Dollar Down by Sam Waite Read Free Book Online

made of them. Her face was placid as
usual. "Do you know what these mean?"
    "No, but there's a name next to one of the equations,
Bizet. I found a Philippe Bizet in Trevor's address book. I'm
going to call him."
    If I hadn't been watching closely, I might not have
noticed Alexandra's jaw clench, as she slipped into
deep-thought mode, but her frown was obvious.
    "Philippe Bizet used to be in the firm. I can contact him
for you. Do you mind if I keep the chart?"
    "No, but..."
    "There's no point in speculation. Are you still staying at
Sabine's flat?"
    "Yes."
    "I'll call you." She stood, put on her coat and slipped
the chart into her pocket. "You'll get the check, won't
you?"
    She sauntered away, her heels languid castanets
striking the flagstone floor. Bonne nuit , Alexandra.
    As I sipped another nightcap, I shifted as many mental
gears as I could. Maybe Trevor was a bad guy in something that
I didn't know about. If so, why had he called me? Maybe
Sabine's husband really was a jealous cuckold and was playing
me like a double-string banjo. So why would he order medical
tests, if they might implicate him? Who was the Saudi Gavizon
had told me about?
    The only idea I had was another way to spend
Oddsson's money. I could run checks, in Venezuela and Paris,
on each client team member. Of the original five, there were
only two left on a permanent basis.
    I went back to the flat and called Gavizon. For an extra
two hundred dollars, he said he would tell his agency to pull
him off his other cases. He was a good man to work with. Cash
defined his loyalties, and the bidding was low.
    I also needed help in Paris. It didn't take me long to
decide on Pascal Lucet. A few years back, we'd worked
together on an industrial espionage case for a handbag
manufacturer. Someone in the company had been selling
design specs to pirates. Merchants in Korea and Hong Kong
were coming out with copies before the legitimate items hit the
market. Pascal was savvy, with the right touch of sleaze for that
kind of undercover work. He was born in Algiers and spoke
Arabic along with French and English. Those skills could be
useful if the Saudi meant a Mideast connection. Besides, he ran
a one-man operation. He might teach me something about the
business. I left a message on his answering machine, then
flicked on CNN and watched until eleven thirty-six, when the
phone rang.
    "Mick Sanchez," I answered.
    " Och aye , Irish."
    Irish? Och aye ? Scottish Gaelic with a Gaulish
tinge, "Pascal?"
    "Who else? You got work for me?"
    At least his English was American. "I do." For the next
fifteen minutes, I explained the situation. My briefing included
the names, resumes and current hotels and phone numbers of
the two men from PDVSA.
    After Sabine died, I'd been ready to pack it in. Thanks
to Oddsson, I now hungered for the hunt. Like a hound, my
brain was alive with scents, not of the prey but of the victim, of
her hair, her skin, her essence that lingered in the flat. If Sabine
had been murdered, I would track the killer down as an
avenging angel. It was a long time before I could sleep. When I
did, I dreamed of flaming swords.

Chapter 7
    Alexandra's call woke me at six-fifteen on a Saturday
morning.
    "I'm still not sure about the notations you showed me."
She didn't waste time with niceties. "You asked me about Bizet.
After he left the firm, he became a quant, a quantitative analyst.
He ran a hedge fund for several years. Now he runs the family
vineyard near Bergerac. If you still want to see him, you'll have
to go there. It's a day trip. Can you meet me at
seven-thirty?"
    I could and did.
    The trip by train and rental car took us through
forested valleys, flanked by stony outcrops of steep hills
topped by castles. Villages were built into the sides of cliffs.
Houses nested among hills and trees. We crossed fast flowing
brooks and broad swaths of farms and cattle pastures. The
natural beauty of southern France easily outshone the
manmade art of Paris.
    On the way, Alexandra