Gauguin Connection, The (24 page)

He disappeared through the door and I turned to my computers. I had been so busy with the case, working through loads of data, that I hadn’t watched any footage in what felt like months. It had been only two weeks. I loved observing the subtleties of human interaction. People had no idea how much like, dislike, distrust or love they communicated without uttering a single word. Impatiently I glared at the EDA computer, waiting for the footage.

“Could you please move away from me.” I clenched my teeth and glared at Manny. This was the fourth time I had to ask him to respect my personal space. “At least fifty centimetres.”

“I’m not even touching you.” If possible Manny looked even more rumpled than usual, and had become almost unbearable with his churlishness.

“Fifty centimetres,” was my cold reply and I waited for him to shift away.

With a growl he pushed his chair back a bit. “Happy?”

“My God,” Phillip groaned on my other side. “You two are worse than toddlers. Maybe it’s time we call it a night and go home.”

“No!” Both Manny and I responded immediately. It was unsurprising that we were all tired. We had been going through footage of one Foundation event after the other. The two men had been extremely patient with my insistence on watching what they deemed irrelevant footage. Nothing was ever irrelevant, not in a case like this. I looked at my watch and was not shocked to see that midnight was creeping up on us.

“Phillip, why don’t you go home? You don’t have to be here for this.” Manny reached for his cup of coffee and scowled when he found it empty. “I’m the one who knows all the people in the videos and Miss I-need-my-space here knows how to read them. Go home.”

“And leave you two to kill each other?”

“I won’t kill him, Phillip. Not as long as he stays out of my space.” My sincere promise caused exasperation to overtake Phillip’s facial muscles. I sighed. “Okay, I promise I will try harder to be nice to Manny. Just go home. You really look tired.”

“As do you.”

“We will finish this one video and then Doc and I will also go home.” Manny’s mouth turned down in distaste. “I will stay at least fifty centimetres away from her. Go home.”

Phillip frowned. His exhaustion seemed to override his inherent need to be in control and he stood up. “Only this one video. We can continue this tomorrow. Genevieve, how are you getting home?”

“I’ll phone…” I slammed my mouth shut and was overcome with relief that Manny wasn’t looking at me. He would have seen my face and, as sharp as he was, would have questioned my expression.

“Don’t phone for a taxi.” Thankfully Manny had come to the wrong conclusion. “I’ll take you home.”

Phillip broke the stunned silence before I could refuse. “That’s a wonderful idea. Thank you, Manny.”

I held back my refusal when I saw the warning on Phillip’s face. Vinnie and Colin were not going to be happy about this. As it was Vinnie had reluctantly gone home when I told him that I was going to work late. Neither he nor I had heard anything from Colin, and Vinnie had spent another five minutes reassuring me that Colin was fine. I was worried about the infuriating criminal and really didn’t want an EDA official driving me home. But, since there was nothing to be done about this now, I shrugged my acceptance. After a few more promises of good behaviour, Phillip was mollified and left me with Manny.

Manny moved even farther away from me. “Shall we look at the video of last year’s gala fundraising then?”

“Yes, let’s.” Work was safe territory and I gladly jumped to it. I had downloaded all the footage onto my work computer the moment it was available on the EDA network. We had looked at it in chronological order. I wanted to see if there had been any significant changes in dynamics between the different people. Opening last year’s gala footage with my special viewing software, I watched as the monitors filled with people.

“God, I hate these things,” Manny frowned at the monitors.

“Why?” I was curious. This might be the only thing Manny and I had in common.

“All this pomp and ceremony.”

“Nothing is real. Everyone is there on display, showing their importance, power and influence.”

“Exactly, and I have to go again.” His pained groan caught my attention.

“When?”

“This Saturday. Same place, same people, same bullshit.”

My mind went into overdrive. It was screaming at me to take a moment, write some Mozart and allow the connections to form. I didn’t want to zone out in Manny’s presence, so I pushed it back. Later I would give myself over to Mozart and give my mind freedom. “Do you have an invitation?”

“Unfortunately yes. The invitation is actually a book, a full programme for the evening, including the artwork on auction.”

“Could I see it?”

That got his attention. “Why?”

“Just something I’m thinking.” I tried to be nonchalant. Manny’s glare proved yet again I had no future in acting. I reverted to impatience. “Get me the programme. If my suspicions are grounded, the programme will prove it. Until I see it, I’m not going to say anything more on this topic.”

“Okay, okay.” He lifted both hands. “You can have the bloody programme. It’s in my car. Shall we get back to the footage? We’re missing the fun parts.”

I frowned at his sarcasm, but turned my attention back to the monitors. We watched in silence for a few minutes.

“Pause it.” He waited until the monitors showed a still picture of well-dressed people in a room reminiscent of balls held centuries ago. Waiters were carrying trays heavy with champagne or appetisers. Large chandeliers bathed the room in the right kind of light to soften lines and wrinkles. “You see those flowers everywhere? It’s awful. This house is in a flower street, the front yard is a jungle of bloody flowers and at these events, they go totally overboard with flower arrangements. The whole house reeks.” His top lip lifted in disgust.

“Are you allergic?” It was the only logical conclusion for a hatred of something that gave most people pleasure.

“Terribly,” he answered. His eyes narrowed and he leaned a bit closer. “This is actually a good shot. See, there on the left is the Head.”

The Head of the EDA, Sarah Crichton, was a short, stout woman who carried herself with an assuredness usually only found in men. Her short brown hair framed a face that seldom smiled. I had watched her at more than half a dozen events and liked her. Even though she didn’t wear a social smile like most of the men surrounding her, she showed genuine interest in those who approached her. She spent equal time with everyone, favouring no one.

“Who is that?” With my laser pointer, I aimed at a man who was leaning towards Sarah Crichton. Unfortunately, he was also leaning away from the camera, which made it difficult to see his face and body.

“It looks like him.” Manny narrowed his eyes and leaned towards the monitors. “Yup, it’s Brigadier-General Nick Crenshaw.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

“No.” Manny sat back in his chair. “Fortunately I don’t have to work with him.”

“If it makes you feel any better, your Head also doesn’t like him.”

Manny straightened with interest. “She doesn’t?”

“No.” I played the footage in slow motion. “Look at when he approaches her. Her torso very slightly moves away from him, even though she looks straight at him and gives him her full attention. We move our torsos away from what we don’t like or what doesn’t appeal to us.” I stopped the video. Using the software to find the exact clip I was looking for, I zoomed in on her face while I played it in slow motion. “Look at her face. She’s squinting ever so slightly. We do that when we want to block objectionable things. Her lowered eyebrows tell the same story as does this.” I stopped the video to show the corners of her mouth pulling towards her ears. “In real time you might not even notice the movement of her lips. And someone might mistake it for a smile, but this micro-expression uses the
buccinator
muscles on the sides of the face. It is not a smile.”

“What is it then?” Manny looked from the image on the monitor to me.

“A sneer.” I paused to appreciate the surprise on Manny’s face. “Taken in the full context, she most definitely does not like Brigadier-General Crenshaw.”

He turned back to the monitors, studying the paused image. “Play it again.”

I played the clip again, first in slow motion and then in real time. “Did you see it?”

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t pointed it out. This is really amazing, Doctor Face-reader. What else can you tell about these people, the ones we were looking at earlier?”

“Let’s see.” I pressed play and watched a few more minutes. I stopped the footage and hesitated. Where was Phillip when I needed guidance?

“What?” Manny must have picked up on my unease.

I decided to take the plunge. “It’s you. Look at your body language over here. For most of this clip you lean back to keep your distance, but are socially polite. When this man—”

“That’s Frederique Dutoit, the Chief Executive of the EDA.”

“I know.” I had seen the tall man in enough clips to recognise the elegant middle-aged man. He was wearing a quality bespoke suit and carried himself with a dignity born from understated power. I studied him as he leaned towards Manny in amicable camaraderie. “When he approaches you, you hide your hands. This is the first time that I’ve seen you do that.”

Manny looked at his hands resting on his thighs and frowned unhappily. “And what does that mean?”

“It means that you are suspicious of the person you are speaking to or you are uncomfortable to speak with him. Why don’t you trust him?”

“I do trust him. He is one of the most honourable men I know. He has been awarded many medals for his service to the continent. During the Cold War, he even went undercover in Russia for some time. His selfless actions have saved many lives. Sure, his enthusiasm for attending the Foundation’s gala annoyed me, but for him it has always been about charity, about giving back. On their holidays, Dutoit and his wife Irena open their farm in Hungary to unprivileged kids. He takes them fishing, horse riding and Irena teaches them to cook. He even has artists and musicians come to teach them.” Manny stopped his rationalisation to frown at my incredulous expression.

“Such an impassioned defence of someone else is often required to convince the speaker rather than the audience. Again I ask, why don’t you trust him?”

Manny swallowed his immediate response and took his time to answer. “I thought I did. You’ve just successfully cast a healthy twenty-year-long working relationship in doubt.”

“No, I didn’t. I just told you what your subconscious already knew.”

“Well, I don’t know why I don’t trust him.” He paused. “I know why I don’t like Crenshaw. He likes the
Russkies too much and doesn’t respect the code.”

“What code?”

“It’s an unspoken code, Doc. We live by this code through being loyal, honest, respectful and true to something much bigger than us. Crenshaw is only watching out for numero uno.” He looked at me and a small smile tugged at his mouth. “Numero uno is himself. He’s only watching out for himself. He doesn’t care about anyone else.”

“Does the Chief not live by that code? Is he also watching out for
numero uno?” The expression felt foreign and wrong on my tongue.

“Chief Executive Frederique Dutoit has a reputation of being fair, loyal and demands more of himself than he does of those who work for him.”

“Yet you are not convinced.”

“You are much too sharp, missy.”

If sarcasm was what he used to mask his anger, provocative insults were his way of masking his discomfiture. I decided to not say anything about his offensive form of address. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It is just what I see on the footage.”

“I know. And you are right. Dutoit has been in the EU military scene for longer than Leon, myself and Crenshaw. He’s moved around a bit as well, also spending time in Eastern Europe, but he never became as attached to that side of the world as Crenshaw.”

“They seem to have some connection though.”

“What do you mean?”

I played a few minutes of footage and pointed to the monitor. “Look at how studiously they avoid each other. Apart from the expected social greetings, they never speak to each other. They keep circulating the room away from each other, but visually seek each other out every now and then.”

“I have no idea what to make of that. Are you sure they’re not acting normally?”

I lifted one eyebrow, tilted my head to one side and gave him a sideways look. Really? After being so impressed with my ability to read people, he dared question it? He sniffed and turned his attention back to the monitors when I continued playing the footage. We watched people milling around, but I kept looking for Leon, Manny, Sarah Crichton, Crenshaw and Frederique Dutoit. It was the dynamics between these people that were important. For the moment.

This was one of the few videos that also had an audio feed. For the most part I turned it off to focus on the body language rather than being distracted by the din of a social gathering. It reminded me too much of my childhood, my parents entertaining high society, expecting me to be normal. On the monitors I watched the same kind of people acting out the same rituals I saw as a child. Some things never changed.

I watched as Crenshaw charmed an older lady, smiling insincerely when addressed by the lady’s overweight, middle-aged female companion. If I had to guess, it was the older lady who had either the power or prestige Crenshaw was after. The companion was an obvious annoyance to him. From the left appeared a man in uniform and touched Crenshaw lightly on the shoulder to gain his attention.