rocked, try that. I’ll stay in touch.”
She hung up.
Rene had plugged into an outlet, powered up the PC, and was clicking over the keyboard. “Here’s some good news,” he said. “The
A feeling she could relate to right now.
“So unless they suspect right away that the murder was connected to his work, they won’t come for his Mac hard drive until tomorrow.” He stared at her. “Whoever called Nadia wasn’t a
More complicated with every step.
“If Alstrom denies access, wouldn’t that mean they know he’s dead?” Rene asked.
“We won’t know until you try,” she said. “Your pager’s on, Rene?”
He nodded.
She pulled up the e-mail she’d forwarded to Vavin and opened it: Regarding understanding reached in yesterday’s meeting with the vice minister of Interior and Alstrom’s bureau chief, you have the go-ahead to draft a public statement to that effect for Alstrom’s review. We’re sending statements describing the draft terms and expect you to set up a campaign enlisting public and industry support for the North Sea Oil Platform Agreement.
“This makes sense if Alstrom . . . wait a minute, sounds like they’ve already got the green light from the Ministry.”
She pulled up Vavin’s next e-mail:
“Or, in other words, quit poking around,” she said. “They plan on inking the agreement before the investigation reports come in.”
“Maybe Vavin had grown a conscience,” Rene said.
His words hung in the air.
She stared at him and thought of Vavin’s daughter’s photo, his words—“ . . . like every parent, I want my child to grow up in a clean world.”
“Or he had a weight on his conscience and was about to blow the whistle,” she said.
“Speculation, Aimee,” Rene said. His fingers raced over the keys. “It’s impossible to prove his biggest client had him killed over these e-mails.”
True.
“Companies hire ex-military or former intelligence officers to do their dirty work,” she said. “What if Vavin had found incriminating reports in the computer files at Alstrom?”
“Even harder to prove.”
Rene had a point. He shook his head. “Alstrom wouldn’t leave the minutes of these meetings in their system.”
Her pulse quickened. “But what if they were in a rush and had a lot more on their minds than worrying about someone snooping in their secure internal system, Rene?”
De Laumain . . . Vavin’s desire to read his e-mail had caused him to call her. And gotten him killed?
“The proof is on either his Mac or this PC . . . I have a hunch.”
“Makes it like finding a grain of sand at the beach,” Rene said.
Shadows slanted across the conference table. Outside the window, she saw the distant dark waters of the Seine. Cars crawled over the Pont de Sully, their red brake lights like a string of jewels.
They needed help, she realized.
“Isn’t Saj back from his meditation retreat?”
“Good idea,” Rene said. “Two of us will work faster for sure.”
She rang Saj, heard the tinkling strain of sitar music on his voice-mail greeting, and left him a message.
“Looks like an all-nighter, Rene. Let’s copy Vavin’s hard drive and take the laptop PC with us.”
“Take the PC?”
“Should we leave it for the killer?”
“How many laws have you broken so far?” He flicked a piece of lint from his vest.
Running away from the scene of a crime, she thought, would be one. “We have the perfect cover. After all, we’re Regnault’s sysadmin and can plead ignorance concerning the PC.”
Rene rolled his eyes.
She reached in her purse and her hand brushed a cotton ball that smelled like Stella’s baby lotion. She felt a jolt in her rib cage. Somewhere there was a connection. She had to think.
She ran out into the hallway to Nadia’s empty desk. The hall was dark. She heard the elevator approaching.
“Nadia?”
She ran to the elevator.
“Nadia?”
And then the bathroom door opened to the sound of water flushing and there was Nadia, wiping her hands on a towel, having just changed into black yoga pants and a sweatshirt.
“I just wondered,” Aimee said, choosing her words. “Nelie, this girl in the photo”—she pointed to Nelie’s face—“she’s with MondeFocus. Did she visit Monsieur Vavin this week?”
Nadia shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Sorry, I have to hurry to my yoga class.”
The elevator door slid open and Nadia stepped inside.
“There are MondeFocus fliers in Monsieur Vavin’s office,” Aimee said.
Nadia glanced at her watch as the elevator door started to shut.
Aimee stuck her foot in the elevator door. “Did she bring them?”
“Why would she?”
Aimee thought quickly. “I thought maybe she met with him here to express her concerns.”
Nadia shrugged and pushed the button. “Maybe. She’s his niece.
And the elevator door closed.
The connection!
Back in the meeting room, Aimee dumped out the contents of her bag. She rooted through her keys, a dog- eared encryption manual, a tube of mascara, her worn Vuitton wallet with her lucky Egyptian coin intact, and a disc of expired birth-control pills. She found what she was looking for on the back of her checkbook. Her copy of the ink marks she’d found written on Stella. Letters, numbers, like an equation. And part of a word . . . a name, a title? Then 2/12, part of a date.
She handed her checkbook to Rene. “Play with this.”
“It’s incomplete.”
“Right now it’s all we have to go on,” she said. “And Nelie is Vavin’s niece.”
Rene’s fingers paused on the keyboard.
Until they found Nelie, the numbers and word fragments would probably remain indecipherable.
Her cell phone vibrated on her hip.
“Did you forget, Aimee?” Martine said, her husky voice wavering. “We should be leaving for the oil conference reception.”
She’d have to hurry. “Sorry, I’ll meet you there. I’m running late.”
“You’re always late. But you’re lucky; this time everyone else will be, too. They’ve moved it. Again.”
“Not another bomb scare?”
She thought of Krzysztof and the bottle bombs. Was Morbier right?
“Alstrom picked a posh new venue for their reception.”
Aimee grabbed a pen. “Where?”
“Where else would you entertain world-weary oil execs? It’s at a shareholder’s place, the most exclusive private mansion in Paris. And it’s in your neighborhood. Hotel Lambert.”
