The Becić Connection

by Estelle Ryan

  Sebastien took his time before he shook his head. “No. He’s been his usual reliable self.” He looked at Phillip. “I will always be grateful that you sent him my way. He’s by far one of the most competent young men I’ve ever come across.” He looked back at Manny. “I sent all our security footage to... Francine?” He waited until Manny nodded. “But do you have access to the street cameras? Maybe you could follow them that way.”

  “They entered an underground parking garage five blocks from here,” Phillip said. “They didn’t come out again.”

  “What abou...” Sebastien paused when Phillip held up his hand.

  “Our people have been working hard to get any and all CCTV footage around this area and the restaurant where Nikki was taken.” Phillip’s voice hitched and he cleared his throat. It had been difficult for all of us to hear that Francine had not been able to find the black vans that had taken Martin and Nikki. Both times the vans had entered different underground parking garages and had not exited.

  Francine was currently looking through all the footage in case they had left in other vehicles, but so far, she hadn’t found anything. It was extremely worrisome. We didn’t know who’d taken Martin and Nikki or where they were.

  “I don’t understand why anyone would take Martin.” Sebastien scratched his jaw. “I might be wrong, but as far as I know, Martin doesn’t have a lot of money. Well, he gets a decent salary here, but nothing worthy of being kidnapped.” He frowned. “Do we even know whether this is a kidnapping or an abduction?”

  “How do you differentiate the two?” Manny asked.

  “Most likely exactly the same way you do. In both meanings, it’s taking a person against their will. A kidnapping is often done for a ransom. If an abduction has a financial motive, it’s not ransom. Mostly, abductions are connected to a parent taking his or her child from the other parent’s care.”

  “Human trafficking is also a good example of an abduction.” Manny grunted when I inhaled sharply in horror. He shook his head at me. “We don’t know the motive, Doc. Not yet.”

  “I doubt it’s for financial reasons.” Sebastien narrowed his eyes when he noticed Phillip’s reaction. “Wait. Does Martin have money I don’t know about?”

  “No.” Phillip sighed. Francine had looked at Martin’s financial records. He had modest savings, but like Sebastien had assumed, his savings would not justify a kidnapping.

  “Then what?”

  “Nikki has savings.” Phillip was vastly understating Nikki’s wealth. Nikki had inherited millions of euros from her father’s estate. She had no need to work, but had chosen to pursue her love for the arts and was excelling in it.

  I understood why Phillip was being evasive. Apart from our team—our not-related-by-blood family—no one else knew. Nikki had told me that as much as she trusted and cared for Martin, he didn’t need to know her full financial situation. He only needed to know that she was financially comfortable and could take care of Eric and her own needs. Yet Martin contributed generously every month to Eric’s care.

  Francine had checked for any unauthorised access to Nikki’s accounts, but hadn’t found anything suspicious. This brought us back to the biggest mystery surrounding Martin and Nikki’s disappearance: why they’d been taken.

  Currently, Colin was in his SUV, making numerous phone calls to all his contacts in the black-market art world. If he could find out any connection to the Becić Nikki had taken, it might take us a step closer to finding her.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent the pained keen from escaping my mouth. It felt as if there were an analogue clock in my head, ticking away every second Nikki wasn’t with us. Statistics had shown that kidnap victims’ chances of being recovered alive lessened exponentially after the first seventy-two hours. But it was the first forty-eight hours that were critical. That was when witnesses’ memories were still fresh and evidence less contaminated.

  Martin had been taken fifteen hours ago. Nikki twelve and a half hours.

  I pulled myself away from these unproductive and distressing thoughts and did what I was best at. I observed Sebastien. His short stature, athletic build and freckled skin made him look much younger than forty-eight. His red hair was neatly trimmed and I noticed how similar it was to Martin’s new hairstyle. Sebastien’s cheeks were clean-shaven though, his freckles standing out against a paleness that increased as he continued expressing his concern about Martin and Nikki.

  “I like that young woman.” He leaned back in his chair, his hands clutching the armrests. “So full of life. And I like that they are both smart enough to know that they are not supposed to be married. They’re fantastic parents and friends.” He let go of the armrests and stretched out his fingers, then rested his hands on his lap. “None of this makes sense.”

  Manny grunted in agreement. “Tell us about Martin’s clients.”

  Sebastien relaxed slightly and smiled. “I could’ve given Martin his own portfolio after his first three months with us. He’s ambitious, thorough and very, very smart.” His smile increased and crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Last year, I decided to test him and gave him a really difficult client. This man had been to four other firms and complained about everything and everyone. But not about Martin. That young man won him over in the first meeting. Since then, I’ve allowed Martin to expand his portfolio. I still keep a close eye on his work, but he’s not once backed down from even the most challenging cases and to date has not let his clients down. Or me, for that matter.”

  “What kind of cases?” Manny asked.

  “We do almost exclusively contractual law, no criminal law. We deal with business contracts, last wills and testaments, and the like.”

  I pointed at his face. “Why did you flinch? Who were you thinking about?”

  Manny leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Speak.”

  Sebastien hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Look, this is shaky ground I’m walking on. Talking about clients... Man, that could cost me my licence, my reputation, my business.”

  “But?” I had not only seen the ‘but’ in his expression, I’d also heard it in his voice.

  “But I actively sought out a client.” When people with red hair blushed, it was generally much more noticeable on their fair skin than on people with darker complexions. Sebastien was no exception. “He’s an acquaintance of my oldest and richest client who told me this guy could bring in amazing business.”

  I was intrigued by the unmistakeable emotion on his face. “Why are you embarrassed?”

  He sighed again. Deeply. “I consider myself a good judge of character, but in this case I’m quite sure I’ve been played. The worst of it is that I won him over by telling him about Martin’s contacts in the art industry. He was playing hard to get and my client had told me this man had an impressive art collection.”

  “You gave him what you thought he wanted.” Phillip’s tone was kind. Understanding. “It’s easy to fall into that trap.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this and I’m pretty sure that I gave him exactly what he wanted. And I’m thinking this might be related to Martin’s kidnapping. I know that Nikki restores art, so maybe... I don’t know. My brain is exhausted from going around and around in circles, guessing and speculating.”

  “Who is this new client?” Manny’s tone and expression brooked no argument.

  Again, Sebastien hesitated for a moment before he swore under his breath. He looked at Manny, resignation clear on his face. “Alain Chabal.”

  Manny took his phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. He was very likely sending the name to Francine. “When did you first meet him?”

  “Four months ago.” Sebastien’s eyes shifted up and left. Remembering. “Even then my gut told me something was off. But my client had convinced me this guy was legit. Still, something about Chabal bugged me. My greed pushed it into the back of my head. But two days ago, I asked Martin to look into Chabal.”

  “And?” Manny aske
d when Sebastien paused.

  “It would appear that Alain Chabal doesn’t exist. At least not in official records of any kind.”

  “What business did he say he was in?” Phillip asked.

  “Oh, that is real.” Sebastien looked relieved. “I double-checked. He owns an art restoration company that really exists and has a great reputation for restoring all kinds of artworks. He’s registered as the owner, even though it doesn’t make sense because he doesn’t exist. I made a few inquiries and people told me he’d restored paintings or photos or even sculptures to their previous glory. It seems like he only does private work and I got the impression that this was for people who didn’t care about maintaining authenticity for resale, but rather wanted the restoration done for sentimental, emotional reasons.”

  “The name of the company?” Manny’s finger hovered above his smartphone screen, ready to type.

  “Beaulieu Art.” Sebastien gave the website address as well. “I couldn’t find the name of the owner, founder, CEO, manager, anyone in charge. I searched everywhere, but their names are not available.”

  “Odd.” Phillip tilted his head. “Usually people in the art industry rely on their names, their reputations for business.”

  Manny tapped on his phone, then put it back in his jacket pocket. “Our people will find everything we need.”

  Sebastien stared at him. “Find Martin. And Nikki. Right now, I don’t care about anything else.”

  His concern was genuine. It was reassuring to know that the man Martin held in such high regard valued not only him, but also the people in Martin’s life.

  The men continued discussing this Alain Chabal and his business, but my mind was drawn to how it all connected. Had Martin’s search into Chabal triggered this event? Who was this man and what was his interest in Martin? Or was his interest in Nikki?

  If they had been taken for a ransom, it would’ve made more sense to kidnap Eric. This thought sent cold fear through my system. I pushed the last movement of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet into my mind and forced myself to breathe deeply. Nikki would’ve given everything she possessed to get Eric back. All of us would.

  Becić’s Landscape, Bosnia, the nonexistent Alain Chabal, Beaulieu Art, Nikki’s restoration abilities. These elements brought up the question of whether someone needed something restored. And if they did, why Nikki?

  More importantly, where was she?

  Chapter SIX

  “DID YOU JUST SAY ALAIN Chabal?” Colin’s hand tightened around mine as we stepped into the team room. I’d been briefing him on our meeting while in the elevator.

  He’d been on the phone with a fence in Germany for most of our journey from Sebastien’s office, speaking with a broad Scottish accent. I found it most vexing whenever Colin used one of his aliases, named after famous seventeenth-century poets, to elicit information from his many contacts. Yet I had come to accept their usefulness. This was the main reason I’d refrained from commenting on the accent when Colin had ended the call just as we’d parked in front of our building.

  “Yes.” I frowned as I registered the slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “What do you know?”

  “Hmm.” Colin led us to the round table where Manny was seated. “Martin was looking into Alain Chabal?”

  “Stop bloody smiling and tell us what you know, Frey.” Manny slumped deeper into his seat.

  Colin waited for me to sit before he pulled out his chair. “Oh, Alain Chabal is very much a real person. That is just not the name his mommy gave him.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Roxy put a tray of coffee mugs on the table and sat down. “And who is this Alain Chabal?”

  I looked around our team room, my chest tightening. “Where is Eric?”

  “Daycare.” Pink sat down, his movements lacking their usual energy and grace. “I think it’s best for him to stay in his usual routine. We took him a bit late, but it’s better than him hanging around us and...”

  “He was getting upset.” Roxy smiled softly at Pink. “He was responding to all of our tension, not just yours, Pink.”

  Vinnie placed a plate of ginger cookies on the table and leaned over to kiss Roxy on the crown of her head. “I told you not to blame yourself, doll. He was crying because he walked headfirst into Frannie’s chair.” He looked at me when I inhaled. “He’s fine. He just got a fright.”

  Manny rapped his knuckles on the table. “Frey! Talk. Who the bleeding hell is this Alan Chubby? And what is this Bully Art?”

  Everyone was now seated around the table. Francine was swiping and tapping her tablet screen and Vinnie was handing out the coffee mugs when no one helped themselves to the steaming mugs. I didn’t think it wise to add more caffeine to my already highly-strung system, but took it nonetheless. It afforded me a level of normality as well as comfort.

  Colin took a sip of his coffee and put his mug down. “Alain Chabal is an alias. The man who owns and runs Beaulieu Art is Florian Brasseur. He’s a brilliant artist in his own right. And terribly eccentric.”

  “This him?” Francine tilted her tablet towards us. A still image from a security camera filled the screen. It was taken in front of Martin’s office building, the same angle as the video that had showed his kidnapping. The man in the centre of the screen had just left through the rotating door and was looking down the street in the direction of the camera, affording us a clear view of his face.

  “Huh.” Colin took the tablet from Francine. “This is not Florian’s usual style. He generally looks like he raided Elton John’s concert wardrobe.”

  I leaned closer to Colin and studied the image. The man appeared to be of average height, a bit overweight, but elegantly dressed. His dark blue suit was tailored to fit his rotund figure, a red handkerchief peeking from his jacket pocket. He was wearing glasses with thick black frames and his brown hair and beard had traces of grey.

  “Okay, that’s a really good disguise. And a lot of professional makeup.” Colin handed Francine’s tablet back and picked up his phone. A few swipes and taps later, everyone’s phones pinged with notification sounds. “I sent you the photo I have of the real Florian.”

  I opened the photo on my phone. My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. This man barely resembled the elegant businessman caught leaving Martin’s office. His skin was tanned, his head clean-shaven, and only a thin vertical strip of hair adorned his chin. And he was considerably fitter than in his disguise. In this photo, he was wearing an electric-blue shirt, a brightly coloured silk scarf tied around his neck and a forest-green velvet jacket with large multicoloured roses embroidered across the shoulders and on the pockets.

  “You weren’t kidding about Elton John.” Francine stretched the image on her tablet. “With all those rings on his fingers, he’s more a mix between Elton and Liberace.”

  “Lib-who?” Pink’s eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, wow.” Francine’s face was filled with dismay. “You’re too young to know Liberace. That’s just not good for my self-image right now.”

  “Focus, people.” Manny glared at Colin. “Who the bloody hell is this clown?”

  “An excellent artist, highly accomplished thief and, frankly, a brilliant businessman.” Colin put his phone down. “He spends most of his time restoring paintings and sometimes statues for people who don’t want to go through red tape with museums. These are collectors who inherited a Picasso from a favourite aunt or a Matisse from a great-grandmother. They are also people who have more money than sense. A lot of them don’t care about the monetary value of the painting, only about the sentimental value. Florian mostly caters to those people.”

  “Is he the kind of criminal who would kidnap people?” Manny’s lips were in a thin line, his words clipped.

  Colin looked at the ceiling, considering his answer. When he looked back at Manny, he sighed. “Look, he’s probably one of the most intelligent criminals I know. Definitely smart enough that he’s never been caught. His art restoration business is”—he narrowed his
eyes for a moment—“I would guess around ninety percent legal. The other ten percent would be him restoring stolen artworks or pieces with very dubious provenance. He’s not above dealing in Nazi-looted art.”

  “But?” Manny gestured impatiently with his hand for Colin to continue.

  “There is no ‘but’. I don’t know Florian that well. I can see him being ruthless and ambitious, yes. Willing to do whatever is needed to get the job done, yes. No regard for the law? Absolutely yes.” Colin shook his head. “The few times I’ve met him... his reputation just... I don’t know. I can’t imagine he’d hurt Nikki or Martin. Threaten and intimidate, even destroy financially, but not hurt physically. That’s why I don’t know what to think about him kidnapping Nikki and Martin.”

  “God, I hope you’re right.” Pink pushed both hands through his hair. His downturned mouth, the tightness around his eyes and his rigid muscles clearly showed the emotional anguish he was in.

  I looked at my watch. It was twenty-three minutes past eleven. “It’s been eighteen and a half hours since Martin was taken and thirteen and a half hours since Nikki took the Becić.”

  “We know, Doc.” Manny rubbed both hands hard over his face, then looked at Colin. “I’m forcing myself to believe your assessment of Brasser. But God help you if you’re wrong, Frey. I will make your life a misery as soon as that arsehole is locked up with no way to ever see freedom again.”

  “Brasseur.” Colin exhaled with a huff. “Focus your anger on finding Nikki, Millard. We should all be focused on finding her.”

  If only my non-neurotypical brain took negative emotions and refocused them on more productive ventures. Unfortunately, I was only able to achieve this irregularly. Those times, I’d felt empowered. But at this moment, it was hard enough to subdue my terrified state of mind.

  My increasingly negative thoughts were interrupted by an irritating whistle coming from my hand. I lifted my smartphone and swiped the screen. Then glared at Colin. “You changed my SMS notification tone.”