Sohlberg and the White Death (36 page)

“I’m Lucien Jospin . . . the manager.”

Brisac wasted no time on introductions or explanations. She waved her badge at the manager and said:

“We’re here to see Monsieur Devin Archer . . . now.”

The fidgety administrator escorted the detectives up to Eiffel Suite 361. During the elevator ride Lucien Jospin sweated so profusely that Sohlberg wondered if they were headed to a fatal ambush.

~ ~ ~

The skinny wreck of managerial nerves was about to knock on the door when Brisac grabbed his arm. She pointed at the electronic keyhole.

Monsieur Jospin understood what she wanted. The agitated manager showed his reluctance with a frown. He extricated a master keycard from his coat pocket. Silently and quickly he slid the keycard in and out of the door’s electronic control. Brisac shooed him away. The overwrought Jospin quietly ran down the hallway to the elevators.

Brisac pushed the door open. The three detectives spread out in the sumptuous suite. At 1,406 square feet it was larger than most one-bedroom apartments in Paris. A long and silver-framed window offered a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower. The expensive decor included a grand piano. The Haussmannian mini-palace looked and smelled of royalty and Old Money until Devin Archer walked out of the bedroom.

The disheveled race car driver was only dressed in a filthy t-shirt and boxer shorts. Devin Archer’s rank body odor clashed with the aristocratic elegance of the hotel. He shouted:

“What the. . . .”

Brisac identified herself and showed him her badge. She said in decent English:

“Sit down. Anyone else in here?”

“Eh . . . yes. Two . . . two gals I met at a party last night. . . . They’re my . . . they’re my date . . . they’re taking a shower.”

Laprade and Sohlberg waited with the race car driver while Brisac drew her gun and searched the bedroom. She ordered two terrified young women in their 20s to go downstairs to the lobby—barefoot and wrapped in wet towels. Commissaire Brisac picked up the phone:

“Hello? . . . Front desk please. . . . Hello. This is Commissaire Élodie Brisac. Yes . . . I’m the one who was in the lobby with your manager. Please tell Monsieur Jospin that I’m sending him two young women suspected of prostitution.

“Yes . . . that’s what I said. The girls are on their way downstairs in the elevator. Have Monsieur Jospin hold them in his office until I give him further instructions. Is that understood?

“Good. Now send us room service as soon as possible. Big pots of coffee . . . enough for twelve people . . . croissants for five.”

Laprade pointed at Sohlberg. “Hot chocolate for him.”

Brisac placed the order. Meanwhile Sohlberg closed the door to the bedroom because cannabis clouds were pouring out of Devin Archer’s love nest.

The three detectives instantly recognized the distinctive aroma of the premium organic marijuana—
Soft Sofia
. The powerful vanilla-flavored intoxicant had been originally designed in Redding California as a 50-50 sativa/indica hybrid strain for the hardiest of the hard-partying Anheuser-Busch beer heirs in Huntleigh Missouri. The strain had almost been named
FourBud
after August Busch IV.
Soft Sofia
quickly became popular with other very rich and thoroughly rotten heirs in Los Angeles, New York, Boston, and London.

Devin Archer rubbed his red glassy eyes and said:

“What do you people want?”

Brisac sat down on a mauve silk sofa. She straightened out her gray shirt and crossed her long elegant legs. “We ask the questions here. Let’s wait for room service. I want you . . . Monsieur Archer . . . to sober up. Drink as much coffee as you can.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Brisac laughed. “I don’t care what you do or don’t do with your marijuana high. But my colleague here . . . Commissaire Laprade hates rich drug-addicted degenerates. He’s going to get very upset if you don’t sober up. . . . He’s the kind who wouldn’t think twice about pouring the hot coffee down your throat.”

Archer laughed the little laugh of the cowardly. The race car driver did not look as handsome and confidant and charming as he appeared in the society pages and racing magazines.

~ ~ ~

A polite knock on the door was followed by:

“Room service!”

Laprade went to open the door but not before looking through the peephole to make sure it was a uniformed waiter from the hotel. The detective pulled his gun out of the holster and held it flat behind his right leg. He unlocked the door. “Come in!”

Two young men wheeled in two service carts. They left quickly and without a tip as soon as Laprade scowled at them. One cart held a gargantuan silver pot of coffee—warmed by Sterno cooking fuel. The coffee service was surrounded by cups, saucers, spoons, cream, and sugar. Sohlberg’s porcelain pot of hot chocolate sat incongruously on the other cart which was loaded with little glass jars of preserves and butter next to a pile of fresh croissants.

Brisac poured out three cups of coffee as nonchalantly if she was serving an after-dinner coffee at her home for some old friends. “Cream anyone? . . . Sugar?”

Laprade and the race car driver took their cups from Brisac while Sohlberg served himself his hot chocolate. Laprade grabbed a croissant and devoured it in less than two seconds. The early morning rush hour traffic could be heard through the window.

“Now,” said Brisac after Archer finished his fourth cup of coffee. “I’m here to discuss some matters with you. First let’s talk about your Marco Polo activities—”

“What?”

“Don’t play coy with me. You know what I mean. You explore and open new drug markets for the Medellín Cartel . . . in places like Bahrain and Singapore . . . where your Columbian partners haven’t been able to get a foothold. . . . Your Formula One entrée lets you slip into all the hot spots for the rich and famous who attend grand prix races in Monaco . . . Singapore . . . Abu Dhabi . . . Japan . . . India. . . .”

Archer’s eyelids fluttered while Brisac listed the cities where he conducted his criminal enterprise.

“Monsieur Archer . . . we also know that you give parties . . . or go to parties . . . for the well-off and the ultra-rich and the powerful in these cities . . . you give away samples of your prime and purest cocaine and your best designer marijuana. A line here and a toke there and you soon establish a very addicted beachhead in foreign lands for your Columbian masters—”

“Now wait a minute.”

“Shut up and listen,” said Brisac. “We know that you then find trustworthy local dealers and build a relationship with them. You ship them a ton or less of the stuff. You build up market share. Then your Columbian Coke Lords take over and eliminate those middlemen when and where possible with trusted distribution partners that always pay cash up front without delays or excuses . . . reliable partners like the 'Ndrangheta for European markets. . . . Correct?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“You’ll get a lawyer. You’ll need a lawyer. You see . . . at this very moment my colleagues at the
police judiciaire
are in the docks of Marseille waiting for my command to search and rip apart every single container . . . every single piece of equipment . . . every part . . . and every racing vehicle that you are shipping out to your upcoming exhibition races in Bahrain and Bombay.

“Imagine what’s going to happen to you with the higher ups at Formula One and the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile when they read that you’re under arrest for smuggling and distributing cocaine and marijuana under their noses and under their auspices. I’m sure that hard-nosed businessmen like Bernie Ecclestone won’t tolerate your presence much longer in
any
racing circuit.”

Archer’s eyes fluttered with tiny tremors.

“Monsieur Archer . . . I can’t even begin to imagine what the Federation’s World Motor Sport Council will do to you once the media gets hold of this story. But I can imagine what your bosses in Medellín Columbia will do to you and your children and your wife and your father and your mother to make sure that you don’t spill one little bean of information about them.”

Archer slumped back into his chair. He closed his eyes of despair—the eyes of a man who knows he’s in a fatal trap with the deadliest of business partners. “What do you want?”

“If you cooperate with us today then we won’t arrest and expose you. If you don’t cooperate then we’re going to arrest and expose you
and
make sure that your Columbian buddies think that you’re betraying them.”

Archer sobbed loudly. “No! . . . I can’t. I won’t. No!”

“Okay. Don’t help us. But you need to know that you’ve got a whole lot more problems.”

“What problems?”

“Chief Inspector Sohlberg from Norway is here to arrest you for . . . smuggling one ton of cocaine into Norway in Ervin Vikøren’s boat four years ago . . . and . . . the murder of eight men and one woman in Norway and two men in Finland.”

“What?” shouted an incredulous Archer. “What are you people taking about?”

 “The bill . . . Monsiuer Archer. The bill is due. C.I. Sohlberg is here to present you the bill in Norway for your little venture into drug and people smuggling. He knows that you’re the one who hired Ervin Vikøren up in Tromsø to smuggle one ton of coke into Norway and to smuggle people illegally out of Norway. Ervin has been singing like a sweet little bird.”

Devin Archer visibly aged under the shock of hearing that Ervin Vikøren had turned government witness against him. The racing playboy was no more. The man’s sagging features reflected his understanding that his dirty deeds had finally caught up with him. His world of drugs and parties and women and money was crashing to an end. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m innocent.”

“Innocent like the two hookers I found in your bedroom? . . . Please. . . . Don’t play more games with us,” Brisac said gently but firmly. “You are responsible for the death of eleven individuals.”

“I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”

Laprade raised his hand. “I’m not going to waste my time with this piece of human garbage. Look here boy . . . this is what I’m going to do to loosen up your tongue.”

Archer cringed when Laprade put a knife from the silver set over the Sterno flame. The knife’s tip soon turned red-hot. Laprade took it out and waved it in front of Archer. “Look here . . . this is what’s going to slice through your tongue . . . then your eyeball.”

“No,” whimpered Archer. “No!”

Laprade laid the knife on the cart such that the tip of the blade was back in the fire. He took off his suit and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Laprade grabbed the knife.

Archer screamed: “No!”

Laprade pressed the hot metal into his own left forearm while he smiled at Archer. The revolting smell of Laprade’s burnt flesh permeated the room.

“Ah,” said Laprade. “Perfect. Just the right temperature. Now I’ll heat it up again and stick it in your tongue.”

“Wait,” said a horrified and shocked Sohlberg. “Wait Laprade. . . . Let me try talking some sense into him. Now . . . Archer . . . you say you’ve never killed anyone? . . . That’s a big fat lie. . . . Let’s start off with all those people you’ve destroyed and killed with your Marco Polo drug business . . . how many lives do you think have been sacrificed for those little lines of white powder that you and your clients snort up every day?”

Archer shrugged.

Laprade slammed the coffee table. “This piece of garbage doesn’t care. Let’s not waste our time lecturing him. Let me cook his tongue right now. Then we’ll let his friends in Medellín do all the lecturing that he deserves as soon as they find out his cell number at La Santé Prison.”

Archer pleaded with Sohlberg in a pathetic childlike voice. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I only set up a boat charter with Ervin Vikøren. And it wasn’t for nine people . . . it was for seven.”

“Ah,” said Sohlberg. “There’s the rub. You participated in a criminal activity that ended with the murder of eleven . . . two smugglers killed in Finland . . . plus seven killed near Tromsø . . . plus two sailors who were murdered when they tried to stop a rape on the boat.”

“Rape? . . . Murder? . . . Until you told me I didn’t know anything about how or where or why these people died.”

Sohlberg took a croissant.

Laprade began heating the knife again over the Sterno flame.

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg dipped the croissant into his hot chocolate. He took his time chewing and then dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. He had developed a taste for long interviews with suspects. The best information came from grueling interviews that lasted six or eight hours. “I find it hard to believe that you or your friends in Columbia never bothered to send someone to Finland and Norway to find out why your human cargo had never made it to Scotland.”

Archer shook his head. “They sent someone to Norway look for Vikøren . . . there was no sign of him or his boat anywhere. We assumed that the boat sank.”

“Who’s we? . . . Who asked you to hire a charter?”