AL05 - Murder in Clichy

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, Aimee, 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 Rene 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 Rene and figure out what to do. If only she could be sure Rene 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 Rene. 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.

Aimee took a few steps, trying to blend with passersby and reach the Metro 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 Metro plaque glinted. The pills were taking effect. Her vision was clearing. She kept walking: telling herself to concentrate, to make it to the Metro 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.

“Ca 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 Metro,” she said.

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

Right now it sounded wonderful. Gratefully, she entered the black Citroen 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.

“Ca 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.

Aimee 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?

Rene 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,” Aimee replied, and opened her eyes to see a blurred Linh, her hands upheld in a gesture of