angel. It was a long time before I could sleep. When I did, I dreamed of flaming swords.
Chapter 7
Alexandra's call woke me at six-fifteen on a Saturday morning.
"I'm still not sure about the notations you showed me." She didn't waste time with niceties. "You asked me about Bizet. After he left the firm, he became a quant, a quantitative analyst. He ran a hedge fund for several years. Now he runs the family vineyard near Bergerac. If you still want to see him, you'll have to go there. It's a day trip. Can you meet me at seven-thirty?"
I could and did.
The trip by train and rental car took us through forested valleys, flanked by stony outcrops of steep hills topped by castles. Villages were built into the sides of cliffs. Houses nested among hills and trees. We crossed fast flowing brooks and broad swaths of farms and cattle pastures. The natural beauty of southern France easily outshone the manmade art of Paris.
On the way, Alexandra said that Bizet had worked in the firm a little less than two years. He had left because he disliked what he considered the servile posture of consultants toward their clients. When a client called, the consultant came. Also, in the end, the client made all the decisions. Consultants could only recommend. He was open and friendly, she said, but he was emotionally an aristocrat. Besides, he had made much more money as a quant than as a consultant.
Alexandra turned onto a narrow gravel road that ran through fields of grapevines and stopped in front of a sprawling two-story home. When I got out of the car, a rangy, longhaired dog looped toward me. He planted his front paws on my chest. A man as rangy as the dog followed and grabbed its collar.
"Bonjour, M. Bizet," Alexandra said.
"Jack likes you too much," Bizet grinned and reached out with his free hand.
I shook it, and then scratched the dog behind his ear. "Hello, Jacque."
"No," Bizet corrected. "He's an English hound, so he's Jack."
Alexandra laughed. "It sounds the same when you say it."
Bizet shrugged. "I know six languages, but when I speak them they all sound French. Only I know what language I'm speaking. Let's go inside."
Bizet's wife greeted us briefly before excusing herself. We drank coffee in a parlor, while Alexandra filled in details about Sabine's death and Trevor's disappearance. By the time she showed him the chart, Bizet was beginning to look uneasy. Nevertheless, he studied it for several minutes before inviting us into his study.
Alexandra and I sat quietly as he ran through computer programs. After about twenty minutes, the mechanical shush of a laser printer broke the silence. He handed us another chart that showed fluctuations of the dollar against the euro over the past two mon
ths. Each peak and dip corresponded to a date on Trevor's chart and the percentages cited in the chart were close to the rise or fall of the dollar against the euro on the corresponding day.
Bizet had replaced the letters in one of Trevor's notes with numbers. He pointed to the date of one example. "This appears to represent a set of derivatives and a futures contract that would have paid more than nine hundred percent of the initial investment, if they were entered into and executed on the dates cited in Trevor's chart. That means a one thousand dollar investment would yield a profit in excess of ten thousand dollars within six days."
I frowned. "Legally?"
"A derivative is a financial instrument that derives its value from something else. For example, you can buy a futures contract on a stock index that will pay off if the index rises to the target level, but you don't own actual shares. This one is quite complex. It would pay only if the dollar traded within a range of half a percentage point of your target rate on a selected time frame in the future. You get great leverage with something like that. A very small investment earns an enormous payoff, or loss. You'd have to be crazy to bet on it."
"You got all that from equations?"
"They aren't equations. They're just notations. A lot of it is math, but some of the letters are simply abbreviations."
"Alexandra, does this fit into your petroleum study?"
"Not that I can see."
Then where did it fit? The checks I had requested on the client team and on Cervantes might have been a waste.
"M. Bizet, would it be useful to work out all the notations on Trevor's chart? Would that show us anything, else?" I said.
"What are you looking for, exactly? "
"We just wanted to know what these meant."
"In that case, I doubt it. I don't know if these were actual trades or he was back-checking a theory."
I had a final question. "Do you know an investment banker in London named Gordon Mumby?"