Murder in Clichy (14 page)

“Julien, please. The consortium has an agenda that you should be aware of.”

“I don’t understand. Which hat are you wearing right now?”

He smiled. His large eyes were reddened with fatique.

“Everyone wants the inside track. I’ve attended so many meetings in the past few days, I can’t keep my head straight.”

What did he mean? “But how does that concern me? Our firm does computer security. What agenda are you referring to?”

“We’d like you to keep your eyes open. And
I’d
like to have copies of your reports sent to me.”

Industrial espionage? What was that saying about no free lunches?

“But Olf is paying me; I don’t understand.”

“Look, to insure this venture overseas will be an immense risk.”

“But the financial rewards would be astronomical, wouldn’t they?”

She was guessing but from the way he drummed on the table with his knife, it looked like her question had hit home. The charts and graphs she’d seen in the conference room indicated the project involved PetroVietnam.

“So Olf’s negotiating, or vying, for oil rights and you want to know about the competition.”

“Under your sweet and innocent exterior,” he said, sitting back, “you’re sophisticated and complex.”

Sweet and innocent? But she had obviously guessed right.

“We know who our competition is. The British and Chinese. We’d like you to monitor the engineering department’s e-mail.”

“I run a detective agency specializing in computer security, not in industrial espionage. Now you don’t have to buy me lunch. I can just leave, no hard feelings.”

A waiter appeared at her elbow with an appetizer of smoked salmon dotted with caviar.

“And you, Aimée, what’s the expression, ‘pack a punch.’ We’ll pay you accordingly. I’ve mentioned this to Verlet, so you’re not going behind his back. But you’re welcome to confirm my request. Why don’t you call him right now?”

“I take your word for it,” she said. But suspicion nagged at her.

What was it about de Lussigny that made her wary? The smile in his tired eyes, the languid way he commanded attention from the waiter, his aura of power, the way he had brushed her hand with his as he reached for the bread?

A slow throb mounted in her head. Centered in her right temple. Fractals of light fused into a bluish fog.

She rubbed her eyes . . .
non
. . . but it didn’t go away. Fear clutched her. Where were her pills? She reached in her bag, felt for them, and downed two with wine.

“Our consortium finds it prudent to monitor this activity. It’s just a slight extension of your job.”

A blurred fuzz bordered her vision. The sideboard with assorted tarts and pastries tilted, the walls unfolded. Panic overtook her and she felt sick to her stomach.

“As I suggested, confer with Verlet,” he said, taking a forkful of salmon. “The salmon’s Norwegian, why don’t you taste it?”

Guy had warned her that stress would affect her optic nerve. She took a deep breath. Tried to relax.

But she couldn’t.

She wanted to leave the resto before her eyesight blurred even further; before she saw two of everything. She had to get away from this man who had just asked her to spy on the Brits and Chinese. But one didn’t say no to a client. At least not to his face. What if he put pressure on her, or Verlet, threatening to withdraw their contract? Would René think it best to cooperate?

“I’d appreciate your help,” he said, his voice pleasant. “Just copy me on your reports.”

Her peripheral vision was fading. She gripped the napkin, felt the crumbs on the table.

“That’s all?” she asked.

He made it sound easy. But she sensed there was more to it. “I don’t foresee a problem but I need to let my partner know; he’s the one who’d coordinate our other jobs while I did this.”

She had to get away and think: the oil rights, PetroVietnam, the Chinese. Did the jade link up to any of this?

“So, it’s a workload issue?” de Lussigny asked. “Of course, I understand.”

The fog began to recede to the edges of her vision. She prayed it would stay there. She pulled on her dark glasses.

“I need to check with him. Now.”

She put her napkin on the table.

“But your food!”

“Please, excuse me.”

She stumbled, gathered her bag and left. Outside, in the chill wind, she had to grab the stair railing to orient herself. If she could just get back to the office. If only she could talk to René and figure out what to do. If only she could be sure René was safe. She had to put an ice pack on her eyes.

Someone familiar approached. She recognized that gait, the roll forward on the balls of his feet, even if she couldn’t see him clearly. It was Guy. His office was a few blocks away. Now she felt guilty for having lunch with de Lussigny. She was about to run and hug Guy, apologize again. Explain about René. Somehow convince him . . . and then she realized he was engrossed in conversation.
Non,
kissing someone. His arm was around a petite blonde.

A sharp pain pierced her. She stumbled and turned away. Afraid to believe what she thought she saw. She looked again as they walked right past, too busy to notice her, and studied the resto menu.

Aimée took a few steps, trying to blend with passersby and reach the Métro entrance. Could she have mistaken someone else for him?

And then she heard laughter, a woman saying “Stop teasing, Guy.”

Ahead, the green metal around the red Métro plaque glinted. The pills were taking effect. Her vision was clearing. She kept walking: telling herself to concentrate, to make it to the Métro steps, then to the platform. Trying to ignore the recollection of Guy’s invitation to move in together. How quickly he’d forgotten. Only a few stops and then she’d reach Leduc Detective and could collapse. She had to keep going while she could.

The womanizing traitor!
A wave of dizziness overcame her and she reached for the side of the magazine kiosk. Missed. Caught herself on the newspaper rack.

“
Ça va
? You look green,” Julien de Lussigny said, catching her arm.

Startled, she froze. “Please, I feel terrible if you left your meal on my account—”

“Just got a call and have to rush off to a meeting,” he inter- rupted, buttoning his coat. “The investors have questions. As always!”

No aura of power or mystique surrounded him now as he gave her a tired grin. Or maybe it was the concern in his eyes. He looked more human. Light drizzle misted the gray pavement.

He unfurled an umbrella and held it over them.

“Merci,
but I’m headed to the Métro,” she said.

“Look, my driver’s here, let me give you a ride.”

Right now it sounded wonderful. Gratefully, she entered the black Citroën idling at the curb. She slumped in the back seat and kept from turning to look out the back window for Guy and the blonde.

“
Ça va?”
he asked. “Should we stop at a pharmacy?”

“
Non, merci
,” she said. “My office on rue du Louvre, if you don’t mind.”

He was strangely quiet in the few minutes it took them to get there.

Aimée thanked him and mounted the steps to Leduc Detective, feeling her way up by clutching the cold banister. Crystalline streaks webbed her vision, like the
fleur de sel
salt crystals she’d seen harvested in the Mediterranean, floating sheetlike to the water’s surface.

She opened the frost-paned office door, now fractaled with light. Inside the office, she dropped her bag, her hands shaking. Would her vision clear?

René was in danger, the RG threatened her and she still hadn’t found the jade. And Guy. . . .

She rooted in her desk drawer for more pills, found two and a bottle of Vichy water. When her hands steadied she downed them, sat, and took deep breaths. Think, she had to think. To calm her mind. She tried to visualize a river, flowing and smooth, with a current like a dark ribbon.

A loud knock on the door startled her. “Who’s there?”

“Linh,” the voice said.

“Come in please,” Aimée replied, and opened her eyes to see a blurred Linh, her hands upheld in a gesture of greeting.

“I’m sorry Linh . . . my vision.”

“Chaos fights your spirit,” Linh interrupted.

“We call it inflammation of the optic nerve,” Aimée said. “Please, do sit down.” She indicated the Louis XV chair, then reached for an ice pack from the first aid kit.

“Non,
” Linh said. “Cold chills the channels.” She reached into her bag for an embroidered pouch and pulled out a small packet. “Try the Eastern way. Herbs. Let me take your pulse.”

Long deft fingers pressed Aimée’s wrist in several places.

“Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Like this.” She stuck out her tongue and Aimée did the same.

“Abnormality of the liver is evidenced by a tense, pounding pulse and red tipped tongue indicating post-traumatic stress,” Linh said. “For this we build the fever, let the heat burn out the infection, unlike doctors in the West.”

Aimée smelled mint. To each his own, Aimée thought. It was worth a try.

“You’re an herbalist, too?” she asked.

Linh shook her head as she applied mint oil to Aimée’s temples and brow. “Everyone in my country treats it this way. From when we’re little babies.”

So they carried herbs instead of aspirin?

“Close your eyes. Take deep breaths,” Linh said, massaging Aimée’s hands. “Let the mint oil take effect.”

Aimée felt a warmth and slight tingling on her brow. The curious warmth traveled to the top of her skull and down her neck.

“René’s been kidnapped,” she told Linh. “The kidnappers want the jade. I found no clues at the auction house. And Gassot’s proving elusive.”

“Mon Dieu!”
Linh leaned forward, worrying her beads. “I will pray for him tonight.”

“Linh, an RG agent is seeking the jade, too,” Aimée said. “What do they have to do with it?”

“Who?”

“The RG’s a secret service, affiliated with the Préfecture and National Police.” And under the watchful eyes of the Ministry, she added silently.

Aimée felt a cold ruffle of wind by her knee, the musk of incense, and Linh’s hand on her shoulder.

“I’m being watched,” Linh said. “By whom, I’m not sure. One of the meditators gave me a ride here. She let me off around the block. But I may have been followed.”

Aimée opened her eyes. Linh had gone to the window. Shadows from the trees on rue du Louvre bruised the office walls. Aimée couldn’t read Linh’s expression.

“The pieces were disguised—” Linh began.

“Don’t you mean they
were used
to disguise twelve much older jade disks?” Aimée interrupted. “To hide them in plain sight, so to speak?”

Silence, except for the buses shuddering in diesel agony and the klaxons heralding a traffic jam below. A cobweb clotted the edge of her vision. Linh made no reply.

“And they’ve been stolen. Tell me, what do they have to do with—”

“Reste tranquille
. Let the herbs work,” Linh said, soothingly. She rubbed more mint oil on Aimée’s temples.

“The Vietnamese secret police are watching me. I told you that,” Linh said. Her eyelids batted in the nervous mannerism Aimée remembered. “My mother gave me a jade bracelet when I was five. She called it a fortune teller. Good quality jade changes color after its been worn. If the jade fades, it indicates bad luck. But if it grows more vibrant, a lush green, life energy is flowing well and this predicts good luck, good health, wealth, and many offspring.”

“And your bracelet?”

There was another long pause. Now warmth ringed the crown of Aimée’s head, her palms felt moist and she noticed a tingling sensation coursing down her arms.

That’s personal,” Linh finally said.
“

Was that why Linh became a nun? Now, Aimée felt a deep sadness emanating from her.

“You Westerners don’t understand. Jade means much more to us than a trinket in a jewelry store window. The only way to win our people is through our beliefs, our souls.”

“Does this have to do with PetroVietnam and oil rights?” Aimée asked bluntly.

“The only politics I’m concerned with is obtaining my brother’s release,” Linh said. “Please, you’re the only one I can trust. Find the jade, before someone else does.”

Then Aimée’s vision gave out.

AIMÉE BLINKED several times. Afraid to try to focus. Light reflected and prismed from the decanter on her office desk. Her silk sleeve smelled of mint and her head felt curiously clear. No cobwebs or blurriness. Just a curious tingling at the base of her skull. And clear vision.

The herbs? A combination of pills and herbs? Linh had left a small vial of mint oil on her keyboard.

She reached into her pocket for the jade disk. Felt the cold comforting roundness.

Her pills were finished. She picked up the phone to call Guy.

But he had had a blonde in his arms on the street.

She debated. But a minute later she punched in his number, determined to sound businesslike.

“Guy?”

“I’m in the middle of rounds right now,” he said, curtly.

“Sorry, I just ran out of pills,” she said.

“I’ll call a prescription in.”

Coward. She wished she could tell him she missed him. How it hurt her to see him with another woman. Did he hear the false bravado in her voice?

“Right away,” he said.

She heard someone say ‘Doctor, what about the intravenous line?’ and the pinging of bells in the hospital ward.

“If that’s all . . .” he said.

Silence.

“Can we talk later?”

“What’s there to talk about, Aimée?”

“I guess nothing.” The words caught in her throat and she hung up. She’d blown it again.

She forced herself to stand up, get her bag. Not to call him back and accuse him of being with another woman. What would be the point? He’d made his choice and moved on fast. Seems he’d had someone else waiting in the wings. Better to end it now.

She’d ignore the hollowness she felt. Sooner or later she’d get over it. What if she’d agreed to move to the suburbs? He’d have expected her to have his dinner waiting. She couldn’t even whip up an omelet! Forget Guy. She had to focus on finding René. Somehow the disks were the key; Linh had as good as confirmed it. Why had de Lussigny tried to enlist her to spy?