Dollar Down (11 page)

Tough task, almost as tough as trying to figure out why
Sabine had lied about the bracelet.

I wanted to drop this topic cold. Despite my earlier
vow to stick to business, I told Alexandra that her eye shadow
enhanced the range of her iris's shifting hues, between emerald
green and golden brown. She seemed genuinely pleased that
I'd noticed. Mission accomplished. We managed to get through
the rest of dinner with talk of Renaissance art and sixties
movies. She thought the tough guys in film noir were sexy.

I flexed a pec and tried not to smile much.

We said good-bye outside the restaurant and walked
away in separate directions. After a few paces, I glanced over
my shoulder. When I did, our eyes met.

She'd gone from hard ice to lukewarm and chatty. The
backward glance was almost flirtatious. I can't say I minded,
but it was puzzling. Maybe she'd just had a smooth day at the
office.

Voice mail from McNulty was waiting for me at
Sabine's flat. I called him back.

"What's up?"

"Mumby, he's through the roof."

"The fax?"

"I reckon. I was watching his house. As soon as he got
in, he made a call to someone named Tom. I don't know who
that is. Either Tom was out of reach, or he just wasn't
answering his phone. Mumby went into a rage, screaming for
Tom to pick up. Your man has a foul mouth when he's
angry."

"Did he ever make contact?"

"No, but he left a couple of messages. One said to call
back immediately. The other said to meet him tomorrow after
work. He said he would call Tom's office to confirm. I have the
time and the place. Do you want me to be there?"

"I want us both to be there."

It might have been possible to catch an early flight or
train, but I didn't want to risk it. The surest way to get to
London in time was to drive. I dropped a razor, toothbrush and
change of clothes into a sack, tossed it into Sabine's car and
took off for the Chunnel.

The highways were relatively clear this time of night. I
looked through Sabine's music collection. It was a varied
selection, as I would've guessed. One CD stood out, Andre
Segovia's rendition of "Capricho Diabolico," pristine clarity of
classic guitar, perfect for a night drive and for focusing on
creative mischief.

It was early afternoon when McNulty arrived at my
hotel. He knew London a lot better than I did, so we decided
that I would go straight to the meeting place, while he waited
outside Mumby's office. He would follow the banker in case
there was a change of plans.

There were none. McNulty showed up at the
dark-wood paneled pub in central London. We made eye contact,
and he nodded toward the banker. He took a seat close to
Mumby's booth. I stayed at the bar near the door. A few
minutes later, a man in his mid thirties joined Mumby. They
kept their heads close together and held their hands beside
their mouths when they talked. McNulty had sat close to try to
hear, but he wasn't likely to get much.

Mumby's guest was the first to leave the table. I headed
toward the door in front of him and walked slowly. Without
warning, I spun around as though I'd forgotten something. We
bumped hard into each other. "Sorry, are you OK?" My hands
were on his shoulders to steady him. More apologies, hands
down his arms, then back to his shoulders.

"I'm all right." There was a snarl to his voice. He kept
trying to swat my hands away, too much touching from a
strange man. McNulty brushed past and was out the door. I
stepped back to let our boy leave, and then went to the bar to
pick up a newspaper I'd purposely left there.

Outside the pub, McNulty was shuffling at a drunken
pace. He hadn't gotten far when he looked back and saw me
headed his way. He was good. I didn't even see the drop, but I
did see the black wallet on the sidewalk. I picked it up and
opened it. A driver's license belonged to Tom Hall, so did some
business cards. I took one and hoped Tom wouldn't miss it.
First mailbox I came to, I stuffed in the wallet, which at fast
count contained more than two hundred quid. I didn't need it
now, but the fact that it was there made me feel more secure. If
things didn't work out with investigations, at least I was
learning a new trade, pickpocket assistant.

I took the Underground back to my hotel. McNulty was
waiting in the lobby.

"Who's Tom?" was the first thing he said.

"Last name's Hall. His card says he's the director of IT
security for LIFFE."

"Information technology chief, a wanker."

"Yeah, why?"

"He isn't a trader."

I handed McNulty the business card.

"He's young to be a director," he said. "He also has an
odd job, doesn't he, considering the circumstances. I pinned
your note to Mumby's wall, and he goes amok. It describes a
foreign exchange trade, but he calls a computer specialist. Why
would he do that? I had expected Tom to be a trader. No fit, is
there?"

"There might be. If you knew all the backdoors to the
system, how much could you mess around with things? "

"There's got to be safeguards to keep some loose
cannon from rigging the market." McNulty said.

"I don't know what they are, but you must be right. The
likelihood he could overwrite real data and make the dollar
appear to trade at a set level must be zero. But what if he could
do something else, something more subtle."

"Like what?"

"Good question. There a pub around here? I need to
loosen up a creative streak."

McNulty pointed out that we were in London, which
made the existence of a nearby pub not a likelihood but
inevitable. We ordered pints of bitter. I drained off half my
glass, before the brew started working its magic.

"What if he wrote a program that could affect the
timing of trades, so that they were executed in a sequence that
would move the dollar in the direction he wanted.
Stockbrokerages used to do something like that. Before the SEC
cracked down, they regularly traded customer accounts ahead
of or behind trades for their house accounts to maximize
profits."

"You think one lad can sit at home and write
something like that?"

"I read about a guy who did just that, except he wrote a
program for high-frequency stock trading. He tested it, then
gave the program money to play with and started chalking up
earnings. I'm not a programmer, but one strikes me as no less
complicated that the other."

"He'd get caught."

"What if he had a contingency? Foreign exchange is the
biggest market on the planet. He scores and hightails it."

"With Interpol all over his backside."

"South America isn't a bad place for someone with
more money than he could spend in a lifetime."

McNulty didn't look impressed. "What's the tie-in with
Paris?"

I grunted and finished the pint. For a fabulously rich
man with connections, even Venezuela could be a good spot. So
could China. Both were safe from Interpol.

"Do you think you could track Hall and bug his
home?"

McNulty's laugh was low. His eyes sparkled.

On the drive back to Paris, I called Burroughs and told
him the effect his fax about the trade had on Mumby. I also told
him about Tom Hall. "Do you know him?"

"No, but I probably know someone who does. I'll ask
around. You said this guy Mumby was nervous about the fax. If
something's going on, it would be fun to see Hall's face when he
realizes I'm looking for him."

"You said you didn't know him."

"I don't. He knows me. Everybody in the trade knows
me." He chuckled. "I invented the PetaGrid. So long,
Sanchez."

The PetaGrid was still a mystery to me, but I was glad
Burroughs was on my side.

When I got back to Sabine's flat, I went through her
correspondence from Trevor. A lot of it was work related, but
there were a few messages that were personal. None were
threats similar to those I'd found on Sabine's computer, but
one referred to Trevor's home near Monaco. The note invited
Sabine to visit.

I called Oddsson and asked to meet. He said anytime at
my convenience. For me that meant immediately. A lawyer was
with him when I arrived. I gave them the messages. After they
looked through them, the lawyer spoke first.

"I'd like to ask you for an affidavit regarding your
investigation. Mr. Oddsson is still a suspect. The case against
him is weak, but problematic. Mr. Oddsson can easily prove he
was away when Ms. Duveau died. However, there was
speculation that he might have hired someone.

"The evidence you've gathered, I believe, will shift the
focus of the investigation toward Trevor Jones, a spurned
suitor. We turned over Ms. Duveau's computer to the police
and they have determined that the notes were sent from Jones'
computer."

I personally could understand why a man might try to
woo Sabine away from Oddsson, but I had difficulty seeing
Trevor as a murderer. Still, the matter of extreme jealously,
could not be ignored. "I'll give you an affidavit."

"Good," the lawyer said. "Alexandra Roussel has also
agreed. I'm glad that we will be avoiding the necessity for
subpoenas." The lawyer's lips wriggled into a
take-the-apple-Eve smile.

Oddsson clapped his hands. "Let's have a drink." He
pushed the cork out of a champagne bottle and poured three
flutes. Raising his, he thanked me graciously.

"That's all? Just like that?" I wanted to make sure.

Oddsson blinked.

The lawyer answered. "Mr. Oddsson can get back to his
life. I would call that a successful conclusion."

"That's good, but what about identifying the
murderer?"

"I think that's been done," the lawyer said.
"Unfortunately, the weight of the killer's guilt, his suicide, has
deprived the courts of judicial satisfaction."

"Geir, what do you say?"

He blinked twice. "You've seen the notes, Mick. He
threatened her."

Toward the end, the notes were scary. I had to admit
that. "Still, there might be more to it. I've uncovered some
things that bother me."

Oddsson stopped blinking. His eyes had the same
quizzical glint they had when I first saw him. "What sort of
things?"

Some he already knew, but I started from the top
anyway. I told him about the Chinese paper on bitumen and the
mystery bacteria that eats sulfur. About Trevor's foreign
exchange trade and about Mumby. I didn't mention Bizet or
Burroughs, but the loose ends were evident.

The lawyer asked coldly if I was angling for an
extension on my fees. If I pushed he would—

Oddsson waved him to silence.

"Avenging angel," I said. "Remember?"

"What do you want?"

"According to Trevor's projections, the dollar crashes
hard in ten days. That's how long I want. Some things are
already in motion. I can't say what exactly. It would betray
confidences."

"In motion?" Oddsson's eyes were afire with
anticipation. "And you think these things might have
something to do with Sabine's death?"

"Possibly, but right now I have no idea what it might
be."

"Is there a game afoot that I should know more about?"
Oddsson's smile was almost predatory.

I nodded, glad that he was a quick study.

"In that case, you'd better have your ten days, hadn't
you." He flashed a glance at the lawyer.

Good-bye, gentlemen
.

* * * *

I was going over copies of the correspondence from
Trevor again, when Alexandra called. I hoped she was making
good on her promise to invite me to dinner. Not the case.

"I think someone broke into my apartment."

"Have you called the police?"

"No, I can't find anything missing. I don't know what I
would tell them. My door was unlocked when I got home. I
don't specifically remember locking it, but I've never left it
open before. There are," her voice caught, "small things that
seem out of place. It's just a feeling, nothing I can define. After
what's happened, I can't...I'm terrified, Mick."

It sounded like she had been crying. Maybe she had
just been absentminded and forgot to lock the door, but that
didn't change the fact that she was frightened. "Do you want
me to come over?"

My question was followed by a long pause. "Mick,
would you mind if I packed some things and stayed there for a
while. I've visited Sabine before. I know she has an extra room.
I wouldn't get in your way. I usually leave early and get back
late. If you prefer, I'll eat out."

"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.

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.