Tourquai_ A Novel Part 23

Finkenstein leafed through some papers in order to avoid expressing an opinion on the insult.

They were in the north interview room. Jasmine Squirrel's perfume was discreet but still hard to ignore. The room was too small for that. It smelled of cinnamon and lavender.

Squirrel sat across from Bloodhound, and Finkenstein across from Pedersen.

"Name?" asked Pedersen.

"My name is Jasmine Squirrel," Jasmine answered obligingly.

She was dressed in unpretentious jeans, a black blouse, and a lovely white jacket that was certainly as expensive as it looked simple. Her lawyer was wearing a black suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and dark red tie. They were mirror images of each other.

"Age?"

"Age?" she repeated. "Exactly what does that have to do with this?"

"Date of delivery?" Pedersen clarified. "In order to eliminate any chance that we're talking to the wrong Jasmine Squirrel."

Squirrel gave him the information.

"Address?"

"I'm living on rue d'Oran for the time being," said Jasmine.

"But you're not registered there?" growled Bloodhound.

"No."

"Where are you registered?"

"That I don't really know," said Jasmine with the hint of a smile on her lips. "I think maybe I'm still registered at home with my parents."

"We would like to talk with you a little about your company, Domaine d'Or Logistics," Bloodhound growled.

"Domaine d'Or," Squirrel repeated flatly.

"Now that's enough," Finkenstein broke in. "We're not saying anything more until you explain why we're sitting here."

"We're in the middle of a murder investigation," Pedersen replied. "This interview is meant to survey the circ.u.mstances surrounding Oswald Vulture's death."

"Domaine d'Or," Bloodhound continued, undisturbed. "Do you mean to deny that this is your company? Maybe you've forgotten it?"

Jasmine gave the lawyer a look. Finkenstein nodded.

"It's my company," Jasmine answered.

"Where you run an escort operation, prost.i.tution?"

"Excuse me?"

Squirrel opened her eyes and looked so wronged that Pedersen was forced to hide a smile. Bloodhound was not amused.

"How dare you!" Finkenstein exclaimed. "Is this what you call a murder investigation? You are accusing my client of procuring? Is that why-"

"Yes, yes, Attorney," Bloodhound interrupted, turning again to Jasmine. "We'll forget about that. Tell us instead how you know Emanuelle Cobra."

Once again Squirrel looked at her attorney. This time he shook his head firmly.

"I don't know any Cobra," Squirrel replied.

"In the same way that you alleged you didn't know Vulture when we met the last time?" Bloodhound asked.

"I was mistaken."

"And perhaps you're mistaken now, too?"

"Maybe," said Jasmine. "But I don't think so."

"You called Emanuelle Cobra last Monday morning. You called from your home telephone to her telephone at Nova Park," Bloodhound maintained.

Squirrel looked him right in the eyes.

"I don't know any Cobra," she repeated.

"I want to see doc.u.mentation that someone used Jasmine Squirrel's telephone to make such a telephone call," the attorney interjected. "And I want to know why we are sitting here. Is Jasmine Squirrel suspected of the murder of Oswald Vulture? Is this an arrest?"

"Calm down, Attorney," said Pedersen.

"We haven't arrested anyone," Bloodhound growled. "We are just sitting here, talking. This is really enjoyable."

"This is a formal interview, Superintendent," Finkenstein protested, "and I wish to remind you that such interviews must be run in a formally-"

"Cobra, then," Bloodhound interrupted harshly. "That's not anyone you know, Squirrel? You realize that it's easy for us to produce papers on the health insurance payments from Domaine d'Or to Emanuelle Cobra?"

Jasmine turned toward Finkenstein. This was a question.

"We will comment on this matter when you present such doc.u.ments," said the attorney.

But there was no worry in his voice. Bloodhound knew why. Proving the relations.h.i.+p between Squirrel and Cobra was one thing; proving that it was about prost.i.tution was something completely different. And, besides, they were sitting here to talk about a murder. Finkenstein had no reason to be worried.

"You get one last chance," said Bloodhound. "You called Cobra last Monday morning and asked her to leave the office at Nova Park so that the murderer could slip out of the scene of the crime un.o.bserved. Why?"

Jasmine still sat turned toward her attorney, and her facial expression remained unchanged.

"No comment? Oswald Vulture was on Domaine d'Or's list of customers," Bloodhound continued. "There was no reason for you to kill him. Yet you made that call. Was Vulture killed on your orders, or were you just carrying out an a.s.signment for someone else?"

"Are you accusing-" Finkenstein began in a loud voice.

The superintendent got up unexpectedly. The attorney fell silent, and Jasmine Squirrel finally turned her head and looked at the police officer.

"Squirrel," Larry Bloodhound growled, "you're staying here overnight. And if your attorney is wondering on what grounds I'm holding you, it's because you're obstructing a murder investigation. And Mr. Attorney? Up yours."

And with these words he left the small interview room, the surprised attorney, and the taciturn squirrel.

6.6.

It was the most expensive picture he'd ever bought; he couldn't afford it. And the seller, the walking stick, would find out. Not tomorrow, maybe, but on Monday, when the bank reported that the account the check was drawn on hadn't been used for years, and the account was closed.

The picture was in a yellowed plastic pocket placed in a brown envelope. It was a copy; he hadn't even been able to buy the original. A simple piece of paper, weighing an ounce or two, eight inches wide, a little more than half as high. The picture was full-bleed, a color picture that looked like it was black-and-white. No photographer had been behind the camera, no one had adjusted the focus. It was an automatically generated image in a long suite of images. The surveillance camera had no feeling for artistry, thus the many fuzzy objects.

This had nothing to do with VolgaBet or the organization behind the game. As the grandstands were being disa.s.sembled in the bottom level of the public garage, sometimes the surveillance cameras happened to get the players in focus. At a long distance from the garage a tired stuffed animal was sitting in a sterile office, staring at a dozen screens that changed images at regular intervals. The bridge abutment. Garage. Bus stops. Public environments that Mollisan Town had decided to monitor. Over the years some of these desk guards had learned the value of what these hundreds of surveillance cameras could provide in the form of extra income. So pictures that flickered past during the night's long, lonely hours were saved systematically; files were smuggled home toward dawn, when the s.h.i.+ft ended.

The guards themselves seldom knew whether they had taken something of value; it was like a lottery. Intermediaries-in this case a walking stick-with intimate knowledge of the city's rich and powerful, inspected the images. Often they were duds. Sometimes there was a jackpot. And occasionally it happened like it happened yesterday: a buyer who knew what he wanted, and asked for enlargements.

He stroked the inside pocket of the jacket without thinking. The picture was there, inside the thin cloth. He was standing in an entryway across from the police station on rue de Cadix, and the weather had just changed to evening; the breeze had returned and the sun was going down.

It had been a long shot that hit the target. He'd done deals with the walking stick before, a hard-boiled fence whose business instincts were well developed. But today they had fooled each other.

He was certain that Superintendent Larry Bloodhound would soon show up in the entryway, en route to his obligatory beer at Chez Jacques after work. There was one possibility-slip into the restaurant cloakroom while the superintendent was in the bar and get at his briefcase.

Another alternative, of course, was to locate the superintendent's private residence and put the envelope with the picture in the mail slot. But that felt uncertain. There was no time for mistakes, and what did he know about how the superintendent handled his personal mail? There were many who left envelopes lying on the hall floor for days. Others who scooped up the mail, a.s.sumed it was just advertising, and put it all straight into the recycle bin.

He decided on a third alternative.

That was why he was waiting another half an hour until Larry Bloodhound suddenly appeared on the stairs on the opposite side of the street. The worn-out, wrinkled dog looked around, spit on the stairs, and then hurried along rue de Cadix en route to Chez Jacques.

On the other side, the stuffed animal with the expensive picture in an inside pocket stepped out of the darkness of the entryway and crossed the street. He jogged up the steps to the police station and opened the front door in a way that showed he had done it many times before.

In the police station lobby there was a whirl of motion in the transition between day and night personnel. The intensity suited him perfectly, even if it was chance, not skill, that made him choose just this point in time. With calm, slow steps he went straight toward the elevators. He directed his gaze ahead of him, not looking at anything or anyone, and pressed the b.u.t.ton. Waited. Fingered the lapel of his jacket, able to confirm with a careful pressure that the envelope had not disappeared.

When the elevator doors glided open, there stood a panther he had known a long time, an inspector at GL who was renowned for his bad breath. He put on a relaxed smile, gave the panther an easygoing nod, and stepped into the elevator. As if he had an errand he didn't need to account for. He received a curt nod back, then he was alone. The steel doors closed on him, and he pressed the b.u.t.ton with the numeral 3.

By riding the momentum of the moment he had made it the whole way to WE on rue de Cadix. But during the short trip up in the elevator there was time for reflection, and as he exited at Superintendent Larry Bloodhound's department, his self-a.s.surance deserted him for a few moments.

He got out of the elevator, looked out over a hostile office, where he felt that everyone turned to eye him suspiciously. He remained standing, uncertain of direction, facial expression, posture.

Then he pulled himself together-what alternative was there?-and stretched. Put on a gloomy face, furrowed his eyebrows, and walked straight ahead instead of choosing the less conspicuous alternative along the outside wall.

The rash courage gave him renewed energy. He kept his gaze directed straight ahead, still just as resolute, and hurried through the shadows that made the ma.s.sive office area black-and-white.

He opened the door and went into Bloodhound's office. He realized this was taking a step too far; no one could enter the superintendent's unoccupied office without a reason.

He took the envelope out of his inside pocket, pulled the photograph out of the plastic sleeve, and set it on top of the pile of papers on the superintendent's desk. So as not to leave any room for doubt, he had drawn a large red circle around Igor Panda's head, where the bear was sitting on the grandstand at VolgaBet. He also circled the date, automatically generated on images of this type.

It couldn't be more obvious.

He turned around and quickly left.

Igor Panda 6 The Dondau flows out of the underworld along mustard yellow Kronkenhagen, in the middle of central Lanceheim. The river is the only one in Mollisan Town, and its beautifully adorned bridges and restaurants with verandas overlooking the murmuring water are the pride of the district. After less than eight miles in a northerly direction, the Dondau disappears back down into the primeval crevices that finally unite it with the sea in the west.

Right before the Dondau's northern falls is a small industrial area, mostly warehouses. The river runs parallel to Kronkenhagen. This makes it cost-effective for producers of clothes and electronics to leave the goods in storage along the north Dondau and let the barges bring the containers along the river the last few miles, instead of driving trucks into the heart of the city. The warehouses are reminiscent of ma.s.sive boathouses, in which piers run alongside each other like long tongues in a giant's wooden maw. There is room for two barges at each pier, and there are four piers in each boathouse. It feels like having the sea in the middle of the city, especially since the restaurateurs in the area set food out for the shrieking, red-billed gulls, who come back every day and contribute to the atmosphere that entices patrons to the restaurants.

Unloading was done at dawn, most of the loading and pickup happened in the afternoon and evening, and for Jake Golden Retriever the afternoon hours in Boathouse 3 were optimal. Whether the paintings were small or large was unimportant; no one raised an eyebrow as he carried packages between the cars. And even if anyone were to get a glimpse of the paintings, the risk of being discovered was minimal; the dockworkers were not art experts.

Now the Morning Weather had just cleared after the rain and Jake had plenty of time. He sat on one of the piers between the boathouses, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the calm, cold water. Right here the river was widest. On the dock on the other side a few houseboats were moored. They had been there as long as Jake could remember. Besides the barges with their loads, only the skiffs of the sailing school used the Dondau. But they stayed a little farther south.

Jake smoked in peace and quiet, then tossed the cigarette into the water. He was too well dressed to hang around the harbor, in a gray suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and light blue tie. While he walked back to Boathouse 3, he thought about Igor Panda. The lying, cheating, gambling art dealer was probably the worst possible partner Jake could imagine, but at the same time he was necessary for the sale of Esperanza-Santiagos.

Jake Golden Retriever had this same thought at least once a day.

He went into the ma.s.sive boathouse. It was deserted. The river lapped quietly against the wooden piers. If Jake had understood correctly, it should be a large painting today. He sat down on a folding chair that one of the skippers had left behind in the morning's stress.

Igor Panda was standing inside the harbor captain's momentarily empty office, looking out through the wooden blinds. He saw Jake Golden Retriever set up a small folding chair and light a cigarette. inside the harbor captain's momentarily empty office, looking out through the wooden blinds. He saw Jake Golden Retriever set up a small folding chair and light a cigarette.

There was no doubt the dog was waiting for someone, waiting for the real forger.

Igor Panda had been extremely careful and not left any traces. Still the vipers had found him. And they would find him again. Time was about to run out.

Igor Panda had been following Jake Golden Retriever since the big loss last Thursday night. Getting hold of the source-the forger-through the retriever was the panda's only chance to acquire quick money. Besides, the pretentious dog was superfluous. He was a simple go-between who could be tolerated only if he added value and kept a reasonable margin. Golden Retriever fulfilled neither of those requirements. Panda put his paw in his jacket pocket. The box cutter was the only weapon he had found in the office.

Igor Panda peeked out through the blinds and saw Jake Golden Retriever toss his cigarette b.u.t.t in the water and get up. The dog's body language said that someone was entering the boathouse. Through the thin window gla.s.s he could hear a conversation but could not make out any words.

Igor sneaked up to the door and opened it without a sound. Not because he could see better from there, on the contrary, but through the crack in the door he at least heard what they said.

"I only intend to give him until the Evening Weather," said Jake Golden Retriever.

"Can he manage it?"

"If it's a bluff it's best to find that out as soon as possible."

Jake lit another cigarette. He had a large, square lighter that looked like steel but was silver. It was the only luxury item Golden Retriever used. The dog's clothes, nice-looking but discreet, were from discount outlets.

"I have a large painting with me today," she said. "Four by six. It's out in the car. I don't even know if it will fit in your little sedan."

"I'll put down the backseat," said Golden Retriever. "It's worked before."

"This is an elaborate painting. Oil and acrylic. Maybe not the best I've given you, but significantly better than the last one."

"That makes me happy," Jake replied. "Around two million?"

"Maybe more," she said. "Let Panda judge that."

"Okay. We'll meet here tomorrow. Same time. Either I have the money with me, or you get the painting back. It's a matter of discipline."

Igor Panda felt the fury surging through his body. He had heard every word, and understood exactly what it was about. Jake Golden Retriever intended to give him a single day to sell the new painting, and if he failed he would not get another chance. Not for a while, in any event. Regardless of the circ.u.mstances, it irritated him to be at the mercy of the retriever's arbitrary ways.