3 The Braque Connection (12 page)

“No, Jenny. This is not hurt.” His sigh was deep and heavy. “This is me being tired of giving you everything and getting very little in return.”

His statement caught me by surprise. Was this related to the envy he had felt at Ben’s relationship with his son? I felt weak with the powerlessness I was experiencing. “I don’t know what you want from me. This is uncharted territory for me. I don’t have a frame of reference to work from.”

Colin pushed the fingers of his healthy hand through his hair to grip it hard. “I know, Jenny. I know.”

We sat staring at each other for what felt like an hour. It was three minutes. He dropped his hands to his lap. “You were looking at the footage you had recorded. Did you find something interesting?”

His expression warned me that we were not going to resolve the situation here and now. I was aching with the need to know what it was he felt he didn’t have in our relationship, but I didn’t want to do more damage by insisting. I tightened my jaw muscles and turned to the ten monitors against the wall.

Instead of telling Colin my findings, I ran through the forty-seven-minute video with him. It was normal speed and I said very little, observing him. I clicked on the stop button when Vinnie and I left the building.

“He did this to help you,” I said. “
We
did this to help you.”

Colin inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Jenny, I can’t remember ever being this angry. I’m too angry to talk about this. We’ll shelve this, okay?”

I nodded stiffly.

“Good. So now that I’ve seen the whole thing, what did you find?”

I spent the next half an hour showing him the crates with electronics and the woodwork equipment. “Why do you think he has this?’

“There could be a very nefarious reason or something as benign as his hobby. Aren’t you the one always resisting any form of speculation?”

“Of course.” This was not our usual work dynamic. A large chasm had opened between us. “Would any of these tools be used for making or altering guns?”

“Aha, I see where you are going with this.” He thought about this for a moment. “You would have to ask Vinnie, but I’m pretty sure these tools could be used for bore lapping.”

“Where is Vinnie?”

“He left.” Colin’s lips compressed and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Is he okay?”

“Francine went with him. He’s fine.”

“Like you?”

“Jenny, drop it.” He looked away for a second, shaking his head. “It means you should stop discussing this topic.”

“I know what ‘drop it’ means. Vinnie says it to Francine all the time when she insists on adding more spices to his cooking.” My emotions were hurting more than anything I had experienced before. I tried to compartmentalise and dissociate as much as possible. It helped very little. “I entered the numbers on my arm into Google.”

“Did you get anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you tried any other decryption methods?”

“Francine has, but I haven’t had time yet.”

As we had done on a previous case, Colin and I worked through a few ciphers until we found the key. Each number multiplied by two and replaced by that letter of the alphabet resulted in a surprising code.

“‘rousseaus.hin.org’. He’s using the plural of Rousseau in an inarticulate manner, but he’s giving us a website.”

“This feels too easy.” Colin looked at the scribbles on his notepad. “We didn’t even have to scramble the letters.”

I agreed with him. Had Kubanov become lazy? “Do you think it is safe to open the website?”

“Francine’s antivirus programmes will catch any virus he might have put in there.” Colin leaned forward. “Let’s check it out.”

I entered the letters into the address bar and pressed enter. It took my computer less than two seconds to open the webpage. I gasped and barely paid attention to Colin using Vinnie’s swearwords. On the monitors in front of us was a slideshow presentation, moving from one photo to the next. Each photo was of me.

Taken with a zoom lens, a few photos were of me in my apartment. One photo was of Colin and me walking across one of Strasbourg’s beautiful bridges. On another photo, I was having lunch with Francine, and another showed Vinnie and Colin in conversation on a street while I stared off into space.

“Jesus.” Colin’s voice held a quiet note of fear.

“I’ve been stalked.” I was stating the obvious. “This is something Kubanov would do. This is him hunting me and letting me know that he could’ve had me any time.”

I felt another shutdown closing in on me. Already I had lost two hours due to a lack of emotional control. I didn’t want to lose any more time. I didn’t want to give Kubanov that kind of power. I exited the website.

“It’s too much for me. I need to focus on something else for a while.”

Colin studied me for a moment, and nodded. “Let’s look into those unsolved murder cases. We’ll get back to this later.”

Relieved, I opened the first file on the list and noticed my unsteady hands. I was on emotion overload. Colin’s anger and hurt, fear from this stalker website, but mostly the fear of Colin losing regard for me made it difficult to breathe. He started talking about the case now up on the monitors and I forced my attention to it. The longer we worked on the case, the more I was able to distance myself from my chaotic emotions.

Colin insisted we took a break after a few hours, but agreed to have a short lunch in the viewing room. By half past five we had solved another two cases. I had sent a detailed email to Manny in both cases. His response had been ‘Good’ both times. Nothing more, just one word.

“Only one more case, then we’re going home, Jenny.” Colin lifted his arms towards the ceiling, stretching his back. “God, I can’t sit in this chair for the rest of the evening. Only one more case. We’ll worry about the website tomorrow.”

“Okay.” I was scared I would widen the chasm between us by demanding to stay longer and look into the website. The initial shock of seeing photos taken of me without consent had worn off. Curiosity had set in. If Kubanov had designed that slideshow, there was an underlying message or code in it. Of that I was sure. The look on Colin’s face was enough to ignore my curiosity though.

I opened the case of Ilse Smith, an apparent drive-by shooting in Aberdeen. I stared at the information on the monitors until I couldn’t bear it anymore. This uncomfortable atmosphere between us was exhausting me. I looked up at Colin. “Promise me something.”

He raised one eyebrow. “What?”

“You will always be honest with me.” I lifted both hands when his brows drew together. My chest was hurting with all the unsaid words. “Please let me finish. This is not easy to say. Um, if you get tired of me, I want you to promise me that you will end our relationship.”

“Oh God, Jenny.” All his anger was back. “I can’t talk about it now. I’m going to get us some coffee. I won’t be long.”

He shoved his chair back and left the room with long strides. The doubt I had seen on his face exacerbated my emotional disquiet. I barely heard the doors open and close. This was one of the few times in my adult life that I had felt at a complete loss. Facing the turmoil in my psyche was something I wanted to avoid, so I turned back to the case I had opened on the monitors.

Before long I was engrossed in the case. Ilse Smith had worked in a women’s boutique. She had been single, living on her own, but with close relationships with her family. Her funeral had been attended by more than three hundred people. She had made friends with all her customers, volunteered at a local community centre, babysat for her friends and tutored a neighbour’s son when he’d had problems with his English classes.

When Colin placed a coffee mug in front of me, I started.

“Interesting case?”

“Sad.” I looked at her photo on the monitor. She was slightly overweight, giving her features a distinct softness, befitting the accounts I had read about her. “And senseless. The only mildly controversial thing she ever did was to head up a petition against land development in her neighbourhood. The development would’ve resulted in the local community sports grounds being turned into a shopping mall. None of the neighbours wanted more shops to spend their meagre earnings in. They wanted the sports grounds to spend their leisure time in. She had led a campaign successful enough that the local council rejected the developer’s application.”

Colin took a few sips of his coffee, sighing with pleasure. “Why did the police dismiss the developer as a suspect?”

“Every person on the developer’s payroll had an alibi for the night of the murder.” I lifted my coffee mug and inhaled. Colin had used the special blend he insisted was the best. He was right. The coffee was delicious. I took a sip and put it on the desk. Colin was drinking his coffee as fast as usual, not savouring it.

“Well, that is the most likely suspect. What about friends and family?”

“They were all devastated by her death. The Aberdeen police did a really thorough investigation from the look of this report. It is one of the most comprehensive reports so far.”

“Hmm.” He frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Anything connecting her, her family or the developer to any of the other cases?”

“The first thing I did when Manny emailed me all the reports was to run a comparison between the cases. If there are connections, it is in the scanned documents, not the data that they put in manually.” I had told him that before, but he asked me with each new case. It wasn’t in me to be impatient and remind him how much I hated repeating myself. The fresh bruising on his face and the way he cradled his hand prevented me. I lifted my cup and sipped.

“Damn, I’m tired.” Colin stretched his eyes as if it was difficult to keep them open. “Why don’t we just shut this down and take it up again tomorrow?”

“After I put the names of all the friends, family, co-workers and everyone connected to the developer in the system. And then check it against the other names we have so far.” I felt the pull of fatigue, but the intrigue of this case was too strong. I took another small sip of coffee and was surprised to see my hand shake. I put the mug on my desk, a feeling of dread settling deep in my stomach. What I was feeling wasn’t fatigue.

“Colin?”

It felt as if someone had drained all my energy at once. Expending more energy than I felt I had, I turned to Colin. He was slumped over the side of his chair, unconscious. I didn’t know if the blackness coming over me was my unfortunate coping mechanism or the drug that somehow had made its way into our coffee. We were drugged. Again.

Chapter TEN

Unlike three days ago, I came to with an immediate awareness of what had taken place. My brain was alert, but my body still lethargic from whatever drug hadn’t fully metabolised yet. My eyes were closed, and for the moment I thought it prudent to maintain the pretence that I was still unconscious while I attempted to gather more information about my condition and environment.

I was lying on my back on what felt like a tiled floor. It was cool where my skin touched the floor. At least I was still fully dressed. Checking from my toes up, I could not feel any damage to my body other than the heaviness preventing me from jumping up and running away. The only sounds I could hear were night insects and the ticking of an analogue clock in the distance. This led me to believe I was in a building with multiple rooms.

Adrenaline entered my blood, activating my sympathetic system with the immediate result of increased respiration. It took a few seconds of concentration to slow down my breathing in case someone was watching. The longer I was lying here, the angrier I became. Having my free will taken away from me once was unacceptable. Having it happen a second time was infuriating. I’d had no power to defend myself against whoever this enemy was. I strongly doubted Kubanov had done this himself. Again he had found someone willing to run his errands for him.

For a few more minutes I didn’t move, not until I was totally satisfied I couldn’t hear another person moving around the building. I opened my eyes and frowned. This was not what I had expected to see. At an estimated ten metres directly above me was the biggest crystal chandelier I’d seen. The balcony under it flowed on both sides to an elaborate rounded staircase winding its way down to me.

I was lying in the foyer of a mansion. To the right in front of me was the front door flanked by narrow windows. Outside it was dark, explaining the sounds of the night insects. It had to be between ten and five in the morning to be this dark during this time of the season. Assuming I was still in France, of course. That thought sent another shot of adrenaline through my system and I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Five bars of Mozart’s Oboe Quartet in F Major later, I started focussing on my body. I needed to get my muscles moving, find Colin and get out of here.

Colin. Where was he and why hadn’t he woken me up like before? My eyes shot open at the same time as I became aware of my fingers lying in water. I lifted my left hand, a high-pitched groan leaving my throat. My hand wasn’t covered in water. It was red and sticky. Blood.

I frantically wiped my hand on my shirt to get the blood off. It took immense willpower to calm myself and find the strength to lean up. I looked at the body of the man lying next to me in a large pool of blood. I couldn’t see his face, but this wasn’t Colin. He would never wear scuffed work boots.

From the amount of blood on the floor, this man had been fatally wounded. No one would survive such a loss of blood. What had happened? Who had shot him? I looked down at my body to double-check that I had not also been wounded. The only blood on me was where my jeans had been obstructing the blood pool from spreading. And the blood on my hand. I wiped my hand again on my shirt as I looked around the affluently decorated foyer. Colin was not here. I was alone.

The man’s one arm was out of my view, his other lying in his blood, reaching out to me. Just as I thought I recognised something about him, his hand twitched. How this man was still alive after such severe blood loss was beyond me. If he was conscious, he might be able to tell me where I was, what day it was and where Colin was. I got onto my knees and crawled to the other side of his body. I didn’t want to have any more of his blood on me.

When I reached his thighs, my weak muscles were trembling from the strain. I nearly collapsed when I got a good enough view and recognised Hawk’s face. I had watched it so many times on my ten monitors, I would’ve recognised him anywhere. I stopped next to his chest, exhausted.

Out of curiosity I had read four books on first aid, but had never put any of my knowledge into practice. Touching another person was something I avoided as much as possible. Touching someone covered in blood was not an experience I was prepared for.

“You look… Doc Sebasti…” Hawk barely managed a whisper. His face was pale, but interestingly was void of any expressions indicating pain. His eyelids flickered as he fought to stay conscious, to stay alive. “You… woke…”

“Where are we? Where is Colin?”

“Who?” The question was recognisable from the shape of his mouth rather than from any sound he made. A small exhalation accompanied his rounded lips.

A soft electronic ping preceded a louder ping and the sound of a cell phone vibrating came from his trousers. The strangeness of Hawk receiving a call while he was lying in a pool of his own blood distracted me for a moment. Only for a moment. I ignored the relentless pinging and vibrating sound and leaned closer to Hawk. “Colin. Where is he? Who brought us here? Who shot you?”

“Bastard—” A violent convulsion interrupted him.

“Who brought us here? Who is it? What is his name?”

“Ask… printer.”

“What printer? Who is he?” Was it someone who owned a printing business? A person who made prints of paintings?

“Help… me.” He frowned. “Don’t want… die.”

I looked at his torso. The beige silk shirt he had been wearing at the warehouse had two small tears in it as if projectiles had entered through it. One tear was in his abdomen, the other his shoulder. His shirt was dark and wet with his blood. I knew there was nothing I could do to help him. In Colin’s words, this man was the most notorious crime lord in France, yet it made me feel sad to watch the life drain from him. It was not a good feeling. Shouldn’t I be happy that he would no longer put weapons into the hands of criminals and child soldiers?

“Where are we?” I asked again.

“Home.” He coughed softly, but it was enough to send blood running from his mouth. I shuddered.

“Your home?”

He grunted and gave a small nod.

“Who shot you? Who brought me here?”

“Blow… all.”

“Blow what?” This was most exasperating, worse than trying to understand Vinnie’s euphemisms. “Blow something up like a bomb? Blow something away like the wind?”

“So pretty.” Another micro-smile. “Doc, you… pretty.”

The hand lying in the blood pool lifted and I saw the damage for the first time. A bullet had gone through the palm of his hand. I could only imagine that he had held up his hand to appeal to the shooter to stop. It had been an ineffective gesture.

“Big blow… printer.” He coughed again, this time a lot of blood ran down his chin. “So cold.”

He was dying. It was only minutes before he would breathe his last breath and I still didn’t know anything.

“Who did this, Hawk? Who shot you?”

“The Printer… he…” His eyes shot wide open. “Doc, promise me.”

“What do you want me to promise you?”

“Monique.”

It took me a moment to place the name. “Your daughter?”

With his uninjured hand, he grabbed my wrist so quickly, I couldn’t avoid it. His grip was surprisingly strong for a dying man. It was hard to not give in to the blackness calling me. This was fast becoming too much for me to handle. I pushed out my bottom jaw and tried to sit straighter. Hawk squeezed hard around my wrist. “Promise, Doc. Keep… safe. Protect.”

“You want me to look after your daughter?” What an absurd request.

“Promise.” His hand slipped from my wrist, but his eyes pleaded with mine. There was no disguise in his expression, only pure honesty. I remembered the unadulterated adoration in his voice when he had spoken about his daughter. The fear I saw expressed on his face was not for himself. “She… good person. Better…”

“Than you?”

He grunted.

“I will ask someone I trust to make sure she is okay.”

“No. You… you must…” His eyes begged me for something I wasn’t eager to give. But how could I deny a dying man a request like this? Even if he was an evil man?

“I will make sure she is well.”

“Thank y…” His last breath left him on those words. I was not to get another answer from him. I stared at the carotid artery in his neck for a minute, looking for any indication of blood flow. There was none. I didn’t want to touch this man to confirm his death. I knew he was no longer a threat to society. That realisation was immediately followed by the fact that I was kneeling next to a dead man and had his blood on me.

It took mentally writing another page of the Oboe Quartet to gain control. I regained the acuity of my mind, but my muscle strength still had not returned. I leaned back on my heels to take a more careful look around. I had no reason to doubt Hawk that I was in his house. As was often the case with people coming into money very fast, everything I saw in the foyer was bought for its boast value. There was not much personal taste involved, nothing reflective of a specific personality.

At the sides of the foyer where each staircase landed were doors leading to other rooms. The one closest to me was dark and uninviting. A soft light gave me a dimmed glimpse into the room opposite and farther from me. Part of the inside wall I could see was covered in paintings, a few of which I recognised as masterpieces. Even though out of my line of sight, I was sure the wooden floors of that room were covered in more than one Persian carpet. Only the best for new money.

My eyes followed my inane line of thought to the expensive wooden flooring. I wasn’t ready for what I saw in the doorway. The dreaded blackness rushed into my vision powerfully enough that it took more than a few minutes of Mozart to fight it back. The moment I felt I could handle what I had seen, I scrambled on my hands and knees to the familiar-looking legs stretched out on the floor of the other room. I didn’t attempt to stand, knowing my muscles would not carry me fast enough.

I reached the room and had to force myself to enter, to confirm whether it was Colin lying in that room. As I crawled closer, I recognised his strong hands first. Artist hands, but calloused from not living a soft life. I liked that about him. His upper body was lying on a dark blue Persian carpet, clashing with the light green dress shirt he wore. There was a lot of blood on his shirt. Distress tightened my throat, making breathing difficult. I stopped next to him, a soft moan escaping from my dry lips.

“Colin?” Only the third time I called his name did I manage to make a sound. It was scratchy and filled with fear. I touched his hand and immediately dropped it, glared at it. His hand was cold. As if there had been no blood flowing to his hand to warm it up. Was the blood on his shirt his? The thought of not having Colin in my life filled me with such deep dismay, I forgot about all other dislikes.

With shaky fingers I unbuttoned his shirt to look for injuries. Halfway down I realised I should first check his pulse, his breathing. There was complete disarray in my thinking. Gone was my normal systematic, analytical and distant observation and processing of a situation. I was filled with emotions so strong, they paralysed my thinking and caused me to act ineffectually.

“Come on, Genevieve.” I made my voice strong and hard. “Think.”

I took a few focussed breaths and gently touched the side of Colin’s neck. The common carotid artery was the one most easily allowing us to feel a heartbeat. I held my fingers against Colin’s shaved skin, chanting, “Come on, come on, come on.”

I couldn’t feel anything. I took another few breaths and pressed my fingers a little harder against his throat. He was lying deadly still, his strong features unmoving. The first flutter I dismissed as my imagination and hopefulness. I held my position and waited for another five weak, but steady heartbeats before I allowed relief to overwhelm me.

Tears streamed down my face as I continued unbuttoning his shirt. I found no injuries. Whose blood was staining his shirt? And why wasn’t he waking up? I rubbed his sternum hard with my knuckles. “Colin, wake up. Please. Come on. Wake up.”

Distress, but mostly fear heightened the pitch of my voice. Combined with the tears, I sounded like a stranger to myself. Colin didn’t respond to any of my attempts to wake him. With every minute I was moving closer to the dark depths of panic. I continued begging Colin to wake up, but to no avail. Not even when I uncharacteristically raised my voice and punched him on his thigh did he react.

“Oh God, oh God. I have to do something.” A phone. I needed to phone Manny. He would help. I frantically looked around the room for a phone, but could see none. Then I remembered the annoying pinging and vibrating from Hawk’s trousers. I didn’t want to go back into the foyer. I didn’t want to see all that blood again. But there was no phone in this room, on me or on Colin. Our pockets were empty and no matter how hard I looked, there wasn’t a phone in this room.

I didn’t want Colin to die because of my unwillingness to look at blood. I touched his face while taking a few deep breaths. “I’ll be back. I’m just going to get a phone.”

I tried to stand up, but my legs still didn’t want to carry my weight. Not wanting to waste any more time, I crawled back into the foyer and to Hawk’s dead body. I forced myself to only focus on the pocket of his trousers where the pinging had come from. As fast as I could and without unnecessary touching, I removed Hawk’s smartphone. Gripping it tightly, I made my way back to Colin.