Chapter 3: Rude American

Chapter Three: Rude American

Raja, needing more sleep than Vinny, had gone to bed at midnight. Vinny worked through the night on her computer, researching everything she could find on the scene in Paris. She woke Raja well before daybreak and they drove to the St. Petersburg

- Clearwater Airport where Mickey was waiting with the jet.

A sling shot takeoff got them airborne. The grueling twelve hour non-stop flight gave Vinny time to brief Raja on what she had discovered.

“What did you find out about the Brownings?” asked Raja.

“They seem like a nice couple, and I found no reason for either to be involved in anything illegal. Financials are clean, no skeletons I could find. Whoever grabbed Mrs. Browning had their own fish to fry.”

“Ransom?”

“No way.”

“But why her?”

“W-P-W-T.”

“What?”

“WPWT. Wrong place, wrong time. I think she was completely non sequitur to whatever is going on. She’s a red herring, boss.”

“Okay, what else?”

“The murdered shopkeeper and his two employees could be a robbery gone bad. Margaret Browning was in the vicinity and may have witnessed something. However, I think the cop killer is our best lead.”

“How does that tie in?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know yet, but a report mentioned a woman fitting Margaret Browning’s description at the scene where the policemen were killed. I pulled that off a local media interview, but the police are keeping the report under wraps.”

“Good work, Vinny.”

“True dat, boss.” Vinny explored more of the data she had gathered and began modifying the Venn diagram program she used during their investigations. Afterward she and Raja both grabbed a nap.

Landing in Paris required clearance through the customs service and the Gendarmerie, the French military police. The Le Bourget Airport was small and served private jets and planes almost exclusively. However, even with Raja’s connections it took two hours, thanks to the new international bogeyman, terrorism. It was already after three in the morning Paris time when they got to the parking garage where Raja kept one of the many sports cars he owned. He never met a classic sports car he didn’t like, and kept them in many cities. No one else knew how many he owned, and he had lost count at twenty-five. He and Vinny climbed into the burnt orange 1969

Porsche 911S that he called Napoleon and headed to Paris. The car’s throaty hum eased the headache that told Raja they were heading straight for trouble on this case. Vinny shook her hair out of the Rays baseball cap she often wore, letting the wind blow through.

Certainly pretty enough to be a runway model, she preferred hacking computers to haute couture.

They arrived at 33 Quai Voltaire where Raja maintained a flat on the top floor. Simply decorated, it provided a base of operations. A wide bay window looked out over the Seine River and the Louvre Museum stood visible to the right across the river. After settling in, they talked about the case.

“I’ve got a line on the inspector who is handling the investigation, if you can call it that,” said Vinny. “Most of the police and media attention is on finding whoever killed three French policemen. Mrs.

Browning has been lost in the shuffle.”

“We will change that,” said Raja. “What’s the inspector’s name?”

“Pierre Gilliard.”

The next morning Raja called the British Embassy to grease the wheels with the Paris police. Although no police force likes outside interference with their business, the French were particularly insular.

Raja had earned a little sway with the British Royal family, having pulled one princely ass out of a nasty fire a couple of years back. It was a story he had sworn not to repeat, but one which got him a direct order from London into the British Embassy in Paris instructing them to use their pull to open the door to the French police, a notoriously tight-lipped bunch. God save the Queen. While giving the British Embassy time to push the message through proper channels

and down the chain of command, Raja called the professor at his hotel.

“Hello,” said Professor Browning.

The dull lack of expectation in Browning’s voice told Raja he was rapidly losing hope. “It’s Raja Williams. I’m in Paris. I’m already working on finding your wife and I wanted to meet with you.” Raja didn’t think the professor had any more pertinent information, but it would certainly raise the professor’s spirits if he felt useful. There is nothing like the feeling of helplessness to drive a man into apathy.

“Yes, yes. Where should I meet you?” said Browning. He sounded better already.

“I’ll pick you up at your hotel. Wait out front. Bring any pictures you have of Margaret. Give me about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Waiting was another thing that could sink a man emotionally. After hanging up, Raja made a mental note to leave promptly. “Vinny, I’m heading to Professor Browning’s hotel. Then to the antique shop.

After that I’ll go to the police station. Get me the addresses, would you?”

Vinny knew that going to see the professor was an unnecessary side trip, but she said nothing. No matter how intent Raja was on solving a case, and he could be very intent, he never lost sight of the client’s feelings. It was a characteristic Vinny admired.

“I’ll download the addresses to your GPS,” she said.

“Next we need to find some sign of Margaret Browning. Right now she is a ghost.”

“Don’t use that word with the professor,” said Vinny.

“Good catch.”

Professor Browning stood at the curb when Raja pulled up. He climbed into the Porsche and presented Raja with a folder.

“What’s this?” asked Raja, looking at the thick folder.

“It’s every picture of Margaret that I could find on the computer. I had to get them printed in the hotel office, so the quality could be better.”

Raja flipped through the pictures. The professor had gone overboard, which Raja knew he would in his frazzled state. There

were at least thirty pictures of Margaret Browning, enough to make a whole picture album.

“If you need more I could have someone back home email them.”

“I think these will do. Good work. You should pick out three recent shots we can use for identification.” He handed the folder back to Browning. There was nothing like purpose and contribution to raise a man’s spirits. “Now I want you to show me the spot where you last spoke to your wife.”

“In front of the antique shop?”

“Yes. I’ve got it in my GPS. Hang on.” They drove to Rue des Écoles and parked. The crime scene tape no longer blocked the sidewalk, allowing Professor Browning to lead Raja directly to the entrance of the shop.

“There was a marker right there. I think it was where Margaret dropped her phone when she was talking to me. I know it was.”

Raja looked up the street in both directions, noting which way the police van must have been heading to arrive at the location where the three policemen were killed. He noted the packed rows of vehicles parked on both sides of the narrow street. He looked at his watch.

“What exactly did your wife say?” asked Raja.

“I’ve been going over that in my mind. She said only, ‘Oh, dear Lord.’ That’s it, nothing else. Like she had been startled by something bad. Something shocking. It’s the only circumstance that would cause her to take the Lord’s name in such a way. She is an extremely pious woman.” Tears welled in the professor’s eyes.

“I understand. Anything else?” asked Raja.

“No, that’s all.” After a long pause Browning said, “She didn’t deserve this.” Now he sounded angry.

“You are right,” said Raja. “Okay, that will help. Next I will be going to see the inspector.”

“Let’s go,” said Browning.

“No. I’m going alone once I drop you off.” Raja knew that bringing the professor along would put too much pressure on the police inspector. “I have other work for you.” On the way back to the hotel, Raja had to come up with something to keep Browning busy. He called Vinny at the flat.

“Do you have that list of television stations covering all the investigations?”

“I can put one together.”

“Good. I’m going to need that for the professor. He’s going to help us.”

Vinny understood. “I’ll have it in three minutes. You should also have him map out his wife’s possible routes on the day she disappeared. That will keep him busy.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll send the data on the media to your phone.”

“You’re the best.”

Vinny smiled. She knew she was.

When his phone trilled, indicating a message, Raja had the professor copy the list of TV stations.

“I need you to watch the news and note any details on your wife’s case or the case of the three murdered policemen.”

“Do you think they are linked?”

“Perhaps. That’s what we will determine. I also want you to draw a map of all the possible routes your wife could have taken the day she went missing, including any possible stops along the way.” Raja gave him an email address and asked him to send the map when he was finished. That would keep him busy, at least for a little while.

After dropping off the professor Raja drove to the police station alone, parking in front of a massive stone building that housed the Paris police and other government offices. The building oozed government authority and red tape. Raja hoped he could find a good guy to work with inside. In any government bureaucracy there are always a high proportion of stoppers—people who see their primary job as getting in the way and preventing action. The trick is to find a helper—someone who has not lost sight of the true government function of helping people to get on with their lives. Raja called them

“good guys.”

Once inside Raja informed the officer at the front desk who he was. After two phone calls and a lot of chatter back and forth, the officer sent him through to the next layer of bureaucrats. He was about to repeat his story when a tough looking man in plain clothes interrupted him.

“Monsieur Williams?”

“Yes.”

“This way.” The man turned with no further communication and walked toward a hallway expecting Raja to follow.

Raja followed down the hall and into a small office containing an old wooden desk that was cluttered with stacks of folders and a small, very old computer monitor. The policeman pointed to the solid wooden chair in front of the desk and Raja sat down. They exchanged a few awkward sentences in French about Mrs. Browning and the antique shop murders.

Then the French policeman said, “It would be better for both of us, I think, if we spoke in English. I am Inspector Gilliard.” Knowing the American custom, he extended his hand for a handshake. Like many Frenchmen, the inspector had been raised to think of Americans as arrogant, vulgar and uneducated. However, experience as a police inspector gave him the opportunity to meet a wide variety of people.

He had learned not to be too quick to judge a person and found that doing so often dulls one’s perceptions. “No offense to your French.

You speak it well—for an American.”

Raja shook his hand and said, “I learned from a Haitian girl in my youth. Granted, it is certainly not Parisian French.”

“Perhaps language is not all you learned from her, no?” said the inspector, hoping to throw Raja off balance.

“What about the shopkeeper?” asked Raja, ignoring the innuendo.

The two eyed each other like fighters circling in the ring.

“As I said,” continued Gilliard, “no one seems to know what the shopkeeper had in the safe. The two other employees who worked there and also might have known are both dead. Whatever it was, it must have been valuable enough to kill three people over.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Raja was not going to assume anything.

“They are dead, are they not?”

“Provided your coroner is competent, I would have to agree. That they are dead appears to be all that you know.”

Seeing that Raja would not be easily deflected, Gilliard changed tactics. “I can give you all the reports on the antique shop murders, if that would help.”

“I would appreciate that, Inspector. As you know, I am most interested in recovering Professor Browning’s wife—preferably unharmed. And I will do everything I can to assist you. What I would like to understand is why a simple shopkeeper was tortured to obtain what would have to be a meager amount in his safe.”

The inspector was running short on patience. “You are here only as a courtesy to the British ambassador. If you intend to insult our police work, I’m sure he will understand my cutting your visit short.”

“I don’t think he will. One of his citizens who was in police custody is now missing, possibly dead, and the French police refuse to cooperate. No, he will certainly not understand. Comprenez vous? ”

Now the inspector turned an ugly shade of red, but somehow he held his tongue. He did not like being baited, but the Director-general himself had ordered him to cooperate with the American.

Seeing no disagreement with his statement, Raja continued. “I’m more interested in the woman who was observed at the scene where your three officers were shot. It was Margaret Browning, was it not?”

The inspector had the look of a cornered animal. Raja would not have been surprised had Gilliard leaped at him and bitten his throat.

Instead, Gilliard sighed and said, “Yes, I believe it was.”

Raja only nodded, waiting for more. He made a mental note to have Vinny look into the inspector.

“The whole sequence of events has me puzzled,” said Gilliard, shaking his head. It was an obvious attempt at obfuscation.

“Then you can imagine how puzzled Professor Browning must be.

And distraught.”

“We are looking into a number of things, including the professor. I did not see the point in upsetting him any further.”

“Or alerting him. You are considering him a suspect, are you not?”

Raja knew the compulsion police everywhere had for investigating the victim of the crime.

Gilliard had other reasons for trying to keep the details under wraps, but said, “We are looking into the professor’s background and his reasons for coming to France.”

“And?”

“We have found nothing suspicious,” said Gilliard.

“Then it seems we are on the same page.”

“Look, Monsieur Williams, we have three dead police officers and a missing British citizen. As you can imagine, there is a great deal of pressure to find the killer. We can overlook no one.”

“I would like to see the autopsy and ballistics reports.”

“I’m afraid that is information I cannot release at this time.”

“Can not or will not?”

“The terrorist division of the Gendarmerie has taken control of the investigation and has locked down the reports until they complete their review. There is nothing more I can give you.”

Raja wasn’t going to get anything more. “You have already helped more than you know,” he said. Then he promptly turned and left the room.

Once Raja was gone, the inspector dialed his phone. “Yes. His name is Raja Williams. He is pushing hard on the woman’s case ...

No, he’s going to be trouble. Make sure you keep her out of sight.”

He ended the call.

Raja knew it wasn’t unusual for the police to stonewall his intrusion into their turf. They were very territorial. As a private investigator, it came with the job. Besides, no one likes a johnny-come-lately outsider marching in the front door and making trouble.

He would have to find another way in. Once he was outside the police station he called Vinny.

“Did the inspector appreciate your helping him with his investigation?” asked Vinny, always the optimist.

“Like a kick to the groin. I had to threaten an international incident to get any information. All in all, it went better than I expected.”

“Always the master of gentle persuasion,” said Vinny, knowing Raja’s penchant for the boots first, storm trooper approach.

“He’s hiding something, but I don’t know what—yet. You find out anything?”

“The shopkeeper’s funeral is on Sunday. So far I’ve found no witnesses to the antique shop shooting. I’m not sure where we go with that one.”

“We go to the funeral. Margaret Browning’s disappearance has to be connected. Besides, funerals are always a good place to meet people. What about the cop shootings?”

“The reports are not accessible anywhere online. The Paris police need a serious tech upgrade. I had to download some ancient programs just to access their main system. Did you get any hard copy forensics reports from the inspector?”

“Not a chance. They are deliberately keeping that data under wraps.”

“CYA?” asked Vinny.

“That’s what I’m thinking, but I don’t know who’s covering for whom. I’m coming back to the flat. We are going to need to gather more intel before we make our next move. Keep digging.”

Raja got into his Porsche and drove off, never noticing the blue Peugeot sedan that pulled out and followed, staying several cars back.

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