by Sam Waite
"Come anytime you want, Alexandra. How could I say you can't stay at Sabine's? I'm the one who shouldn't be here. As far as her husband is concerned, my business with him should be done. I'll go to a hotel."
"No! I'd feel safer if someone was there."
It was nearly midnight, when she rang at the door. Dark skin under her eyes contrasted with the pallor over the rest of her face.
I helped her with her bags. "Is there anything I can do? Fix food or drink?"
"No. I'm just grateful that you were around. It makes me feel safe."
While Alexandra went to take a bath, I checked the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. When I went to bed, I punched the pillow a few times, got up and checked the locks again. I returned to bed.
Alexandra's presence somehow brought visceral memories of Sabine. I felt her hair across my chest.
Tasted her kiss.
Heard her voice.
I feel that Trevor is alive and well, but maybe scared. I also think you'll figure all this out and bring him back.
That statement didn't mesh with anything I'd learned about their relationship, unless it was less contentious than evidence suggested.
I don't know how safe Alexandra felt right now, but I was afraid. For her.
Chapter 16
Alexandra was out of the flat with little more than a "Good morning." If she stayed in this weekend, I might cook one of my specialties. Back home I got raves for pinto beans, ham hocks and rice. Maybe I'd touch it off with a bold claret that had hints of hackberry and a pawpaw bouquet.
Maybe not.
I went through Trevor's correspondence yet again and lingered over the invitation to her to visit his Monaco home. If he owned it, it would be part of the estate. As far as I knew, Trevor's brother was his only heir.
I called McNulty and asked him to check with the brother. If we could get an address, it might be worth a trip to look the place over.
McNulty said he would. He also said he had found the house of Tom Hall, the LIFFE systems chief, but had not been able to install surveillance devices. He would try this evening before Hall got home.
I called Pascal and asked him to look at Trevor's notes. His local insight might spot something I'd missed. We met for lunch at his favorite back-alley Indian restaurant.
"Your friend Trevor sounds like he needed a doctor." Pascal pointed to the side of his head and wiggled his finger. "You know?"
"From the letters it does. It never came out in person though."
"How well did you know him?"
Truth is, I hadn't known Trevor at all outside of our working relationship, so I shrugged. Other than my own bias that he and Sabine were too intellectually ethereal to succumb to criminal passions, there was no rationale to ignore the implications that were apparent from circumstantial evidence. As for genius and foul acts, historically there was hardly reason to believe that one precluded the other.
"Her husband, seems satisfied with the Shakespearean theory of homicidal jealously. But he gave us today-plus-nine to nose around."
"Why, if he's satisfied?"
"Maybe he's not convinced completely. Or he's humoring me, because I suspect there could be more to it. Even Alexandra, an associate at Trevor's firm, had said she believed it was possible it could have been Trevor. Last night she called and said she thought her apartment had been broken into. She was so scared that she spent the night at Sabine's flat."
"With you?" Pascal made a sly-dog smirk.
"It's a big place, extra rooms."
Pascal looked confused, but he let the innuendo drop.
He didn't have much else to say about the letters from Trevor, but as he was reading them again I mentally replayed my conversation with Oddsson and his lawyer. The lawyer said police had determined that the incriminating messages on Sabine's hard disk had, in fact, been sent from Trevor's computer. While it wasn't conclusive, it was fair evidence that the letters had not been sent by a third party.
I said as much to Pascal. "Home or office?"
He shrugged. "To know for certain what computer the messages came from, police would have to know the machine's serial number. Trevor's was stolen."
That might be why his computer was stolen, but who stole it?
The origin of the emails probably wasn't important, but I was curious. The easy way was to ask the lawyer, who might not be forthcoming.
My gut said try something else. The closest alternative was Pascal. "Do you have any friends in the police department?"
He made a face that looked as if I'd just asked him if he wore lace underwear. So I explained what I wanted to find out.
"I might know someone outside the department who could help. "
I left him and went back to Sabine's flat. There was a call from Gavizon. I returned it and interrupted his breakfast. "What's up?"
"I know who the Saudi is and where he's been."
"Down your way?"
"That's right. Guess what he does."
"He's an enforcer for Maduro?"
Gavizon was a good audience. He laughed. Why not? I'm paying him.
"He's a nerd, a chemist. Cervantes makes a strange friend for a chemist, don't you think?"
"Petrochemist?"
"I don't know, but it's a good guess. He led a Maduro field trip out to the Orinoco."
"What for?"
"Don't know that either. I do know that they had some interesting company. Two guys from Sinopec, China Petrochemical. Not sure who they are though. You want me to find out."
"If you can."
"How are things going your way? ID'd the bad guys yet?"
"Maybe."
"Are you going to tell me what this was all about when it's over?"
"You bet. Adios Jorge."
If it ever gets over. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for anymore. Like I say though, sometimes you can see better when you're looking at something instead of for something. I hoped this was one of those times.
I fired up my computer and ran a search on "China, PDVSA." That relationship had taken a number of missteps, mostly on the Venezuelan side. The Chinese oil buyers accused PDVSA of breach of contract. Maduro simply didn't understand business, but he did know politics. Maybe he had finally started listening to people who had business sense. If Sinopec and PDVSA were striking deals, what was the Saudi doing there?
While I was wondering about that, McNulty called.
"I have an address on the Monaco property."
"That was fast."
"It was easy. I told Trevor's brother that you were a half-step from finding the truth about his death. The man is in a snit about the tabloid speculations. He'd have told me anything, if he believed it would clear Trevor's reputation. Once probate closes, it's his property. In the meantime, you have his permission to look at it."
"Impressive."
"Scottish charm."
I had an address, but I doubted I could find the place easily on my own. I called Pascal.
"Do you want me to find out about the computer or babysit you in Monaco? I can't do both, Irish."
"Find out about the computer. How about Marie? Can she go with me?"
"I'll ask her. She speaks French, but she doesn't know the country very well. No guarantees."
"Better than my going solo. See what she says."
In a countdown, day nine was without much progress. A trip to Monaco would take most of day eight. I went back to the computer and surfed China topics at random. Energy was high on a lot of sites. China was pushing alternative sources such as solar and geothermal. I hit too many "related story" buttons and ended up in the Taipei Times. An editorial compared the island's position to that of Austria. The day before that nation was to vote on uniting with Germany, a Nazi invasion made the planned plebiscite moot.
Jump: Another Taiwanese editorial says look at Hong Kong. The noose is tightening.
Jump: An American expert on Asian affairs writes in a scholarly journal that he has changed his opinion that
China would never invade. Across the strait is a large bunch of missiles. It's growing bigger.
Jump: An article in Xinhua lambasts Japanese nationalists.
Jump: The preamble to China's constitution says that it is the Chinese people's "lofty duty" to reunite Taiwan.
I was getting way far afield. The Net will do that.
Jump: Jet Li makes new movie.
I turned off the computer.
I had hoped all that jumping might stir my creative problem solving skills. It didn't help. The only idea I came up was a daydream. If I were president of Taiwan, I'd find out what the sailors in the U.S. Pacific Fleet liked to drink. Then I'd make every bar in the country serve it at half price. A little pull marketing.
It wasn't my problem. I refocused on mundane leg work and was considering a call to Burroughs when Alexandra rang at the door. I answered it.
"Why don't you use your key?"
She shrugged. Her shoulders were the only thing she could move since she was loaded with groceries.
I took the sacks off her hands.
"Since you won't let me invite you to dinner, I decided to cook."
"You're early."
"No, I'm on time. I worked only seven hours today."
"Sorry, you usually—"
"Don't have a life."
She brushed my cheek with hers and closed the door. Nice.
I asked what I could do to help as she started laying out vegetables, fruit and a pork roast. She handed me a knife and pointed to the cutting board. I chopped shallots for the roast, while Alexandra busied herself with spices, mostly in silence. There was a pensive, almost melancholy, aura about her.
"Not happy about a normal work day?"
The question, or just the sound of my voice, startled her. The look of surprise quickly gave way to a sardonic smile.
"You were right about Ian Graham. He's not only pompous."
"Also a twit?"
"It's hard to understand how he ever made partner. He's smart, perhaps even brilliant in some ways. He simply has no sense. He wants to reinvent everything."
"So you escaped."
"What's the point? He changes whatever I do. I gave my report to an editor and told her to do what she wanted with it. She could completely rewrite it for all I care."
"If it's any consolation, I'm happy you're here. This is already starting to smell delicious, and you haven't even started cooking."
She smiled. In the ambience of domestic chores, the chiseled marble of Alexandra's persona was gone. Except for the faint birthmark, her beauty was still too precise, but it was softened by human warmth.
"I'm pleased I can make someone happy," she said. "At work, Ian's beginning to make me feel like an encumbrance."
Halfway through preparations, Alexandra opened a bottle of wine to make a sauce, then shooed me away when I tried to sample it. She didn't want me to dull my palate for the vintage she planned to serve with dinner.
I was glad she did. It had hackberry beat by a wide margin. The meal was also sumptuous enough to make me forget about the investigation for a while.
Alexandra reminded me, by asking what I was doing tomorrow. I told her I planned to visit Trevor's house on the sea. It was a long shot, but I might find something.
"I'm hoping a local investigator I'm working with will find someone to go with me. I might not be able to locate the place on my own."
Alexandra looked away as she apparently rolled a thought across her mind. "I'll go with you."
"It's a workday."
"So much the better. Ian deserves to be left stranded. It'll do wonders for my mental state. I might take a week off."
"What about your career?"
"I don't think it would hurt my career. I'll tell them my grandmother died or something." She hesitated. "Unless you'd rather I didn't go."
There had been a lot of progress since the icy encounter of our first meeting. "I would be grateful. I just don't want to cause you any trouble."
She said she would consider it therapeutic, but it was my decision.
I called Pascal and told him I wouldn't need Marie after all.
Chapter 17
Trevor's cottage was in the hills overlooking Monaco's clusters of rust-roofed, white-walled buildings, yacht-filled blue harbor and sheer gray cliffs. We had rented a car at the airport and Alexandra found the place easily.
I still had his keys. One fit the door. Dust lay on the floor and most other surfaces. The electricity had been turned off.
"I would offer to help you look, but I'm not sure when to say 'eureka.' Is it OK if I just watch you work?"
Even if the watcher is as captivating as Alexandra, I didn't like someone looking over my shoulder. "Actually, I think you can help. If you don't mind checking the kitchen, it would speed things up. Just grab anything that doesn't look like it belongs. If you find a notebook or any other personal record, including computer disks or drives, let me know. I'll start in the bedrooms."
She went to the cupboards, while I checked a sleeping area. First I felt under the corners of the bureau. Nothing. I peeked under the bed, pulled off the sheets and massaged the pillows to see if they contained hard objects. I found a few garments in a closet and socks and underwear in a chest of drawers. I removed each drawer and laid it on the bed. There was nothing interesting either inside or outside. I pulled the chest away from the wall to look at the back, and then tipped it over to see the bottom.
Eureka.
A vial of black liquid was taped to the center of the bottom of the bureau. I started peeling off the tape.
"I didn't find anything. But then I didn't tear things up." Alexandra gestured toward the drawers as she walked toward me. "Was I supposed to?"
Déjà vu. I had walked in on Sabine in almost the same circumstance when she showed me the bracelet. She was a fast thinker. I'm not.
"What's that?" Alexandra said. "Is it a clue, Inspector Sanchez?"
I held up the vial. "I don't know what it is."
"May I?" Alexandra took it from my hand. She held it at eye level and rotated it. The thick liquid flowed slowly back and forth. "Looks like crude oil."
"Heavy crude." I took the vial back and put it in my jacket pocket. "Let's see what else we can find."
After three hours of searching, all we had was the vial.
On the ride back to the airport, I asked Alexandra if Trevor had done much traveling for the PDVSA study.
"A little. He and I both went to Houston. Trevor went to Venezuela alone."
"Did he go to the Orinoco?"
"Yes?"
"When did he go?"
"He got back just two days before he disappeared. Why do you ask?"
"Just questions. That would have been the day before he called me."
Trevor's note had referred to "stolen samples." Had there been another vial taped to the bottom of the bureau in his Paris apartment. One that Sabine had found, and for some reason did not want me to know about. She was quick enough to hide a vial and make up a story about the bracelet. "If the stuff we found is crude oil, I wonder where it came from."
"I was with him in Houston. As far as I know, he didn't get any oil samples there. It might have come from Venezuela. If it did, why would he hide them?"
I had a lot to think about on the flight back to Paris.
It was nearly nine o'clock by the time we arrived at Sabine's flat. Alexandra suggested eating out.
"I can't. There's someone I need to see."
"Is it about the oil sample? I could go with you and interpret. Play detective for a while. It sounds exciting." There was a lively warmth in her face that I hadn't seen before. She'd gone from icy to human to mildly enthusiastic in a fast transformation.
"It's about the oil and a couple of other things that are not completely legal. I'd better go alone. Thanks for guiding me today though. If you hadn't been there, I'd probably still be roaming the hills looking for the cottage."
Alexandra actually might be the best pers
on to help me find out about the oil. Trevor had gone to the trouble of hiding the sample. Not in a particularly secure place, but then he hadn't had much time, if he had brought it back from Venezuela. He might have gone to Monaco just to hide the vial. From the look of the dust, he hadn't stayed long enough to disturb much.
I called Pascal. He said he had planted bugs in the PDVSA men's apartments and suggested I visit their neighborhood.
I took the Metro and got off at a station alive with brightly tiled walls and the sound of music. A nattily-dressed busker played "Romance" as expertly as I'd ever heard.
A young woman in a short black dress stopped to listen, then dropped a euro into an open guitar case. He scarcely acknowledged her, as though he'd come to this spot for no other reason than he liked the acoustics.
Pascal was waiting on the platform.
"It's just up the stairs and a couple of blocks from here," he said.
"Good job."
Pascal led the way past the guitarist. He dropped in a coin.
Outside the street was bright with lights and gaiety. Small groups laughed among themselves. Couples walked arm in arm. We turned onto a side street and just at the corner a shriveled man squatted on the sidewalk, his back against a building. One hand held out an empty metal cup and the other covered his face.
I dropped a euro into his cup.
"Pour quoi?" Pascal shrugged. "If you are going to give away money you should give it to someone like that busker."
Perhaps I should have, but the guitar case had a fair scattering of coins. I might have tried to explain away the gift to a cowering beggar to human charity. That wasn't it, though. I'd skated the edge too many times to think it couldn't happen to me, to think I could never fall into one of the obsidian-walled chasms in my psyche. One euro to keep me out of the pit a while longer was cheap. Mick's charity to himself.
Farther down the street, Pascal handed me an ear piece. "We're in range."
The sound was faint but there was no interference. Thumbs up. "Are you recording?"
"Yes, but I don't know what we have so far. I don't speak Spanish."