by R. J. Jagger
Foreign Affairs
R.J. JAGGER
Chapter One
Day One—July 12
Monday Morning
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NICK TEFFINGER, the 34-year-old head of Denver’s homicide unit, woke up in a cold sweat and realized he was in a plane. He gripped the armrests and listened for noises, the kind that meant the aircraft was two heartbeats away from a death spiral.
He heard nothing.
He listened harder, still got nothing and stretched his cramped frame before pulling two photographs out of his shirt pocket. Both were of Amanda Peterson, the victim. The first showed a 22-year-old waitress, an attractive woman with green eyes, a white smile and golden skin, with a whole life to live.
The second showed her twenty-four hours later grotesquely dead.
The man had gouged out her eyes, turned them around and reinserted them, as if she was looking at her brain.
That was a year ago.
Teffinger never caught him but he resurfaced Friday evening, thousands of miles away in the City of Light.
THE PLANE LANDED UNEVENTFULLY at Charles de Gaulle Airport, twenty-three kilometers north of Paris, just as the Parisian sun broke over the horizon. Normally, landings turned Teffinger into a sweaty transfixed mess. But this time he was busy running down a new theory on how to catch his killer. And, by the time the aircraft reached the terminal, he had configured a plan that might actually work.
It would be risky, insanely risky.
He had no idea if his Paris counterparts would go for it or not.
“Probably not,” he muttered. “Not if they have half a brain.”
He raked his thick brown hair back with his fingers. It immediately flopped back down over his forehead. When the aircraft came to a complete stop, he waited until everyone else deplaned. Then he stood up, pulled a bag out of the overhead compartment, and walked his six-foot-two frame down the aisle at his normal pace.
In the terminal, free at last, he realized something.
He needed coffee, truckloads of coffee, not in five minutes, now.
A TALKATIVE CABBIE WITH A GOLD TOOTH named Baptiste weaved and honked his way through insane traffic and eventually dropped Teffinger off dazed but alive at the Hotel de Sille, which sat in the bustling St. Germain des Pres district in central Paris one block south of the Seine on the Left Bank. The hotel was an old narrow stone building with twenty rooms, wedged wall-to-wall between similar facades, all light gray in color but with different textures and designs. The lobby was art deco with clean lines and soft neutral colors offset by splashes of blue leather chairs and hot pink flowers.
“Ticket to Ride” came from speakers somewhere.
Teffinger liked the place immediately.
The receptionist, a curvy beauty in her early twenties, studied his eyes and said, “One’s green and one’s blue.”
Teffinger nodded.
“One of my many flaws.”
“I like your many flaws.”
Her name was Sophia.
“There’s a jazz club down the street called Le Cave. I’ll be down there tonight, about 10:30. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Teffinger nodded.
“Maybe you will.”
“You should see the real Paris while you’re here, the one that only the locals know.”
“And you’d show it to me?”
She smiled.
“Oui.”
HIS ROOM WAS THE CHEAPEST ONE THERE—a single, a walkup, on the top floor facing the noisy side. The roofline angled intrusively into the room and the bed had some kind of a cylindrical thing where the pillow should be. Teffinger didn’t care, because the two necessities were there, namely a WC and a shower, as well as some peripherals such as a TV, phone and Internet access.
Good enough.
He unpacked, took a shower, and studied a map until he figured out which Metro lines he needed. Then he headed outside under a flawless Paris sky and walked past strings of crowded cafes that spilled onto the sidewalks with tables, chalkboard menus and flower arrangements. The Stone’s “Ruby Tuesday” weaved out of a passing convertible and then faded away.
It was time to meet his contact, a detective.
Someone named Fallon Le Rue.
HE TOOK THE METRO and decided, by the time he got off, that he wouldn’t do it again, not so much because of the crowds, but because it was a waste of the five senses to be in an underground tunnel when something as spectacular as Paris sat on the surface. The artist in him had already been awakened by the charm, ambiance and mystery of the ancient architecture and the winding streets.
He needed to drink it in.
Out of the Metro and into the sunlight, he walked for six blocks and eventually found himself escorted into the office of Fallon Le Rue, who was flicking a lighter and studying papers.
She looked up.
Their eyes locked.
He sensed danger but it was too late.
His life had already changed.
Chapter Two
Day One—July 12
Monday Morning
______________
DEJA LAFAYETTE dragged her 23-year-old body out of bed Monday morning and pulled the curtain back to see what the day looked like. The familiar panorama of the picturesque Montmartre district greeted her. Sitting on a hill in northern Paris and home of the Moulin Rouge, the area had long been associated with exotica, artists, beautiful squares, winding streets and long stairways. Although tourists had rediscovered the area in recent years, there were still plenty of reasonable apartments to be had, like hers, a second-floor walkup on Rue du Mont.
The sky was flawless.
Good.
She could leave the umbrella home.
She showered, slipped her well-endowed five-foot-four body into a professional beige pantsuit, picked up her purse and took one last look in the mirror before heading out into the world. An attractive face with hypnotic hazel eyes and thick brown hair stared back—seriously sexy, although that wasn’t her goal. She blew herself a kiss, headed outside and grabbed a cup of coffee and a fresh croissant from the corner café on her way to the Metro. A half hour later she emerged at La Defense, a modern business district west of Paris, filled with contemporary towers and home to more than a few of the world’s most powerful corporations and law firms.
SHE HEADED FOR THE ULTRA-CHIC EDF TOWER, which busted into the sky with sensuous curves and clean glass lines. Inside, she took the elevator to the thirtieth floor, which was the lowest of the three floors that housed Bertrand, Roux & Blanc, Ltd., France’s largest law firm.
Yves Petit, the head of the firm’s international department, discovered her last year.
At the time, she was working as a waitress at the WAGG Bar. Petit flirted with her and learned that she spoke flawless English, Italian, German and Portuguese, in addition to French. More importantly, she also wrote perfectly in all those languages, with absolutely correct grammar, punctuation and style. Even more importantly, she had a way with people.
She was just what he needed and he made her an offer.
Her job, if she wanted it, was to sit in on negotiations and meetings that involved foreign companies or affairs. She would act as an interpreter or clarifier when needed. Also, when a foreign contract or technical document needed to be drafted, the assigned attorney would take the initial stab at it to ensure that all the legal aspects were there. Deja would then clean it up and make it perfect, not only from a grammatical point of view, but also to ensure that the end product was clear and unambiguous enough to be enforced
in a court of law.
WHEN DEJA WALKED INTO THE LOBBY, the receptionist—a nonstop flower named Natalie—said, “Hello, darling. Yves is looking for you.” Deja checked her watch to be sure she wasn’t late. Then she headed down a spacious art-lined corridor to Yve’s office.
He was on the phone but motioned her in.
She walked to the windows and looked down.
The district buzzed, consistent with the fact that over a hundred thousand people worked there. Below, in the square, Alexander Calder’s bright-red abstract sculpture looked like a five-story spider walking between towers.
Yves was 42, attractive, and a serial womanizer—but in a nice way—with brown hair that he combed straight back. As far as power in the firm of over two hundred attorneys went, he was equaled by a handful but surpassed by none. Everyone liked him, even people who shouldn’t.
He hung up, looked at her apologetically and said, “I’ve been a bad boy.”
Deja raised an eyebrow.
“How so?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of making a few phone calls.”
She didn’t understand.
“What kind of phone calls?”
“Well, the main one was to Jacques Lacan. Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Jacques Lacan is the president of the law school, over at the university, as well as a personal friend of mine,” Yves said. “I made an inquiry as to whether the school would accept you, if you were to apply. I also gave you my highest recommendation.” He paused and smiled. “He had the admissions department round up your undergraduate transcripts and that kind of thing. Last night, he called me at home. Want to know what he said?”
Deja tried to say, “Oui,” but her mouth wouldn’t move so she just nodded.
Yves smiled, took a deliberately slow sip of coffee and said, “He said it would be their honor. Here’s the way I see things unfolding, if you’re interested. We’re going to keep your salary at the same level here at the firm but cut your hours down to part-time. We’re going to pay all your law school expenses—tuition, books, everything. Then, when you graduate, we’ll bring you onboard as a fulltime attorney.” He paused. “That is, like I said, if that kind of thing interests you.”
She didn’t know what to say and said it.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then just say, Fine, Yves, can I get back to work now?”
She almost said it, but instead hugged him, fought back tears and said, “No one’s ever done anything like this before.”
He smiled.
“As much as I’d like to take credit for being a nice guy, our motives are purely selfish,” he said. “We want to be sure you’re around here for the long haul. It’s going to be interesting to watch you grow. If my hunch is right, you’re going to end up being one of those attorneys who leaves their mark for a hundred years.”
Chapter Three
Day One—July 12
Monday Morning
______________
NICHOLAS RINGER’S 72-foot yacht, Le Femme Nauti, was slipped in the best place in the world, namely Nice, France. Every earthly pleasure—and every corresponding sin, for that matter—was right there within walking distance.
Food.
Gambling.
Nightlife.
Eye candy.
At six-four, age 36, with long black hair, a GQ face and a muscular sunned body, he was well equipped to take full advantage of everything this corner of the world had to offer. He owned an expansive gated villa, carved into the hill and overlooking the aqua waters of the Mediterranean, but he hardly slept there in the summer, preferring instead the lapping of the water against the hull.
He came topside to find Nodja Lefebvre heading to shore in one of the dinghies, with her long hair and a white sundress blowing in the breeze.
A note by the coffee maker said, Grocerys.
He poured a cup of caffeine and watched her through binoculars.
She had a taut, dancer’s body.
Her face was nice enough but in a subtle, easily-overlookable way. When people met her for the first time, they hardly noticed her. Then she grew on them, like an acquired taste. Ringer, however, saw something he liked right away.
He picked her up last year in a dive Paris bar while he was dressed down, looking like a cab driver who hadn’t had a fare in a month. He spotted her across the room, immediately walked over and leaned in.
“I’d like to have a drink with you,” he said.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
“Here’s the thing, though,” he said. “I’m sort of short on cash, so you’d have to buy.”
She bought him a drink.
And another.
And another.
Later that night, they made passionate, sweaty, rock star love under the stars in a dark grassy enclave next to the Seine. Ringer played the pauper for a full month, to be absolutely positive that she loved him for him and had no idea who he really was, before saying one day, “Do you feel like taking a little field trip?”
She shrugged.
“Sure, to where?”
“To a place I want to show you,” he said.
He made a phone call.
Ten minutes later, a driver picked them up in a limo and whisked them to the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Ringer took the controls of his Grob Aerospace SP jet and let her ride shotgun over the Alps and into Nice.
THAT WAS LAST YEAR. Now, this morning, when she got back to the Nauti, Ringer told her he’d be back sometime later today, got in his jet and pointed the front end north towards Paris.
He owned Ringer Shipyards, Ltd., which specialized in the manufacture of custom vessels in the 30 to 70 meter range. The facilities were located in southern Italy, not Nice—far enough away to not be a daily bother, but close enough to fly to twice a week.
Ringer vessels were world-renowned not only for their seaworthiness and state-of-the-art power plants and electronics, but also for their decadence and contemporary lines.
Each one was unique; in exterior profile; in interior layout; in furnishings.
The waiting list was a year and that was just to have a vessel started. Completion typically took another two years but the wait was worth it. At the end, the customer owned a Ringer Yacht custom-made to his or her every specification.
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, Ringer touched down at the Charles de Gaulle Airport, took a cab to La Defense district, and headed to the offices of Bertrand, Roux & Blanc, Ltd. Two heartbeats later, Yves Petit walked into the lobby, hugged him and said, “Good to see you again.”
“Likewise. Is the other party here?”
Yves nodded.
“We’re set up down the hall.”
Suddenly a young woman joined them, a well-endowed woman in a beige pantsuit, very attractive. “This is Deja,” Yves said. “She’ll be doing the interpreting this morning.”
Ringer shook the woman’s hand and liked her immediately.
They headed down a spacious corridor past pricey art, to a glass-walled conference room with a commanding view of Paris. Three Portuguese men sitting at a table stood up to shake hands when they walked in.
Ringer knew which one the buyer was right away.
He had that look to him, that unmistakable look of power and money and ego.
Three hours later, Ringer had a duly executed cost-plus contract in hand for the construction of a 65-meter Ringer Yacht. He also had a certified check in the amount of 2,000,000 euros in hand, the first partial payment.
THE YOUNG WOMAN handed Ringer a business card in the lobby, just as he pushed the button for the elevator. He took a quick look—Deja Lafayette—and raised an eyebrow.
“Lafayette. No relation to the infamous archeologist, I assume.”
“Are you talking about Remy Lafayette?”
Ringer cocked his head.
“In fact, I am.”
“He’s my uncle,” the woman said. “Do you know him?”
<
br /> Ringer shrugged.
“Sort of, I took one of his classes at the university when I was picking up my business degree. That was—what?—twelve years ago, now,” he said. “He gave me the lowest grade I ever had—a C+. I’m still a little pissed at him about that. How’s he doing?”
The woman’s face contorted.
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
She nodded and gave him the details. Remy Lafayette had been attacked in his home Monday evening, exactly one week ago. The house had been ransacked and the police were treating it as a homicide. So far, however, they had no leads, at least none that she knew about.
Ringer frowned and handed his business card to her.
“Remy Lafayette was a good man,” he said. “If the police don’t come up with anything, call me. I’ll put the best private investigators that money can buy on the case—my treat. And don’t worry about the cost. I have more money that I could ever spend.” He chuckled and added, “I probably owe it to the man, in any event. If the truth be told, I only deserved a C.”
The woman gripped his card and looked into his eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll see what happens.”
“It’s a standing offer,” he said. “Just say the word.”
FROM THE LAW FIRM, Ringer took a cab to CDG and then flew directly to Nice.
He couldn’t get Remy Lafayette out of his mind.
He kept picturing the man dead.
Chapter Four
Day One—July 12
Monday Morning
______________
TEFFINGER’S FIRST THOUGHT when he saw Fallon Le Rue was that he better not fall in love with her because he’d be leaving France in a couple of days or a week. His second thought was, Too late. She was without a doubt one of most dangerously hypnotic women he had ever come across—taller than average; a fit body; about 27; blond hair, perfectly straight, halfway down her back; and mysterious green eyes with a raw animal lust just below the surface.
