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

  Vinny could feel his hot breath, and the hair on her neck stood straight up. She steeled herself and turned around slowly. “So far so good,” said Vinny, trying to back away from Bruno. He grabbed her at the elbow and pulled her closer. “I’ve gotten no complaints from the customers. Let’s keep it that way, ma chérie.” He squeezed hard deliberately and then let go.

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best,” said Vinny. Picturing several ways she might cripple Bruno allowed her to smile while she said it.

  Bruno smiled back and walked away.

  At four in the morning Vinny’s shift finally ended. The bar closed and the customers began thinning out. Her feet felt like lumps of throbbing lead. She had pulled three hundred euros in tips but at a steep cost to her sense of decency. Her estimate of blisters and bruises said that she had one for every single euro she had earned. She sat down and watched the other waitresses and dancers changing into street clothes, too tired to do the same herself.

  “First night?” asked a gorgeous redheaded dancer who sat next to her wiping off rouge.

  “How could you tell?” Vinny chuckled at hearing the disgust in her own voice. When she looked up the redhead was smiling.

  “Antoinette,” said the redhead by way of an introduction. “Are you a dancer?”

  “Everyone else seems to think so,” said Vinny.

  “It’s how Bruno operates. He doesn’t usually hire waitresses. He only hires girls he wants to dance. Thinks he can charm them into it. More like scare them. Although it does pay better. You’ll see.”

  The metro train got Vinny within three blocks of Raja’s flat, and she dragged herself the rest of the way on foot. Raja was sound asleep. Vinny was soon to follow.

  Chapter Nine: Margaret Meets Her Captor

  When Margaret awoke for the second time, light streamed into the room from a window above her on a side wall. She was alone in a small, plain, bare room with shelves running floor to ceiling on three sides. They were empty. She guessed it might be a large pantry or storage room. The high ceiling and crown molding told her it must be in a substantial, large house. Margaret had no idea how long she had been there. Although it might have been only one day, the empty knot in her stomach said two or three was much more likely. She was ravenous and dehydrated. She twisted her hands painfully, but the straps tying her hands behind her back were not going to come loose. She opened her mouth to shout for help and managed only a strained croak that would never penetrate the solid walls. There was nothing she could do but wait.

  Margaret thought about why she was there. It certainly couldn’t be for ransom. She and her husband had a moderate amount of savings, but nothing near the prize that she conceived would be necessary to drive someone to commit such an act. Her husband Phillip, bless him, was a passionate man only about his books and studies. He had no political connections and he certainly had no enemies. Other than offending one of the other professor’s wives who was being intolerably smug in bragging about her own husband’s accomplishments, neither did Margaret.

  Margaret couldn’t remember how she had gotten into the room, or what she had been doing before she was taken captive. She had a vague recollection of shopping, of walking on the streets of Paris, and then nothing. The void in her memory was disconcerting.

  The isolation and complete sense of helplessness had finally driven her down into a wooden lethargy when the door suddenly opened. A man of about thirty stepped into the room. He strode quickly to her side. Margaret felt too apathetic to bother resisting or being afraid. The man reached behind her and began loosening the straps. “Sacré bleu,” he said, more to himself than to her. Then he turned and walked out of the room. Margaret saw the gun attached to his belt as he spun around. She finished untying the strap and freed her hands, rubbing them to regain proper circulation. The red marks on her wrists felt worse than they actually were.

  The man returned with a glass of water and handed it to her. “Don’t drink too fast,” he advised, but Margaret ignored the advice and began guzzling. She gagged and choked some of the water back up. Margaret peered up at the man like a child who has spilled something and expects punishment. He ignored the spillage and bent down to untie the strap binding her feet together. Margaret had the momentary urge to smash him with the water glass but, recalling the gun he carried, thought better of it.

  After releasing her feet, the man stood up and faced Margaret. His forehead wrinkled as he appeared to be mulling something over. His hand twitched nervously near the handle of his gun. “Do not try to escape,” he said, emphasizing the order. Then he turned and left as quickly as he had arrived. Margaret heard the door bolt click solidly as he locked her in the room.

  A short time later Margaret heard the bolt slap back out of its hole, and the door opened again. This time the man held a portable tray table with food on it. He placed the table down in front of her. “Please take your time,” he said, sounding sincere.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t do you much good if I choked to death, now would it?” said Margaret.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand you have brought me here against my will. I demand you release me immediately.” Margaret had passed right through the fear stage. “I insist you let me contact my husband.”

  The man looked annoyed and exasperated. “I’m afraid you are in no position to demand anything. You are lucky to still be alive. For now, that will have to be enough. You will stay here.”

  Margaret studied her captor’s face. She had recently read a book proposing the theory that there are common genetic markers that cause identifiable physical characteristics found in most criminals. Right now she wasn’t buying it. He looked normal enough. He could have been one of Phillip’s colleagues or the husband of one of her bridge club friends. She supposed the indifference he showed toward her was a product of his criminal nature. She forced herself to remember that he was a person with a father and mother, just like she. “I don’t know your name,” she said quietly.

  “Didier,” he said, just as quietly. “Didier Perrin.”

  Margaret suppressed the panic rising in her chest. Her mind raced. She had watched enough kidnapping thrillers on the BBC to know what that meant. This man had shown her his face and now he had told her his real name. She was sure of it. No matter how decent he appeared, that could only mean one thing. She would not get out of there alive. She tried to make eye contact, but Didier refused. She could cry and beg for her life, but not yet. That would be her last resort.

  Didier turned away from her and left the room, bolting the door behind him.

  Chapter Ten: Best Laid Plans

  For the first time in months, Vinny slept a whole night’s worth. When Vinny woke up it was eleven, and Raja was already gone. A long shower washed away the hands from the previous night’s gropings and the long sleep had fully recharged her batteries.

  Vinny had collected samples of three different drugs selling at the club that she needed to get analyzed. Using the police lab without knowing how extensive the corruption ran in the police department was out of the question. If the lab was compromised, the word could get back to Bruno and she could end up dead. Instead, Vinny found a small independent lab in the phone book. Offering twice the asking price got her priority service. After dropping her samples at the lab, she spent the rest of the afternoon researching.

  She called Raja.

  “Vinny, how was your first night?”

  “Don’t ask. I slept until eleven.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.”

  “Did you find out anything at the club?”

  “I’ve got samples of three drugs currently being tested. Don’t worry, I didn’t use the police lab. I also figured out how they launder the drug money. It’s ingeniously simple really. The customer gets one dose of a designer drug for use at the club handed to him by a waitress. There is no money exchanged, therefore no ‘sale’ that t
akes place. Separately, the booze tab is adjusted to reflect the drugs bought, marked as drinks. Even with forensic accountants going over the club’s books, there’s no way to connect the money with the drugs.”

  “Maybe that’s what makes the squirrelly little accountant so valuable.”

  “That could be.”

  “What were the drugs that you turned up at the club?” asked Raja.

  “The samples I sent for testing were called Drone, X and Cloud Nine, all designer drugs. That doesn’t mean that’s what they were. Many designer drugs were originally created in the pharmaceutical company labs, but shelved in favor of other chemical variations. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of them, that have slight chemical differences from already banned drugs that keep them legal for years. Governments have caught on more recently, but keeping up with the science is next to impossible.”

  “Who thinks up the names?”

  “Good question. The names make them popular with the kids. Ecstasy, Smile, Cloud Nine, just to name a few. The truth is, often times the actual drug sold under a particular name varies widely. That is what makes these so-called designer drugs especially dangerous. It is buying a pig in a poke. We’ll see what the lab says they actually are. How’s your investigation going?”

  “I may have located the drug lab. Of course, having an address and getting the police to do anything about it are two entirely different things. I’m going to find out how much the Paris police want to stop the local drug trade.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Vinny. “I also found some traffic on our missing woman, Margaret Browning. There is a lot more interest in locating her than I first thought. But, none of it is showing up on official channels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got an RF capture program running through satellite that is keyed to any reference to her. Some of the traffic is between local hoods, some between police officers. All on private lines.”

  “You can hack all that?”

  “Yeah, dude. P-O-C.”

  “So, we have the criminals and the cops looking for Mrs. Browning, but on the sly. Why the low profile? And what is so important about a British woman on holiday in Paris?”

  “I was hoping you could answer that one, Raj.”

  “Okay, Vinny, find out whatever else you can. I’m down at the narcotics division, waiting to see someone. I’ve got a raid to plan. Gotta go.”

  The narcotics division was run by a Captain Rochefort, a famous fixture in the Paris police department. He had been running narcotics for over ten years as the one exception to the policy of frequent assignment changes that was needed to keep the division clean. His integrity was considered beyond reproach. He had initially doubted the information from Raja, but on the recommendation of Inspector Gilliard, he had agreed to meet.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Williams,” said a young officer. “Follow me.” The officer led Raja to an open room full of desks. On one side of the room, a raised platform held a commanding view of the entire room. A tough angular-jawed man with salt and pepper hair sat behind a large wooden desk on top of the platform. He looked to be over fifty, but had the physique and presence of a much younger man. It was Captain Rochefort. He preferred a spot in full view of his men rather than a private office out of sight. He had learned from his days in the military that men do not respect a commander they cannot see. He waved for Raja and the officer to approach using a three-step stair on the side.

  “You are the private investigator who brings me the gift of intelligence information on a major drug lab in my city. You are not Greek, are you?” The captain was referring to the Greek gift of the Trojan horse that felled Troy.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good, then let’s hear more. Sit down.”

  Raja outlined the data he had collected so far, including what Vinny had discovered at the Cabaret d’Artois.

  “You are American, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have been in Paris how long?”

  “Less than a week.”

  “Impressive. If you don’t mind, I will need time to talk with my officers to get their input and bring them up to speed. If your information fits with what we already know, then we will proceed.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Raja knew that was as far as he could push it today. One of the difficulties of crashing the party as an outsider was that any detective work you did, especially if it was good, inevitably made someone in the police department look bad. Raja pegged the Captain as a straight shooter, and decided his best play was to give the Captain enough room to make the idea palatable to his men.

  Chapter Eleven: Dancing Madly Backwards

  Another grueling night of the same at Cabaret d’Artois gave Vinny the chance to meet more of the staff. The younger girls were sure they were on their way up in the world, and more than a few of the older ones were on their way down, but they were a decent group for the most part. Corinne Reneau was nowhere to be found. Coco told Vinny that Corinne had been taking time off because of her brother’s death. None of the other girls knew much about Corinne aside from her having a personal relationship with Bruno.

  Halfway through the night Vinny met the little bald man who had been sitting with Bruno when Raja and Vinny first visited the club. He was hanging around the dressing area when Vinny took her break, carrying a black ledger.

  “Bonsoir,” he said softly. “You are the new girl, yes?”

  “Yes.” Vinny looked at the strange little man. He seemed like such an unlikely character to be in a Parisian cabaret. But every business needs a bookkeeper. The small black eyes that peered over his reading glasses looked like buttons and gave off no emotion.

  “Livinia, is it not?”

  “Vinny works for me.”

  “I like that—Vinny. I am Henri Duchamp.” He made no attempt at the usual French embrace and kiss she had come to expect, especially from men.

  Vinny assumed he was shy. “What do you do here, Henri?”

  “Nothing very important. I keep some of the books.” He held up a ledger that she had noticed was a permanent accessory to his wardrobe. “I trust you are getting along with the other girls?”

  “Yes. So far they have all been helpful and nice.”

  “Good. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me. I am more resourceful than I look, and you never know when I may be able to help.”

  One of the other girls came in and affectionately kissed the top of Henri’s head. “I see you have met Henri,” she said. “He is a sweetheart. All the girls rub his head for good luck. I swear, it does seem to work. And he is right. He can be helpful. When my twins were sick and I was short on money, he got me a badly needed raise.”

  “Lise, the young ones are doing well, I hope?” asked Henri.

  “Healthy and happy, thanks to you,” said Lise, rubbing his head as she left. The girls all liked Henri and treated him as a sort of lucky mascot. Vinny noticed that, although he didn’t seem to mind, he did not appear to take any pleasure from it either. Asking Henri about the club got nothing but vague answers. Apparently his nose was too buried in his books for him to notice what was going on.

  Throughout the night, Vinny met and talked to the other waitresses and as many of the dancers as she could to find out more about the club. There were VIP clients who sat in the balcony or had private booths on the side. Vinny watched a wealthy Arab spending money like it was water, or to make a better comparison, oil. She remembered stories she had heard about when the Arab oil industry had first exploded, and there was so much money that small towns would have fifty-gallon drums full of money sitting out in the town square for anyone to use. Here in the club, many of the patrons liked to spread their money around either to attract girls or just to show off. Vinny tried to get closer to the wealthy Arab, but Luc stepped into her line of sight and shook his head slowly, warning her away.

  “I thought I might get a big tip,” said Vinny, when she reached Luc. “He looks like
he could afford it.”

  “That is Sheik Barafa from Saudi Arabia. He is strictly off limits to you, for now. Of course, when you prove yourself to me, I can set you up with some of the other heavy hitters.” He smiled in a way that made it clear how she could prove herself. Luc was trying to follow in Bruno’s footsteps, but Vinny doubted he had the stones or the nasties to pull it off.

  “That’s all right. I’ll make do.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Luc. “You don’t know what you are missing.”

  “I think I do.”

  Luc got red-faced and stormed off. Vinny was right about the stones.

  Vinny watched one of the courtesans expertly reel in an older man who looked like a conservative business or government type. She danced with him closely until his motor was humming, then pulled away as if she remembered an appointment she had somewhere else. Seeing his chance about to evaporate, he went for it, offering her money and asking her to accompany him upstairs. She looked at her watch impatiently to up the ante, and he undoubtedly offered her more money to persuade her to make a schedule change. Finally she smiled and took his arm. This was not the type of client who was going to sneak up the back stairway. Instead, he walked slowly and proudly to the main stairs with the girl on his arm, enjoying the rare chance to be seen in public with such a beautiful young woman.

  For the most part, the courtesans kept to the third floor. Vinny met one named Yvette during her break. Yvette was arguing with Bruno near the back stairwell to the third floor. Vinny couldn’t hear what they were saying but the conversation ended with Bruno slapping the girl in the face. She came into the dressing room crying.

  When she sat in front of a mirror to fix her makeup, Vinny could see the red welt rising on her cheek. Bruno had hit her hard. When Yvette noticed Vinny watching, she said, “What are you looking at? Have you never seen a man hit a woman?”