The Courbet Connection (Book 5) (Genevieve Lenard) (16 page)

“What was the result of the bad policing? What case did they lose?”

My eyes widened as soon as Manny asked his first question. I began to understand his reasoning. “Interpol was pursuing a serial killer who travelled a lot. Because of the local police’s negligence, they couldn’t use the DNA found at the scene and had to let the suspect go. Two more girls were murdered before they eventually arrested him.”

“And the other complaints against her?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “All similar in nature. Okay. I concede your point. In the one case, she continued looking into a stolen credit card complaint even though she’d been ordered off it. That led her to uncover one of the largest credit card fraud scams in France.”

“Smart girl.”

“If we work on these qualities, someone who has no complaints or citations is not a good law enforcement officer? It doesn’t make sense.”

“That would be too much of a generalisation, Doc. Many cops never do anything spectacular. They keep their heads down and simply do as they’re told, never saying or doing anything controversial. They will also have a clean, albeit boring, record. But we are looking at Interpol agents. They should be out of the ordinary.”

“Which means they should have at least a comment about their temper or stubbornness,” Colin said.

“It is said that the seven most common traits found in law enforcement officers are that they are pragmatic, conservative, suspicious, prone to isolation, prejudiced, cynical and action-
oriented. An investigator has those qualities, but is inquisitive to the point of being meddlesome and impertinent.”

“Like someone we know,” Manny said.

I shrugged, dismissing his lifted eyebrow. “We are all investigators here. I think we all share these personality traits.”

“But I bet not many are as rational and stubborn as you, Doc. And I mean that as a compliment.”

“Oh.” How did we manage to digress so often? I cleared my throat. “Does this mean we are suspecting André Breton and Paul Hugo because they have clean records? Do they have something to do with Colin’s arrest?”

“They were the men who arrested Frey… er… Edward Taylor.”

“Then we should definitely suspect them.” Vinnie’s grip on his knife and fork tightened.

“No, criminal. It only means that we’re paying attention to them.”

“And Judith Jooste?” I asked.

“I’m paying special attention to her, in case we need more help.”

“What about Laurence Gasquet?”

“What about him?” Manny leaned forward. “Did you look him up?”

“Yes.” I realised Manny expected me to elaborate when a frown pulled his eyebrows together. “Apart from the basic knowledge you already have, Laurence Gasquet has a connection to Breton, Hugo and Boucher. They’ve worked together on a few cases, with Gasquet as a consultant. Mostly, he does what you said—investigations into corporate cases. His personal life is much more interesting.”

“Please tell me you found a scandal.” Francine rubbed her hands together, but stopped suddenly when her tablet pinged. She got up and went to her desk, still looking at me.

“His parents were involved in a scandal, if that is what you would like. When he was sixteen, his mother shot and killed his father after suffering years of abuse. She’s still incarcerated in Italy, where they’d been on holiday when it happened. Laurence Gasquet didn’t return to Bristol where they’d been living. His father was originally from Strasbourg, so he returned here. He lost a year of schooling, but eventually graduated and went to university.”

“Where did he stay during that time?”

“His father’s old neighbour was a generous elderly man who took care of Laurence Gasquet until he came of age. I couldn’t find the name of the neighbour, but he must be in his nineties now or deceased.”

“What about Laurence Gasquet’s financials?”

“I didn’t have time to look into that yet. I was looking at his assets when Colin interrupted me.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

I glanced at Colin, noticed his smile, thought about it and winced. “You did interrupt me, but I don’t mind.”

“I know.” He took my hand and squeezed it.

“His assets?” Manny exhaled loudly through his nose. “When you’re done snogging.”

“We’re not snogging.” I pulled my hand from Colin’s. “Laurence Gasquet owns a large house in the city, an apartment in Bristol, a yacht and seven cars. Why does anyone want seven cars? You can only drive one at a time.”

“He might be collecting,” Colin said. “What kind of cars?”

“Luxury cars, not collector pieces. His assets are worth a few million.”

“Could he have bought this with his income?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “He inherited the Bristol apartment and half a million pounds when his father died. I’ll
have to have a better look at his finances to form a real opinion. Do you think he’s the one who’s after Colin?”

“Not after me.” Colin shook his head. “After Edward Taylor. I would also like to know if it’s him or one of these Interpol goons.”

“Tell me you love me. Tell me, tell me, tell me.” Francine’s excitement had us all looking from her to her computer and back.

“What did you find, supermodel?”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Supermodel!”

“Spoilsport.” She sniffed dramatically before clicking a few times with the computer mouse. The large screen against the wall came to life, showing an email. “Dukwicz contacted us. See how interested he is in the clock?”

I read his email aloud. “‘I want clock. Don’t care if anyone offered their services. You can keep cash. Just clock. If it’s fake, I’ll come after you. If it’s real, you have deal. I’m on a job at the moment. Will contact you again in three days. I will need all personal details of hit and photo.’”

My chest tightened when the impact of the last sentence registered. I didn’t like this plan. I didn’t want Colin to be a target at all. Not even if it was one of his false identities. I chose to focus on Dukwicz’s omission of definite and indefinite articles. His spoken English was accented, but not as bad as his written English.

“Do you have access to his computer?” Colin asked, no stress noticeable in his voice or on his face.

“Oh, yeah, baby.”

We watched the screen as Francine accessed Dukwicz’s computer. His desktop background was of a decapitated body. It looked real. I covered my mouth with my hand and closed my eyes.

A familiar hand covered my other hand that was fisted on my lap. Colin pried my hand open and intertwined our fingers. I clung onto the feeling of safety holding his hand gave me and tried to reason with myself. Still I couldn’t build up enough courage to look at the assassin’s computer.

Manny and Vinnie were giving Francine directions where to look, their tones grave. No matter what rationalisation I used, I could not face the screen. Trusting the others to find key information, I mentally started writing the Allegro of Mozart’s Serenade No.13 in G major, known to the layman as Eine kleine Nachtmusik. By the third line, my breathing eased. When I reached the seventh line, I felt comfortable opening my eyes behind my hand. That was when Colin’s body stiffened next to mine.

“Fuck.” His shocked whisper was followed by loud expletives filling the team room. Dread made it feel as if my stomach had dropped to the ground. It took all my willpower not to hide in the safety of Mozart. Instead, I lowered my hand.

What I was looking at didn’t make sense at first. I squinted, not willing to believe the obvious. “An auction?”

“My God.” Francine’s voice was hoarse from shock. “Are they auctioning this young man?”

We were looking at video footage of a young man standing in a room, empty but for a steel chair against the crisp cream wall. He was dressed only in sweat pants, his torso and feet bare. To the left of the screen was a list of letters and numbers, nothing that had any meaning to me. On the right-hand side, bids were being placed on different items.

“Is this live?” Manny asked.

“No. This is a recording,” Francine said.

“Doc, what can you tell me about this kid?”

I studied his body language a few more seconds. “He looks to be in good health. His skin tone doesn’t indicate distress or illness. See how he tries to hold his arms close to his torso? People do that when they’re scared. What is strange here is that there is not a lot of tension in his body. Yet it seems like he’s trying to pull into himself, trying to be less of a target.”

“A target for what?”

“I don’t know.” I tilted my head. “Francine, can you zoom in on his face?”

“Give me a sec.”

Ten seconds later, the young man’s face filled most of the screen. The flood of information registering in my mind was overwhelming. I chose to analyse the least emotional observation first. “He’s drugged.”

“I’m not surprised,” Manny said. “These traffickers get their victims addicted as soon as possible. Makes them more willing to do what’s necessary.”

“I don’t think he’s under the influence of a typical narcotic.” I pointed at the face on the screen. “He’s not perspiring excessively, there are no rapid eye movements, rigid muscles or any other symptoms you find with street drugs.”

“Then why do you say he’s drugged?” Francine asked.

“His expression. Assuming he’s not there of his own volition, I would expect to see much more fear in his micro-expressions. If he was truly nervous, his shoulders would reach his ears and his arms would be wrapped tightly around his torso. He would blink much more frequently, swallow more, his lips would be pressed tightly together—there is a long list of cues he is not exhibiting. At least not as strongly as this situation warrants. He could be on some kind of calming or relaxing drug.”

“I can’t see any signs of torture or rough handling.” Colin narrowed his eyes. “Francine, can you stay zoomed in on him, but check the rest of his body?”

We watched as Francine moved the focus from the top of the young man’s body to his bare feet. He had the typical physique of a man in his late teens, early twenties—fully developed, but not filled out yet.

“No torture.” Colin leaned back in his chair, his frown deep. “At least nothing we can see.”

“Maybe he isn’t scared, just uncomfortable,” Vinnie said. “Maybe he wants to be there.”

“Most definitely not.” I shook my head vigorously. “He was kidnapped.”

Manny looked away from the screen, staring at me. “How do you know that, Doc?”

I got up and went to Francine’s desk. “May I use your tablet?”

“Sure. Do you want it to go up on the screen?” She paused the video.

“Yes.” It took me only a few seconds to find the article I was looking for. “Three days ago, Nikki asked me to look into the possible kidnapping of her classmate. She referred to this case. This young man, Matthieu Jean, disappeared ten days ago. The police had determined it was an abduction.” I highlighted a paragraph in the article. “They were able to find security video footage from a nearby bank that showed the student being forced into a vehicle.”

“How do you know this is him?” Manny asked.

I clicked to the next page of the article. Two photos filled the screen. One photo was a studio portrait, the kind taken for school yearbooks. The other was of him sitting in front of a computer, unaware of the photographer and completely absorbed by what he was looking at.

“Holy hell.” Manny rubbed his hands over his face. “We have to find this kid. Supermodel, do you have any computer voodoo you can do to find out where this was taken?”

“Let me check the metadata.” She changed windows. We were looking at the paused image of Matthieu being auctioned. The window split, another smaller window filling the bottom third of the screen. Lines and lines of code appeared as Francine did what she was best at. “Hmm. This video was recorded off a Tor site. We won’t be able to trace its origins, but at least we know it was recorded six days ago at ten in the morning.”

“Which doesn’t mean that footage was live at ten,” I said.

“Bloody hell. We don’t know anything.”

“That is not true.” I pointed at the screen. “We know that this young man appeared in this video which seems to be an auction.”

“It gives us squat, Doc. We don’t even know what they’re auctioning him off for. Sex? Slave labour? What?”

“You should be more optimistic and encouraging.” I recalled the teamwork books I’d read last year. “Your attitude is not conducive to good morale and enjoyable work environment.”

“And yours is?” Manny glared at me.

I considered his question for a few seconds. When I looked back at Manny, the
supratrochlear
artery on his forehead was pronounced, his jaw tight.

“Maybe we should finish watching the video.” This young man’s life took precedence over our disagreements. Although I couldn’t help adding, “And you should adopt a more positive attitude.”

“Okay, here we go,” Francine said before Manny could respond. She’d changed windows and once again we were looking at Matthieu blinking slowly at the camera.