C'est la Vie (Raja Williams Series) (6 page)

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 governments 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.”

Raja took the list and left. He had the distinct impression the inspector was sending him on a wild goose chase. But he had another rule he liked to follow: Go wherever the investigation takes you. There is always a reason. Perhaps one day it would get him killed, but so far, following that philosophy had given him a near perfect record of solving cases. Of course, it helps a lot if the person sending you on your way is actually trying to help, not get you killed. In that regard, the verdict on Inspector Gilliard was still out. Regardless of his doubts, Raja punched the first address into the Porsche’s GPS.

The picture of the private detective hunched down inconspicuously in his car watching a location with a camera or binoculars might seem cliche, but it was something every detective had to do at some point on nearly every case. The increase in security cameras posted in public areas made it less necessary, provided you could hack the system, but thank God there were still places out of the reach of cameras. Those places required a personal presence.

Surveillance can tell you a lot. Who was coming to a location, with whom. Who was leaving, when and with what. In most investigations, these are vital bits of data used in solving the case.

Because his bright orange Porsche didn’t make the best surveillance vehicle, Raja parked around the corner from the first address on the list, and took up a spot across the street from the building near the entrance to a small city park. His small but powerful 100x camera scope fit into his palm, drawing little attention.

It didn’t take long for his target to show up. Vinny had sent pictures of the dealers to Raja’s phone for use in identification. Raja confirmed that the man walking up the opposite side of the street was Jules Masson, a small time hood with a penchant for sampling the drugs he sold. Jules called it maintaining product quality, but everyone else knew he was a hop head. Dealers like him did not last long. It made him vulnerable, something that Raja was counting on. Because it also made him paranoid and unpredictable, Raja would have to be smart. He watched as Jules crossed the street a block away, his head and eyes darting around suspiciously in a way that made him obvious to everyone but himself. Raja had to approach him without startling him into a fight or flight reaction.

As Jules neared his door, Raja walked up slowly, “
Bonjour, s’il vous plaît
. Do you speak English?”

Jules spun around, his eyes flashing feral fear.

Raja smiled innocently. “I’m a little lost,” he said, trying to sound like an American tourist.

Jules relaxed and his eyes shifted to resentment. “Americans. Yes, I speak English. Where are you going?”

By this point Raja was only a few feet away. He decided it was time to tell him the truth.

“Listen. I know you are Jules Masson. I am not here to cause any trouble. I am not the police. I am here to ask a couple of simple questions.” Raja kept his hand in his pocket, feigning he had a gun.

Jules stared at Raja’s pocket. “Questions about what?”

“I’m trying to find out where the club drugs come from.”

Jules laughed. “And I would know this how?”

“I don’t want to sell or buy drugs. I’m not trying to compete.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?” The dealer was getting angry.

“I’m looking for someone. An innocent woman who is missing. And I need to know who supplies those drugs. In fact, who knows, helping me may increase your business.”

“It may also get me dead.”

“If you are referring to Bruno
—
”

“If you know him, then you don’t need me. And you never spoke to me. Right?” Jules dropped into fear at the very mention of Bruno.

“I want to know where he gets the drugs.”

“That I don’t know. He controls the supply, but the rumor is it’s a local lab. If I knew I could buy direct.” Jules started getting an idea but thought better of it. “No, I don’t want to know. Who did you say you are?”

“I didn’t,” said Raja.

Jules looked over his shoulder. Two rough characters were approaching. They looked like enforcer types who weren’t interested in making a new friend. Jules sneered. “I think I’m done talking to you.”

Raja turned and walked away. The uncertainty of Raja’s identity kept any of the three men from following, giving him time to turn the corner, get in his car and drive away. He crossed off the first name on his list, and looked at the rest. The idea he was chasing a wild goose came back. Assuming the drugs were manufactured in Paris, he needed some way to narrow the search. He needed Vinny.

He pressed Vinny on the speed dial. “Vinny?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“I met with our first suspect on the drug dealer list. Swell guy. I didn’t get much, but he says the designer drugs are manufactured somewhere in Paris. Do we have any way to locate the place? It is most likely a warehouse.”

“I’ll input some parameters on the ingredients and equipment needed and do a search. Give me thirty minutes.”

“No problem there. I’m heading to the next name on the list. It’s near the Seine River, off the Champs-
E
lys
é
es.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have any data on the location of the drug factory.”

Raja drove south for ten minutes, and after circling the Arc de Triomphe he swung onto the Champs-E
lys
é
es going toward the river. The arch was an impressive symbol of French pride representing important military leaders and victorious battles from France’s history, and Raja could feel the rich history as he tooled along the axis that eventually arrived at the Louvre Museum complex. Raja loved the Louvre. It was a magnificent place where the creations of a thousand of the greatest artists in man’s history lived on.

As he exited from the Champs-
E
lys
é
es and headed to his next address, reality set in. Unfortunately, where he was going the only culture he would run into was the one based on developing and selling an ever-widening variety of chemical highs, that dark underbelly that exists in every large city, where drugs and death are far too common companions.

Raja found the second address easily. It was located across from a popular bakery, Poppa Maseau’s. As Raja walked from a discreet parking spot around the corner, the delectable smell of sweet croissants and other pastries overwhelmed his nose. Realizing the distraction would be too great, he walked into the bakery to buy something to eat. There were shelves covered with pastries of all shapes and colors. Clearly, there was an artist at work. Sure enough, he spotted a small man outfitted in chef gear who was intensely absorbed in his work in the rear. Raja asked the girl behind the counter if he was the baker, but she didn’t understand, being light on English. Instead he pointed to a croissant and held up two fingers.

The girl smiled and nodded, and after sprinkling both with powdered sugar, placed two of the indicated pastries in a bag. After paying, Raja began eating one of the croissants while watching through the plate glass window for the dealer to show his face. With so little intelligence on this dealer’s patterns, he had no idea when to expect him to arrive. Raja preferred catching him outside on the street. Going up directly and knocking at a door, especially where illegal activities were involved, was an invitation to get shot. An encounter on the street out in the open was usually less provoking, and most criminals were severely allergic to attracting attention to themselves in public.

Raja practiced his fledgling French on the cute counter girl while he waited and watched.

Within half an hour Raja had eaten both his croissants, and had bought and started on a third. They were amazingly light and delectable. He established that the counter girl’s name was Nicole, and his attempts at conversation were successful enough to move their relationship into that awkwardly flirtatious and blushing stage. She was amazingly light and delectable, as well. Things had heated up to the point where Raja was efforting to dial it back to simple friendly conversation when he spotted a large hulking man walking on the opposite side of the street. Andre Golette was an unusually tall Frenchman with a classic Charles de Gaulle nose that stuck out like a hawk’s beak from the front of his face. He loped along with a purposeful stride, his open full-length overcoat floating in the breeze he created.

Raja reluctantly dropped his half-eaten croissant into the trash bin and tossed a quick
au revoir
to Nicole, bringing a quizzical frown to her face. The door to the shop opened and closed behind Raja with a bang before she had thought of something to say.
 

Andre was followed by two smaller men who strained to keep up, like two baby ducks waddling behind a parent. Raja had a bad feeling about accosting this group on the street, preferring to watch and follow discreetly. The three men turned down a small alley in the middle of the block, presumably to reach a rear entrance to the flat.

Raja waited until they were out of sight, then raced across the street and pressed up against the building, staying out of the line of sight from the second floor windows.

Raja decided on a risky ploy. He would pretend to be sent by Jules Masson, the dealer he had already met with, to discuss joining forces with Andre in order to squeeze out some of the other dealers. He would especially mention Leon Julian. Vinny’s intel showed that Andre hated Leon over some perceived insult involving Andre’s sister. Raja hoped Andre’s greed and hate for Leon would get him over the hurdle of too many questions, and establish enough favor to get information on the location of the drug-making lab. Of course, any number of random factors, such as Jules and Andre having had a recent falling out, could blow the plan up in Raja’s face.

Raja approached the front door, not wanting Andre to think he had been watching his arrival. He knocked three times slowly, and stood back, thinking calm thoughts.

The peep hole opened for a couple seconds, then snapped shut.

“I am here to see Andre,” said Raja, through the door. “I have a proposal from Jules Masson.”

The door opened to a taut chain. “What do you want?” asked half a face peeking out from behind the door.

“I want to see Andre. I have a message from Jules. A business proposal.”

The face disappeared for a moment and the door closed. There were muted voices. Then the door reopened wider. “Come in,” said the man who now had a whole face and a large gun pointed at Raja’s chest. It was one of the ducklings who had arrived with Andre.

Raja stepped through the door without hesitation, thinking
I’m all in
. It was number five of Raja’s Rules: Go all in. He knew that once you commit to a course of action, you must follow through one hundred percent. Doubt or hesitation will get you killed.

Once Raja was inside, the man closed the door behind him, never turning the gun away. Without a word, he pressed the barrel against Raja’s back and padded him down for weapons. “Straight ahead,” he said, pushing with his gun. Although Raja did not carry a weapon, he was skilled at using them. He had discovered that while guns were a decided advantage in a shootout or an all-out battle, in up close and personal situations, having a gun often gave the holder a false sense of security that was a tactical disadvantage. Raja was very proficient at taking a weapon away from someone else if push came to shove. Today he hoped there would be no shoving.

Raja walked into the back room where the man known as Andre the Giant sat alone on a couch. Despite being grossly large, Raja noticed his face had an almost angelic quality that was enhanced by the high tenor voice that should never have come out of such a large body. The effect was weird, like Andre was channeling the lead in the Vienna Boys’ Choir. It didn’t help to know that Andre’s other nickname was the Angel of Death.