by Estelle Ryan
Estelle Ryan
The
Roubaud Connection
Brutal murders. An ancient treasure. A rogue state.
A young acquaintance of nonverbal communications expert Doctor Genevieve Lenard begs her to look into the disappearance of his friend. When the friend’s tortured body is found in a forest outside Strasbourg, the case leads Genevieve and her team to the body of a second victim with many unusual secrets—a forged masterpiece the least surprising of them all; an ancient treasure shrouded in mystery the most intriguing.
While Genevieve is frantically searching for a motivation behind the murders, more tortured bodies are dumped in the forests surrounding the city—all connected to her young acquaintance. And the moment she discovers that the evidence points to a rogue state, her young acquaintance also disappears.
Without knowing who the killer is and why he’s torturing his victims, there will be no stopping him. Or saving her friend from vicious suffering and eventual death.
Contents
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Chapter TWELVE
Chapter THIRTEEN
Chapter FOURTEEN
Chapter FIFTEEN
Chapter SIXTEEN
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Chapter NINETEEN
Chapter TWENTY
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
The Roubaud Connection
A Genevieve Lenard Novel
By Estelle Ryan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First published 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Estelle Ryan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.
Chapter ONE
“DOCTOR LENARD! I NEED to speak to Doctor Genevieve Lenard! Where is she? Canada has five hundred and sixty-one lakes. Doctor Lenard!”
I stepped away from the closing elevator doors onto the plush carpeting of Rousseau & Rousseau’s foyer. This had been my place of work for six years as an insurance investigator, using my analytical skills and expertise in nonverbal communication to detect any and all attempts at insurance fraud.
Then my life had changed five and a half years ago. A number of people had blasted into my carefully organised existence to help with an investigation. My autistic mind had rebelled against their neurotypical chaos and unconventional methods. But I hadn’t been able to deny the success we’d achieved working together. Three years ago, we’d moved our team room from this building to the one adjacent, all the while investigating crimes most often related to art. Today those interlopers were not only my team. They were my family.
Another panicked shout came from the direction of the conference rooms and I looked at Vinnie.
“Told ya so.” The tall man was my best male friend and self-appointed protector of our investigative team. He was wearing his usual dark combat trousers and a tight long-sleeved t-shirt that accentuated his muscular build. He rolled his eyes in a manner befitting the young adult voice yelling from the conference room. “He’s been here for ten minutes and has not stopped his fact-screaming.”
“This is not normal.” Colin, my romantic partner and international thief consulting for Interpol, took a step closer to the conference room. “He hasn’t lost control like this in many, many months.”
“True dat.” Vinnie’s corrugator supercilii muscles contracted in a concerned frown. “Usually Phillip manages to calm him down in a minute or two. Nothing is working at the moment.”
“Doctor Lenard! The Dead Sea is sinking about one meter a year! Doctor Lenard!”
I’d met Caelan Dupre three and a half years ago when he’d noticed a pattern of kidnapped students. The first time I’d seen him, he’d not received any care or guidance whatsoever to manage his autistic behaviour. After the conclusion of the case, my team had worked hard to get Caelan the care he needed.
Phillip Rousseau, the owner of the high-end insurance company we were currently in, had ensured Caelan had behavioural therapy with the best experts in this field. He and Colin had helped Caelan finish his high-school diploma and enrol in university. They’d even helped him change his surname when he’d insisted on having his own identity—completely removed from his past.
I didn’t see him often. Even though he worked extremely hard to manage his autistic behaviours, I found it uncomfortable to be around him. For obvious reasons, it was unthinkable that I would ever disparage anyone for struggling with impulses that were a result of that person’s neurological make-up. But his behaviour triggered stimming—repetitive body movement—in me that I’d worked years to control. Therefore I avoided him.
“Where is she? I need her help. Doctor Lenard!” The higher pitch in Caelan’s voice alerted me to his distress.
“Ah, there you are.” Timothée Renaud walked into the reception area. In the four years he’d been Phillip’s personal assistant, I’d not once seen him dressed in a manner that did not measure up to the latest fashion trends. He glanced at me, then studied Colin’s designer black trousers, tailored midnight-blue shirt and Italian boots. “Looking good, Colin.”
“What about me?” Vinnie put his hands on his hips and moved around like women did when studying a new outfit in the mirror.
Tim tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. “You’ve got the brutish look down pat, Vinnie.” Tim had lost most of his fear of Vinnie. It had taken him years before he could jest like this. He turned and pointed over his shoulder towards the conference room. “Seriously though. Are you going to help Phillip calm that young man down? He needs your help in there.”
“Doctor Lenard! Greenland is three times the size of Texas!”
I pulled my shoulders back and inhaled deeply. “Let’s hear what is causing him to be so anxious.”
“Goodie.” Tim’s relief was genuine. “You go calm him down. I’ll go get him some white food and milk.”
We walked past Tim’s heavy wooden desk and down the short hallway to the largest of the three conference rooms. I entered the room and was immediately glad Phillip had chosen the larger space for this meeting. Caelan was pacing against the far wall, his shoulders in constant motion as if he was trying to dislodge a weight resting around his neck.
He jerked around when he noticed us and rushed towards me. “Doctor Lenard! I’ve been calling for you. Why did you take so long to get here? Russia spans eleven time zones!”
I took a step back and raised both my hands. “Stop.”
He did. And stared at my left shoulder, his eyes wide. “You must help me!”
“I will listen to what you have to say, but first you need to lower your voice.”
His chin dropped and his stare moved to my shoes. “I’m not in control.”
“We can see that, superman.” Vinnie walked around me and sat down in the first chair. He’d built a strong relationship with Caelan and at one point had given the young man this ridiculous moniker. “Why don’t you sit down and take a few deep breaths.”
“I can’t!”
“Of course you can.” Phillip’s deep voice brought warmth to my chest. He’d used that rea
ssuring, yet strong tone with me many times in the decade I’d known him.
Caelan nodded and shuffled to the chair next to Vinnie. He dropped into it and immediately started scratching his thigh. Even though his distress was evident, he appeared well-groomed. His jeans and sweater were clean and fitted him well. His fingernails were short, no longer bitten to the quick, and his curly black hair was cut short.
He took three forced breaths before he exhaled loudly. “Nothing is working. Since Jace disappeared, I haven’t been able to get control back. The Atlantic Ocean is saltier than the Pacific Ocean.”
“Who’s Jace?” Colin pulled out two chairs and waited for me to sit before he took a seat. “Your friend?”
“He’s my partner.” Caelan glanced up at me, then back at his thigh where he was now tapping a rhythm with his index finger. “He’s like us.”
“Coffee for everyone and milk for our young guest as requested. And some sugar-free cookies.” Tim walked in and put a loaded tray on the table. He winked at Caelan. “I don’t think you need anything that will give you more energy, right?”
“Wrong!” Caelan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He swallowed and in a more controlled voice said, “I need more energy. I need to find Jace.”
“Um. Okay.” Tim took a few steps back and glanced at the door. “I’ll be at my desk if anyone needs me.”
“Thanks, Tim.” Phillip reached for the tray and distributed the steaming coffee mugs. “Take a few more deep breaths, Caelan. Then you can tell us why you need our help.”
“Hey, everyone.” Daniel Cassel, the leader of one of the best emergency response teams in France, walked in and sat down across from Vinnie and Caelan. He was in full GIPN uniform and shifted until Caelan’s eyes were no longer glued to his holstered handgun, but rested on his shoulder. Daniel smiled. “I’m so glad to see you, Caelan. I’m in the middle of my shift and I popped in next door. But then I heard you were here and I had to come and see you. How are you?”
I considered Daniel a friend. Not only was he an incredible leader, he had also impressed me on numerous occasions with his astute understanding and sensitive handling of non-neurotypical people. I wasn’t surprised he had come over from our team room in the building next door to meet Caelan.
“I’m not doing well.” Caelan stared at his fingers tapping against his thighs. “I can’t stop this tic. Last week, I told Jace that I haven’t had a shutdown or meltdown in three months and have been able to control my stimming for more than six months.”
“What is causing you such anxiety?” Daniel asked.
“Jace is gone.”
Daniel looked at us with his eyebrows raised. Colin shrugged. “We were just asking him about Jace.”
“Jace is my partner.”
“Business partner? Study partner?” Vinnie asked.
“Geocaching partner.”
There was a moment of silence in the room. Phillip carefully put his coffee mug on the table. “Please indulge me by explaining what geocaching is.”
Caelan glanced at Phillip’s shoulder. “There are caches hidden and we find them.”
“Caches of what?”
“Riddles.” Caelan shrugged. Then he shrugged again and again until a tear rolled down his cheek. “I can’t stop.”
“Which mountain is the closest to the moon?” I asked.
“Chimborazo in Ecuador is the closest to the moon. Everest is merely the highest in terms of sea level.”
“How many active volcanoes in Japan?”
His shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes for a second before focusing on my left shoulder. “One hundred and eight.”
“How many countries are completely surrounded by another country?”
“Three.” He snorted, raised the index finger he’d been tapping on his thigh and counted out on his other hand. “Lesotho, Vatican City and San Marino.”
Colin took my hand and squeezed it.
Caelan’s dark skin regained some colour, his facial muscles relaxing slightly. He looked at his hands both resting on his thighs, then at me. “I see what you did, Doctor Lenard. It helped.”
“I recommend creating hypothetical questions that will distract your mind when you’re distressed. You’ll be too busy building valid arguments to allow your mind to become severely overwhelmed.” I leaned forward to make sure he paid attention. “It might not always work. I’m sure you’ve already discovered that what works once might not work again. At least not in the exact way it worked before. You just have to continue experimenting until you find what works for you.”
“Is that how you manage?” There was hope in his usual monotone.
“Most of the time.” I felt tension entering my shoulders. “I hate to admit that it doesn’t always work. Sometimes the external stimuli are too much, too fast, too overwhelming for me to put my usual methods in place fast enough.”
“That’s exactly what my therapist keeps telling me.” He slumped into his chair. “I hate it when he repeats himself. It’s like he thinks I’m stupid. But maybe I am. I practice all the exercises he’s given me, but now that something really bad happened, I’ve lost all the control I’d gained.”
“I assume the bad thing you’re talking about is your geocaching partner being gone.” Daniel waited until Caelan nodded. “What do you mean by ‘gone’?”
“I can’t contact him.” Caelan’s breathing hitched. “We’ve been partners in geocaching for two years, seven months and five days.”
“Has he done this before?” Daniel asked.
Caelan shook his head. “Never. He always answers when I call him. Always.”
“Do you have any theories on why he’s not answering your calls?”
Caelan’s eyes widened. “Theories, no. But I’m convinced his phone is turned off or the battery is completely discharged. When I phone him, the call immediately goes to voice mail.”
“Does he ever turn his phone off?”
“Pah!” Caelan snorted. “Never. He’s a heavy user. He checks and double-checks everything on his phone.”
“Could it be that his battery is depleted, but he’s safely at home?” Vinnie asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “I knocked on his door until his neighbours told me to leave. He didn’t open.”
“You said he’s like you and Jenny.” Colin took a sip of his coffee. “Do you mean he’s autistic?”
“Yes. But he’s nonverbal.”
“Completely?” Despite the many obstacles I faced dealing with being on the spectrum, including my difficulty communicating with neurotypical people, I’d been fortunate enough to be verbal. Even if my words offended people most times I spoke.
“Yes.” Caelan’s voice hitched and he started tapping on his thigh again. He blinked a few times and inhaled deeply. “The Dead Sea is four hundred and thirty metres below sea level. About ten percent of the earth’s surface is permanently covered with ice. There are no rivers in Saudi Arabia.”
Vinnie watched Caelan with concern pulling his eyebrows down. When Caelan pressed his palms flat against his thighs and took a shaky breath, Vinnie looked at me. “What is the difference between completely nonverbal and not completely nonverbal?”
“Research has revealed that nearly a third of people on the autism spectrum use only a few words or even no spoken language. Nonverbal autism is poorly researched and far too little is known about the thought processes of individuals who don’t speak. Even though quite a few nonverbal people can’t use spoken language effectively, they are able to communicate in different ways. Written or typed language is the most common, but sign language and digital communication devices are being used more often now as well.”
“And just because Jace doesn’t talk doesn’t mean he’s stupid or he doesn’t understand.” Caelan glanced at our phones lying on the conference room table. “That’s another reason why he uses his phone so much. He types out messages faster than most people type on a computer. With a hundred percent accuracy.”
&
nbsp; “No typos and autocorrect disasters.” Daniel smiled at Caelan. “Tell us more about Jace. What is his full name and surname? How old is he?”
“Jason Connelly.” He paused when Daniel typed the name onto his tablet screen. “Are you looking for him?”
“Just checking if someone else reported him missing.”
“No one else would.” Caelan lifted one shoulder. “He doesn’t have any friends here, his mother is dead and his sister is in Australia. She works there and doesn’t like Jace. I’m his only friend.”
“You’re a good friend.” Daniel leaned towards Caelan. “Jace is lucky to have you. Tell me more about him.”
“He’s three years older than me. He’s twenty-five. He’s finishing his second doctorate degree. His first was in forensic anthropology, this one is in Persian history. He is fluent in seven languages.”
“Goodness.” Phillip’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “Seven?”
“French, English, Gaelic, Irish, Russian, Finnish and Arabic.”
“Interesting choices.” Most people chose the more romantic languages like Italian and Spanish. “Explain the cache you were looking for. How does such a search take place?”
“We belong to a society of gifted people.” He glanced at Daniel, Vinnie and Phillip. “Do you know what it means to be gifted?”
Vinnie frowned. “Someone who has natural talents, like for math or music?”
Caelan sneered. “I was right thinking you wouldn’t know. You’re talking about talented people. Gifted individuals have certain characteristics that make them different. Their IQs are in the top two to three percent of the population. They are often seen as eccentric or quirky, they are intense and driven, too sensitive and prone to question authority. They are unable to switch off their thinking, are introverted and need periods of contemplation. They are self-disciplined, imaginative, highly curious, perceptive, creative, insightful, flexible, have a wide range of interests and—”
“Stop.” I recognised the typical autistic tendency to over-explain and I placed my hand on the table. “You’ve explained enough. Rather continue about the society and looking for the cache.”
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