The Golden Calf

by Helene Tursten

  Chapter 11

  “MERCI, MADAME LAUENSTEIN,” said a male voice Irene immediately recognized. Relief and irritation swept through her as her fear dissipated. If this had been her attacker, she’d have had a difficult time defending herself with no weapon and an injured arm.

  A woman’s voice started speaking a stream of French until it was cut short by “Oui, merci.”

  Irene heard the front door close. She knew her visitor would see the light from the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. She was ready when he opened the door, and the light glinted on the barrel of his gun.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Verdier,” Irene said.

  At least she’d manage to learn one phrase during her day in Paris.

  Inspector Verdier pulled the door open all the way but did not lower his gun. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  “I’d like to ask you the same question,” she replied.

  They glared at each other for a few moments. Irene was ready for his ice-cold stare, and she countered it with her own small, tight smile. He looked away. He was obviously used to people melting before his glare.

  “Who let you in?” asked Irene, taking control of the situation.

  “Madame la concierge … the woman in charge of the building. I wanted to see the scene of the crime.” A muscle spasmed beneath one of his ears as he clenched his teeth. He lowered the pistol and put it back in its holster beneath his jacket.

  “Why did you want to look around?” Irene asked.

  Verdier took his time to reply. “The attack on you and your colleague is just one component of an even greater crime,” he finally said.

  “That’s not exactly news to me. It’s connected to the two murders in Sweden. Two Swedish citizens were killed, and the victims happened to be living in Paris—”

  “Not that crime,” Verdier interrupted. “A different one.”

  Another crime? Have the French police also found financial wizards with a bullet in the brain?

  “Come,” Verdier said. “Let’s sit down.”

  They sat down in the living room, each in their own plush, beige armchair. The Frenchman moved his to sit directly opposite Irene. Perhaps he did this to avoid straining his neck during the conversation, but Irene suspected it was an old habit. He wanted to look his suspects in the eye. Irene, for her part, no longer felt like one.

  Verdier spoke first. “You informed me about two murdered men active in the Parisian financial world, so I contacted a colleague in our department of economic crimes. He called me an hour ago to say that Joachim Rothstaahl was on his list. The owner of a Norwegian company had warned us about an offer to invest money in a mutual fund here in France. He’d had a good friend who’d lost a great deal through Rothstaahl and his friends’ deception. He recognized the name and the brochure. They’re using the same pattern they used in London. England sent us confirmation that Rothstaahl had been part of that fraud, although he wasn’t convicted there. For some reason, the court case was handled in Norway.”

  Irene already knew the reason behind that, but she was surprised, partially by how quickly the French police had found information on the pyramid scheme Poundfix and partially by the fact that Verdier had spoken freely, and apparently truthfully.

  At last she could comprehend a little of what Joachim Rothstaahl was really up to in Paris. He wasn’t employed by HP Johnson’s Paris office, as he’d told his parents. He’d just continued his London schemes with a new partner.

  “Did your colleague know anything about Philip Bergman?” asked Irene.

  “No, but he recognized Bergman’s name. He had no idea that Bergman had come to Paris and was involved with Rothstaahl. Do you have any idea why he was here?”

  Irene experienced a short internal battle. Finally she decided to put her cards on the table. She bent to pull the Euro Fund binder from her backpack and gave Verdier one of the brochures.

  “Here you go. Say hi to your colleague and tell him thanks for the information. The text is in French. Speaking of French.…” Irene fell silent. She watched Verdier flip through the brochure before she got the courage to continue. “Would you be so kind as to call the hospital for me to see how my partner is doing? I can’t speak French, and things are very difficult to understand on the phone.”

  “Certainly,” Verdier said. “I’ll call for you.”

  Irene quickly wrote Kajsa’s name and birth date on one of the brochures. Verdier took his cell phone from one of his inner jacket pockets. Irene caught a glimpse of his gun and holster. A long phone conversation followed. From the multiple silences, Irene understood that he was being put on hold and transferred several times. Finally he finished the call and shut his phone.

  “Your colleague is doing well, but she will be under observation all night,” he told her. “If her condition does not change, she will be discharged at noon tomorrow. The nurse thought there was no reason for you to visit tonight. She said that Kajsa sends her greetings.”

  “Thank you very much,” Irene said, meaning it with all her heart.

  This meant that she was free to go back to her hotel room, take two pain pills, and hit the sack. Her elbow was throbbing. Dragging herself back to the hotel seemed like an insurmountable task.

  Verdier stood and took a quick look around the apartment while Irene stayed in the armchair. When he returned to the living room, he cleared his throat and asked, “These two men. Were they … together?”

  Obviously, he’d reached the same conclusion as Irene. She nodded as she stood up. “I believe so.”

  Verdier thought for a while. Irene was too tired to help him think things through.

  “Tomorrow, after you pick up your partner from the hospital, I would like to meet with the two of you. I need her testimony about the attack for my report. When does your flight leave?”

  “Five in the evening.”

  “Where could we meet?”

  Definitely not in your depressing office, Irene wanted to say, but refrained. “We can meet here,” she suggested. “If Kajsa needs to rest, she can lie down on the bed, and the bus to the airport leaves just a hundred meters from the door.”

  “Good. I will pick you up at your hotel at eleven thirty. We can get your partner and drive back here,” Verdier said.

  Irene had the feeling that he was making sure that they weren’t going to sneak away to Sweden without having a talk with him. She was probably being unfair. Maybe he was just trying to be nice and helpful.

  “Being here might help her remember exactly what happened and give us a better description of the attacker,” Verdier said. Expressionless, he added, “Could you recognize who attacked you?”

  Irene sighed out loud. This man isn’t at all kind or friendly, just unbelievably suspicious. “I’m tired, and I need to take some pills for the pain,” she said, indicating her sling.

  Right now she just wanted to get rid of the Frenchman because there was still something she wanted to look for. But she didn’t want Verdier watching. To her great relief, he just shrugged.

  “Not much more to see here,” he said.

  They walked out the front door, and Irene locked it. They walked down the stairs in silence. Verdier held the heavy door open politely, and they stepped into the warm evening air. A weak breeze blew along the boulevard and carried with it the aromas from all the nearby restaurants. The building next door housed an elegant seafood restaurant. Along the outside wall of the building, the restaurant had set up stainless steel shelves heaped with ice to display all kinds of shellfish. Two men in rubber overalls were shucking oysters. The waiters ran back and forth collecting lobsters, shrimp, and oysters, which they then arranged on large serving trays. Irene was suddenly extremely hungry, although the last thing she wanted to eat was oysters. She’d eaten them once, and that was enough for the rest of her life. She’d been reminded of smelly snot when they slithered down her throat. No, indeed, oysters were the last thing she’d want to eat, and certainly not with Verdier for company. />
  “Good night, and thank you for coming and picking me up tomorrow morning. I appreciate the friendly gesture,” she said, forcing a small smile.

  “Bonne nuit, madame.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Irene felt she could detect the hint of a smile on the Inspector’s narrow face … but she could have been wrong.

  They each went their own way, and Irene could see from the corner of her eye that Verdier was heading for the gray Mégane. She walked to the crosswalk. Beyond the wide intersection of boulevards, she spied a sign for Pizza Hut. After she crossed the street in an entirely legal way, she reached the restaurant and ordered a huge slice of pizza with a Coca-Cola and a salad. The place was packed with young people, but she managed to find a seat by the window. The pizza tasted fantastic, and she was momentarily able to forget the pain in her elbow. Light and movement pulsed outside the window, as people and cars sped past in a never-ending stream.

  When her watch read nine thirty P.M., she decided enough time had passed. She walked back to 207 Raspail Boulevard, keeping an eye open for anyone else. It wouldn’t have surprised her if Verdier jumped out of nowhere.

  No Verdier appeared by the time she put the key into the door. She carefully pushed it open. Everything was quiet. Silently, she closed the door behind her. She found the switch to the ceiling lamp and flipped it on.

  Maybe she’d gotten used to the smell of Rothstaahl’s apartment, because it took her a second or two to realize that the scent of a man’s cologne was stronger than it had been just an hour before. Abruptly she knew she was going to need her judo training.

  The bathroom door swung open, and a man rushed toward her. She turned slightly aside from his trajectory and swung her foot left in a backward kick. In the ura-mawashi-geri kick, the heel is used as the impact surface and has the force of a horse’s kick. The training words ran through her mind. The man was unprepared, and Irene’s kick landed right in his solar plexus. He folded like a Swiss army knife. As his chin came down, Irene followed up with a yoko-geri, lifting her foot to knee height and kicking sideways. There was a hollow echo as the man’s lower jaw clashed against his upper jaw. He fell headlong onto the floor and lay there without moving.

  A burst of adrenaline gave Irene energy and cleared her head. She took a few deep breaths before she bent down to take a good look at the man. She carefully rolled him over so he lay on his side.

  He was tall and athletic, with blond hair that had started to thin at the top. He had a deep tan, which looked real. His clothes were elegantly casual. He wore khaki chinos, a matching piqué sweater, a jacket of light brown corduroy, and hand-crafted shoes. A handsome man in his mid-forties with good health and appearance.

  Just as Irene decided to search his pockets, he grunted and opened his eyes. Irene leaped backward. Obviously, this guy had a much harder chin than most people. He narrowed his eyes and peered up at her. His expression was grim as he reached inside his jacket. Irene immediately dashed for the door. Luckily, she hadn’t locked it when she’d entered. She flung it open and leaped to the side as a bullet whizzed past her cheek. The plaster on the other side of the hallway flew apart as the bullet smashed into it. She hurtled down the stairs and heard doors opening and people yelling in French behind her.

  Once on the street, she slowed her run and hugged the wall in case an apartment resident was looking out the window. Once she got to the seafood restaurant where a man in rubber overalls was still shucking oysters, she stepped into the crowd of pedestrians. Street traffic hadn’t slowed at all, but she managed to cross the street at the crosswalk, and she entered the hotel looking cool and collected. She crossed the lobby, where Lucy was sitting behind her computer screen chatting in swift French. They smiled briefly at each other, and Irene went into the tiny elevator.

  Once she reached her room, she kept the lights off. She hid behind the curtain to peer out the window toward the entrance to Rothstaahl’s apartment building. The door opened, and she saw the man come out and head toward Montparnasse Boulevard. It was definitely the man who’d shot at her.

  Who is he?

  Although she didn’t know his name, she felt there was something very familiar about him.

  Chapter 12

  INSPECTOR VERDIER PHONED at seven thirty that morning. Irene had set her cell phone alarm to the same time, so she was confused when she realized not only did she have to turn off the alarm but also answer the call.

  Verdier didn’t open with hello, but just said, “Did you sleep well, Madame Huss?”

  “Yes, thank you. Your French medicines are extremely efficient,” Irene said.

  She tried to sound more energetic than she felt.

  “There was an incident last night … perhaps you know something about it?”

  “No, I don’t. What happened?” Irene blessed the fact that they didn’t have a videophone. Verdier would have been suspicious if he’d seen her slight smile.

  There was a pause before he said, “I’m on my way to your hotel.”

  “All right. I’ll be in the breakfast room in half an hour,” Irene replied.

  A LARGE COFFEE thermos, warm croissants, various French cheeses, and a soft-boiled egg put Irene into a good mood right away. She’d slept like a log the night before and had dreamed of neither cranky French policemen nor hired killers with guns. Her elbow still ached, but it felt much better than yesterday. She’d needed only one pain pill that morning.

  Painkillers tended to dull her responses, and she’d have gone back to sleep if she’d taken two.

  Inspector Verdier arrived as she was finishing her third cup of coffee. He looked the way he always did, even wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His expression was even more grim than before, however. He pulled out the chair on the other side of the table so he could sit directly across from Irene. As usual, he wanted direct eye contact so he could register every shift of emotion on her face, but Irene was also a master interrogator, and she’d already formed her strategy.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Verdier,” she said, smiling.

  “Bonjour, Madame Huss,” he said brusquely. There was no effort to appear friendly.

  “Have a cup of coffee, if you’d like,” Irene offered, gesturing to the coffee thermos.

  “No.” His mouth formed a thin line as he pressed his narrow lips together. For someone in such control of his expressions, this was surprising. However, his eyes revealed nothing as he looked Irene up and down. “So, tell me what happened yesterday evening,” he said.

  “As I told you on the phone, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said firmly.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He glared harder at her, but Irene was used to his tactics and remained calm and collected. The loaded silence lay heavy on the table until Irene decided to break it by asking, “Isn’t it time you fill me in on what’s been going on here?”

  The inspector’s chilly façade began to crack. He wasn’t an idiot, and he had the instincts of a good policeman. Of course, he would find it frustrating that this Swedish policewoman knew much more that she was willing to divulge. He certainly suspected that she’d been involved in yesterday’s incident, but he didn’t know how or why. It would be dangerous to underestimate him, though. Irene definitely would not make that mistake.

  “I hope it had nothing to do with Kajsa,” Irene added, trying to sound worried.

  “Not at all.”

  Verdier took a cup of coffee, poured in a great deal of milk, and sipped.

  “There were shots fired at the Rothstaahl apartment at quarter to ten yesterday evening. Neighbors called the police, but when our colleagues arrived, there was no one left in the apartment. The door was wide open, however, and there was a bullet hole in the hallway close to the stairs.”

  Irene widened her eyes and tried to appear distressed.

  “A shot? But who.…” She intentionally left her sentence unfinished.

  “We don�
��t know who it was. On the other hand, we know that two men were in the apartment.”

  Two men? Irene hoped her expression didn’t reveal her surprise. Verdier gave her a searching look before he continued.

  “The neighbors heard the shot. No one opened their doors because they were afraid, but they put their ears to their doors to hear what was going on. First one man rushed down the stairs. A few minutes later, they heard another man go down the stairs more slowly. At that point, one resident dared open his door and caught a glimpse of a tall man with wide shoulders and blond hair.”

  “Did the neighbor see the man’s face?” Irene asked.

  “No, he just saw him from the back.”

  “And the first man—did anyone see him?”

  She sent up a grateful prayer that she was wearing her boat shoes. No clacking of feminine heels there. She was certainly fast on her feet, thanks to all her years of jogging. Not to mention that being shot at tended to cause an extra burst of speed.

  “No, no one saw him. Still, there are some witnesses whom we still have to question,” Verdier said sharply.

  The image of the oyster-shucking men in front of the seafood restaurant flickered through Irene’s memory. She hoped that they’d been too busy to notice a tall woman slipping into the crowd at the time of the shooting. And Lucy! Irene had almost forgotten her. Things could get sticky if Verdier talked to her. Irene wanted to get the inspector out of the hotel as quickly as possible. But how? She had the feeling that he’d keep an eye on her until she and Kajsa headed home on the plane. She still hadn’t had the chance to look for what she guessed was still in the apartment. She realized something: obviously the French police had gone over the apartment after the shooting.

  “Has anything been stolen?” she asked.

  Verdier shrugged. “No idea. We had no way of knowing. Do you know of anything of interest?”