Ruiz
inside.
All three of our targets got in the cab and left. A little
later Marie came out. I walked toward her.
"I guess you ate."
She shook her head. "Only a little, I wanted to be ready
to move. Are you hungry?"
"I could eat anything I don't have to chase down and
catch."
"Do you like crepes? I know an excellent place."
"Great, do they have wine?"
She frowned. "I said crepes. You should have
cider."
"Hard cider?"
"Of course."
Off we went.
The restaurant was on a side street near the eastern
end of the Champs Elysées. It was picture-book cozy
with tile mosaics of old-time kitchens and giant photographs of
idyllic landscapes. I looked over a list of exotic ingredients for
the crepe then settled on ham and cheese. Marie ordered
scallops and spinach. No wonder she was elfin thin.
In the couscous restaurant, she had taken a table well
away from Ruiz. Her back had been turned toward him, so he
wouldn't notice her face. When the other two arrived, she
managed a quick look and took their photos with a mobile
phone. She said she would email them to me. Otherwise, she
didn't have much to add. She hadn't been able to hear any of
their conversation.
Half a crepe and a pitcher of cider later, Marie and I
were getting on like old chums. She had an extraordinary story.
Her mother had divorced her father not long after she was
born. They spent a few years in Lyon, her mother's hometown.
She vividly remembered the day that changed their lives, even
though she'd been only six years old. It was just before the
start of her first year in elementary school. Her mother took
her to Paris to show her the city and to a performance of
Cirque du Soleil, Circus of the Sun.
She'd been so excited by the show that her mother let
her hang around afterwards to meet some of the performers.
Meanwhile, her mother met Marcel LaFey, the troupe's
bookkeeper and the rest, as they say, was history rewritten.
They went back to Lyon only to pack. Then they were off to
Toledo and Toronto and Tokyo and many points in
between.
Within a few years, Marcel found a new job. Her
mother left the circus with him, but Marie stayed to become a
performer, a contortionist, by the time she was barely a
teenager. A year later, she was also doing aerial acrobatics.
That explained her strength as well as some of her wiles. A bad
accident when she was sixteen dislocated her hip. It healed
sufficiently so as not to be a hindrance in ordinary activity, but
the injury made it hard to execute the extraordinary demands
of the job. She stayed one more year to finish her high school
studies with the troupe's tutors, and then bailed out at the next
stop in Paris.
Now she was an apprentice investigator, just a month
shy of her twenty-second birthday.
Quite a life.
When I got back to Sabine's apartment I called
Oddsson to tell him about Trevor. Seething anger was palpable
in his voice when he said, "There must be a connection to her
work."
He was more convinced of a connection than I was. As
far as I knew, the PDVSA study was the only thing that tied
together the two murders—one in France and one in England.
The likelihood that police would cooperate on a joint
investigation was about zero, at least in the early stages. If
there was a connection they would probably start with the
wrong assumptions.
That fear was confirmed the next day when I got a call
from Oddson's lawyer to tell me that he had been arrested and
charged with Sabine's murder. Ironically, part of the rationale
for suspicion was Geir's rapid liquidation of assets, including
his putting her apartment on the market. That was the
property he'd said could cover the costs of an investigation to
find her killer.
The lawyer had his doubts about my effectiveness, but
he said he controlled a substantial fund that Geir had set aside
for expenses. He hoped it wasn't a waste.
So did I.
Chapter 10
There are times when you can bear down hardest by
just letting go.
I had called Gavizon to see if he had any
inside.
All three of our targets got in the cab and left. A little
later Marie came out. I walked toward her.
"I guess you ate."
She shook her head. "Only a little, I wanted to be ready
to move. Are you hungry?"
"I could eat anything I don't have to chase down and
catch."
"Do you like crepes? I know an excellent place."
"Great, do they have wine?"
She frowned. "I said crepes. You should have
cider."
"Hard cider?"
"Of course."
Off we went.
The restaurant was on a side street near the eastern
end of the Champs Elysées. It was picture-book cozy
with tile mosaics of old-time kitchens and giant photographs of
idyllic landscapes. I looked over a list of exotic ingredients for
the crepe then settled on ham and cheese. Marie ordered
scallops and spinach. No wonder she was elfin thin.
In the couscous restaurant, she had taken a table well
away from Ruiz. Her back had been turned toward him, so he
wouldn't notice her face. When the other two arrived, she
managed a quick look and took their photos with a mobile
phone. She said she would email them to me. Otherwise, she
didn't have much to add. She hadn't been able to hear any of
their conversation.
Half a crepe and a pitcher of cider later, Marie and I
were getting on like old chums. She had an extraordinary story.
Her mother had divorced her father not long after she was
born. They spent a few years in Lyon, her mother's hometown.
She vividly remembered the day that changed their lives, even
though she'd been only six years old. It was just before the
start of her first year in elementary school. Her mother took
her to Paris to show her the city and to a performance of
Cirque du Soleil, Circus of the Sun.
She'd been so excited by the show that her mother let
her hang around afterwards to meet some of the performers.
Meanwhile, her mother met Marcel LaFey, the troupe's
bookkeeper and the rest, as they say, was history rewritten.
They went back to Lyon only to pack. Then they were off to
Toledo and Toronto and Tokyo and many points in
between.
Within a few years, Marcel found a new job. Her
mother left the circus with him, but Marie stayed to become a
performer, a contortionist, by the time she was barely a
teenager. A year later, she was also doing aerial acrobatics.
That explained her strength as well as some of her wiles. A bad
accident when she was sixteen dislocated her hip. It healed
sufficiently so as not to be a hindrance in ordinary activity, but
the injury made it hard to execute the extraordinary demands
of the job. She stayed one more year to finish her high school
studies with the troupe's tutors, and then bailed out at the next
stop in Paris.
Now she was an apprentice investigator, just a month
shy of her twenty-second birthday.
Quite a life.
When I got back to Sabine's apartment I called
Oddsson to tell him about Trevor. Seething anger was palpable
in his voice when he said, "There must be a connection to her
work."
He was more convinced of a connection than I was. As
far as I knew, the PDVSA study was the only thing that tied
together the two murders—one in France and one in England.
The likelihood that police would cooperate on a joint
investigation was about zero, at least in the early stages. If
there was a connection they would probably start with the
wrong assumptions.
That fear was confirmed the next day when I got a call
from Oddson's lawyer to tell me that he had been arrested and
charged with Sabine's murder. Ironically, part of the rationale
for suspicion was Geir's rapid liquidation of assets, including
his putting her apartment on the market. That was the
property he'd said could cover the costs of an investigation to
find her killer.
The lawyer had his doubts about my effectiveness, but
he said he controlled a substantial fund that Geir had set aside
for expenses. He hoped it wasn't a waste.
So did I.
Chapter 10
There are times when you can bear down hardest by
just letting go.
I had called Gavizon to see if he had any
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