3 The Braque Connection (3 page)

“When he saw you as the suspect in the murder,” Manny continued, ignoring Vinnie, “he immediately phoned me. Apparently, you killed someone in England the day before yesterday.”

“I didn’t do this.”

“Here’s what the evidence tells us. You picked the lock of the French doors leading to the library of a large mansion on the outskirts of Maidenhead, Berkshire. In case you don’t know, it’s twenty-five miles outside London. Once inside the mansion you broke into the safe and stole a few documents, which the owner claims are worthless. You also stole an original Braque painting, worth more money than I make in a decade. The butler must have heard something, came into the study and surprised you. There was a struggle, you picked up some ridiculously expensive statue and knocked him out. While the fifty-eight-year-old male was lying helpless on the expensive Persian carpet, you shot him three times in the chest and left with the painting.”

“No fucking way!” Vinnie’s voice boomed through the room. “My man would never shoot anyone.”

A long silence followed Vinnie’s outrage. I stared at the gun lying on the coffee table. It took less than a second to dismiss the direction of my thoughts. Empirical evidence counted in Colin’s favour. I knew him. I could read him. He might be a thief, but he would never kill anyone. I also took note of the stolen painting being a Braque and wondered about the connection.

“There must be a mistake, Millard.” A series of expressions flitted over Colin’s face as he processed this information.

“No mistake. Sorry.” Manny sounded genuinely contrite. “I asked Smith to double-check the evidence. It was your fingerprints on the door handle, the safe and the statue. Your skin cells were also found under the butler’s nails.”

“I have scratch marks on my arms. That must be where they got the skin from.” Colin leaned closer to the phone. “You know I’m being set up, right?”

“As much as I would like to see you behind bars, Frey, I don’t want you to go for something that you are not guilty of.”

“Does that mean you believe Colin?” I asked. People can be extremely unclear in their communication. I wished I could see Manny. By the tone of his voice and his words alone, I couldn’t tell if he was convinced of Colin’s innocence.

“Yes, Doc. I believe him. Unfortunately. You forget that I followed him for years. I know his MO. Firstly, he doesn’t kill. He’s a thief. I also know that he would never break into a place without using gloves. The photos they took of the crime scene did not show the level of… holy hell, I hate saying this.” It was quiet for a few seconds. I imagined Manny scowling and rubbing his hand hard over his face. “It didn’t show your level of professionalism.”

“Colin, don’t.” I reached out with my hand as if to physically stop him from baiting Manny. His intent was in every muscle movement of his face.

“Come on, it’s so easy.” His expression lightened for the first time since I had woken up. He shrugged when I shook my head. “I suppose I should thank you, Millard.”

“Oh, don’t hurt yourself, Frey. I’m still waiting for the moment you slip up, so I can throw your arse in jail.”

“Let’s stay on topic,” I said. “Tell me more about the house that was broken into. Who owns it and where were they?”

“Give me a sec, Doc. I’ve got the case file here on my tablet. Let me just get to it.”

A few months ago, Francine had convinced Manny to become more technologically updated and to give in to the pressure from Interpol to get a tablet. Her method of persuasion involved preposterous flirting and threats to catch him unawares with a kiss that would rock his world. Those had been her exact words. It had worked. Manny often scowled and swore at the tablet as he swiped and stabbed at it with his strong fingers.

“Got it.” Manny’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Okay, here it is. The owners were at some society dinner when this happened. They got home around two in the morning and found their house broken into and their butler dead on the library floor.”

“Who owns the house?” My words were clipped. Why did people not answer questions concisely? There was always an irrational need for excess information.

“Kathleen McCarthy. She is the–”

“–sole owner of Windsor stables. She is worth over forty million pounds,” I said. A surge of adrenaline caused my stomach to feel hollow. “She also owns a vineyard in France and a few other interests in most European countries.”

“How do you know this, Doc?”

“Rousseau & Rousseau handles her insurance. And her house in France was broken into a few weeks ago.”

“Is this one of the thefts you were looking into?” Colin asked.

“I knew it!” Manny’s exclamation came over so loud the phone distorted the sound. He had to be very close to the instrument. “When I found out that you were looking into some thefts, I knew it was going to bring trouble. Thefts that had nothing to do with any of our cases. And now a man is dead and Frey is as good as guilty.”

I flinched as if Manny had punched me. “This is not my fault. I was just doing my job, looking for anomalies or patterns in art crimes.”

“Damn it all to hell. I know, Doc.” Manny sounded tired. “I shouldn’t shout at you. Not yet anyway. Oh wait, Rhodes is calling.”

I glanced at Colin while Manny spoke to his Scotland Yard contact. Every muscle in Colin’s body was tense, his lips tightened into a thin line. The more stressed a person becomes, the less you see of his or her lips. With Colin’s past, it would be difficult to convince anyone of his innocence. His, and my, lack of memory would add to the mounting evidence against him.

“He’s five minutes out.” Manny’s voice dropped a tone. “Frey, do whatever he asks. We need the evidence. Especially any DNA that can be recovered.”

A shiver went through me at the reminder that someone else’s DNA might be under my nails. My breathing became shallow and it required hard concentration to not give in to my desire to rush to the bathroom and spend an hour under hot water, scrubbing.

“We’ll do what we decide.” Colin was being obtuse, but I knew he wanted the evidence just as much. “Vin?”

“Dude?”

“Can you organise a lift home?”

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Manny said. “Don’t give me a reason to really throw your thieving arse in jail. I’ll handle your transport home. Have you forgotten that you are working on a team directly under the president? Everything you do will affect him, idiot.”

Colin closed his eyes and shook his head. I was too distracted by whatever was under my nails to give appropriate attention to this new argument. Having spent the last six months working with them had desensitised me to their constant bickering.

“You are twisted, old man,” Vinnie said. “Colin was asking me if I could ask my cousin, who owns a legit chopper service, to get them across the pond.”

“Without papers? Without any documents? That’s not legit, arsehole.”

“Whatever, old man.”

I once read a study revealing all the microorganisms residing on our skin, better known as skin microbiota. A percentage of the average one trillion microbiota living on human skin could be under my fingernails at this very moment. My empty stomach recoiled. A second later, Colin twisted and looked out the window. “Your man is here, Millard. Just organise to get us home.”

Without waiting for a response, he disconnected the call. There was so much more that I wanted to ask, but knew it would have to wait. No matter how much I rationalised the need for being processed, I knew that the next hour or so I would have to rely on Mozart more than usual. At least I was going to get rid of whatever was caught under my nails and I could focus on the hot shower I planned to have.

Chapter THREE

“There we go. Scrape it all onto the paper. That’s it.” Ben Rhodes was a jovial, overweight man who had been in awe of meeting me. I had to admit being taken aback by his star-struck greeting. It appeared he had read most of my articles and had even attended a seminar I had presented at Oxford University a few years ago. I guessed his age to be in the mid forties, which made his blushing when he greeted me charming.

As soon as Ben had recovered from meeting me, he had given us plastic containers for urine samples. That done, we were now sitting at the kitchen table, scraping possible evidence from under our nails. I didn’t know if this was worse than Ben drawing enough blood to fill three small little vials. The more blood they had, the more tests they could run, he had said while I had tried to not give in to panic. Colin had insisted on doing the rest ourselves without explaining why. Ben had been very accommodating, which led me to believe that Manny must have given him some background on me. All but my left pinkie nail had been scraped.

“What else do you need from us?” Colin asked. He had scraped his fingernails much faster than I did. I was making sure to get any and all foreign skin microbiota and other elements from under my nails.

“I would like to photograph your injuries.” Ben nodded in approval when I finished my pinkie nail. He carefully folded the paper and placed it with all the other evidence. “But first I need you to brush your hair onto another sheet, Doctor Lenard.”

“Call me Genevieve, please.” I was still looking at my nails when his request registered. “Oh God, there is evidence in my hair?”

I closed my eyes and focussed on Mozart until my heart rate slowed down. When I was able to ignore the images flashing through my mind, I looked at Ben, ready. The movement around his mouth, but especially around his eyes alerted me to more than mere patience. He was showing empathy.

“Who is it?” I asked softly.

“My son.” His smile conveyed deep affection. “He was diagnosed with autism at the age of three. He’s now thirteen and is driving us crazy with his latest music choices. It’s been a hard, but interesting road.”

“How severe is he?” There was no evidence of shame or regret in Ben’s nonverbal cues. For that alone he gained my respect.

“Pretty high-functioning. His biggest problem is socialising.” He placed a large sheet of paper on the table. “It is something we’re working on all the time, teaching him to better understand social cues and structures. Your lectures on non-neurotypical behaviour helped us a lot. It also got him to take an interest in body language. Now he interprets every single bloody movement we make.”

The
orbicularis oculi
muscles around his eyes relaxed completely while he was talking about his son. His mouth softened and he became much more animated. The love he had for his son was evident. My childhood had been filled with emotional distance, pressure to be normal and ultimately rejection from my parents.

“Your son is a very lucky young man,” I said.

“No, we are the lucky ones. He keeps us on our toes and helps us appreciate every small step, every special moment.” He handed me a fine-toothed comb, wrapped in plastic. “If you could brush out your hair on this sheet, it would be great.”

The reprieve our conversation had brought disappeared. I took the sterilised comb from the plastic cover, angled my head over the sheet of paper and started combing. No matter how much I combed, it didn’t take away the feeling that I had to comb harder.

“Jenny, stop.” Colin’s hand folded over mine. “I’m sure you got it.”

I swallowed and focussed on the hot shower that I would soon have. Carefully I put the comb on the sheet and watched Ben fold the corners of the paper over the comb and any particulates I had managed to get rid of. Colin combed out his hair, but was much more efficient at it. He winced a few times as he touched the knot at the back of his head.

The next twenty minutes were uncomfortable as Ben took photos. He first photographed the scratches on Colin’s arm and the knot at the back of his head, showing me how it would be done. When it was my turn, I lifted my shirt to just beneath my breasts and closed my eyes. The discomfort I felt was not because a stranger was looking at my bare abdomen. It was the reminder of unknown assailants touching me, hitting me, that had me reaching for Mozart yet again.

My life had never been without challenges. During my formative years it had been fighting the stigma attached to anything and anyone deviating from society’s definition of ‘normal’. University had been a challenge in itself—a new social environment with many unknown factors, all of which had sent me into countless bouts of panic, resulting in shutdowns sometimes lasting for days. But I had fought my way through my fears, constantly tightening my control, and dealing with challenging situations.

I had not been born with skills like most neurotypical people. The field I had graduated in was chosen with the utmost care. Typically, people on the autism spectrum did not read and understand body language. I was now one of the world’s leading experts. My further education in psychology aided me in a better understanding of neurotypical behaviour, most of which I considered irrational and nonsensical.

Despite all my education, my analytical skills and exceptional IQ, I failed to find enough rationalisation to calm myself. This situation and all it encompassed was becoming more overwhelming by the minute. Observing Ben’s fleeting micro-expressions of horror, anger and sympathy while documenting my injuries exacerbated my blooming panic.

“We have given you all the symptoms we have so far experienced.” My voice was strained. This was an attempt to change my focus while Ben took close-up photos of my arms. I needed my mind to become immersed in analysis or problem-solving. That would keep the panic at bay. “In your experience, do you agree the drug could be a benzodiazepine?”

He briefly looked up from zooming in on four dark marks next to each other. Fingers from a large hand, a man’s hand.

“Yes, unfortunately.” He frowned. “But it should’ve had a calming effect on you.”

“It doesn’t.” Briefly I told him about my experiences with benzodiazepines.

“Are you using any other medication at the moment?”

“Only vitamin supplements when needed.” I had vowed to wean myself off medication as much as I could. As long as I focussed on my physical and psychological health, I was able to avoid having to use pharmaceutical help. “It has been a long time, but sometimes I need SSRIs.”

“What’s that?” Colin asked.

“Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.” Ben looked back at me. “Do you often suffer from depression?”

“Not as much anymore. I have managed to find a good balance in my life.” It was strange that I talked so easily with this man I had never met before. Maybe it was the knowledge that he understood on an uncommonly deep level.

“Do you think the benzodiazepine will have an adverse effect on you in the long term?”

“I hope not. It has been more than twenty years since I last had anything like it. Once it had metabolised, there weren’t any aftereffects. I hope it will still be true.”

“What aftereffects?” Colin asked.

“There is a lot of disagreement about long-term effects and frankly, I don’t think that a few days’ use qualifies as long-term use. We would have to use it for longer than three days to see definite effects in our cognitive functions.” One look at his face and my eyebrows lifted. “You are scared?”

“I’m not scared.” He tried to relax his facial muscles, but the fear was still visible. “I’m just concerned about all these side effects. Wait. Why are you not freaking out?”

I stiffened. “What–”

“Sorry, Jenny.” Colin knew I was sensitive about the word ‘freak’. “‘Freaking out’ usually means becoming hysterical.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.” He sighed. “What I want to know is why you are not more concerned with everything he’s just said.”

“May I?” Ben looked at me. I nodded, curious to hear his reasoning for my behaviour. I assumed he felt he had personal insight. He turned to Colin. “Knowledge makes her feel safer. The more she knows, the more empowered she feels. It is the strangeness, the lack of information making her feel powerless and therefore uncomfortable. How did I do?”

“You’re mostly right,” I said when he looked at me, expectation around his eyes. “Especially about my need for information.”

“The first few years with Tommy were really difficult.” Ben’s voice softened as he spoke about his son. He was photographing my back. Colin was holding my shirt up, his hands warm where he touched me. “He wouldn’t accept a simple answer to a question. He wanted an encyclopaedic answer even for the simplest of questions. It used to drive us nuts. Then we got him an iPad. Honest to God, that was a gift. He has two sets of encyclopaedias on it since he doesn’t believe in the reliability of information from the internet. Now we know when he has a question. He stops talking and starts tapping away on his iPad. It’s brought us all quite a lot more breathing space.”

“You seem to have found a good compromise.” A hitch in Colin’s tone made me turn to him. What I saw on his face took me by surprise. Envy was an emotion closely related to regret. We felt envy for things we didn’t have, regret for things we had or hadn’t done. A stabbing pain hit me in my chest. I didn’t hear Ben’s reply, wondering what Colin felt was missing. Was it related to our relationship? To date I had not seen any nonverbal indicators that he regretted being with me or that he envied other couples. Indicators of impatience, yes. But not envy or regret. This was a first.

As I inhaled to ask him, Ben’s cell phone rang. Since it was ten past six in the morning, I suspected the call came from Manny rather than from Ben’s friends. I could hold my questions for Colin until another time. This took precedence. Ben listened to the caller and responded with monosyllables. A soft thudding coming from outside drew my attention to the window and the large meadows visible in the early morning light.

“Your ride should be here any minute,” Ben said as he placed the phone on the table. “Manny sends his regards and wishes you happy travels.”

“That arsehole would never say that.” Colin got up and walked to the kitchen window. “They’re landing.”

The thudding had increased exponentially. With disbelief I watched a sleek, black helicopter land in the meadow about a hundred metres from the cottage. The efficiency with which Manny had called in Ben’s help and now our transport was impressive. The knowledge that I had to travel in a helicopter for an undetermined distance, not having showered and not wearing my own clothes, sent a rush of adrenaline through my system.

“Jenny? Jenny, I need you to stay with me.” Colin was rubbing my arms, his voice insistent. “Jenny?”

I took a few breaths into the silence. No more thudding. “Is the helicopter gone? Can we drive back to France?”

I was still in my chair at the table. Colin had pulled a chair closer to sit facing me. He was very close, his thighs on the outside of mine, worry clear on his face. We were alone in the kitchen. “The pilots are set to take off as soon as you are ready. This is a special helicopter—it can fly long distance, is quite comfortable and will be the quickest way for us to get home. Once we’re home you can shower, use your own products and wear your own clothes.”

I smiled. “You’re an exceptional manipulator.”

“Other people might call it negotiation.” He took both my hands in his, the muscles around his eyes relaxing, softening his expression. “And I know you. As much as you hate wearing my clothes and not having showered, you would rather wait another few hours and shower in your own home than lose another thirty minutes here just to wear my clothes again.”

It was difficult to speak past the muscles in my throat tensing up. “You don’t know me as well as you think. Wearing your clothes is not as disconcerting as the thought of not showering. But I can’t get into the helicopter.”

“Why not?” No censure, only curiosity and concern.

“I’m not prepared for it. I don’t know the safety features, the statistics on accidents and survival rates.” My voice rose in pitch and volume. “I don’t know the experience of the pilots or whether the current fuel levels will be sufficient for the fuel consumption to take us all the–”

“Hey, it’s okay. Take a breath.” He waited a few seconds for me to compose myself. “You know this is the fastest way for us to get home, right?”

“Rationally, yes.”

“Is there any way that you can Mozart your way into the helicopter?”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to use Mozart as a verb?”

He smiled at the old argument. “Well, can you?”

“I would rather not.” My intense fear of change, of the unknown had been the reason I constantly pushed myself, wanting to move past the many limitations my mind placed on me. I had travelled to all the continents on the planet unaccompanied. I didn’t want to be a prisoner to my own fears. Despite everything in me screaming in horror, I straightened my spine, lifted my chin and inhaled deeply. “After the pilots assure me that they are qualified and we have enough fuel, I will board.”

As soon as I said it, panic punished my body. I thought back to all those times I had been convinced I would not be able to get onto the plane. Like then, I now focussed on my end destination. A hot shower in my apartment. I pulled my hands out of Colin’s and stood up. “Let’s go.”