Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Page 18

  “Okay, go on.”

  Max knocked back some beer and wiped the back of a finger across his lower lip.

  “Look, some of this is what I saw but mostly it’s what Ralph told me. There’s a bottle of champagne on the bedside table, Dom Pérignon, real nice stuff, cost plenty. It’s still more than half full. They sent it for analysis. Sitting by the bottle are two champagne flutes, empty and clean – real clean. So what are they playing at, these two – sitting up in bed, swigging it from the bottle?”

  “The glasses had been washed.”

  “Sure, they had. There was a dried spill on a table in the living area, and that was where they found the stopper. Here’s the way I see it. He uncorks the champagne, pours out a coupla glasses. But she makes like she’s red-hot to get into bed with him, so he carries the tray into the bedroom and puts it on the side table. He takes his clothes off and gets into bed. She strips off, nice and sexy, and that distracts him enough for her to slip something into his glass before she passes it to him. Poor guy snuffs it before he even gets a chance to poke her. She cleans up very, very carefully and makes her exit.”

  I thought for a moment. “They’ll check for spermatogenesis at the post mortem.”

  “Yeah, and they won’t find any. Like I say, he never got that far.”

  “And the cause of death?”

  “The Medical Examiner won’t say until he’s done the post mortem and the lab’s had a chance to analyse tissue samples. But look, it had to be something lethal in very small quantities, something like a nerve toxin.”

  “You can’t buy stuff like that over the counter.”

  “No way. That, the perfume, the clean glasses – it all adds up to one thing: murder. You and I both know who wanted him dead. The chick who killed Ridout must have been working for them.”

  “Okay, so who is she? And where did Ridout meet her?”

  “At the charity do, probably.” He buried his head in his hands. “Ah, shit, shit, SHIT! I should have been able to prevent this. Mark Ridout was an asshole, but he was a rich asshole, and he was paying me and the boys to look after him. I let him down.”

  I said gently, “Max, tell me about this charity do.”

  He sat up slowly and took a deep breath. “Collective charities function – you know the kind of thing?”

  “No.”

  “It’s big business these days. This one was run by Charities International, a supposedly not-for-profit organisation. The idea is they bring together a select band of worthwhile causes and put them in the same room as a bunch of business leaders – nearly always men. They give everyone a nice dinner and the charities each get a chance to make a short pitch. Then they all move into another room for a mixer, with plenty of drinks circulating, and the charity people go round chatting up the fat cats and trying to nail them for contributions. Everyone pays plenty just to be there, so the organisers break even – they say.”

  “What’s in it for the businessmen?”

  “Look, Jim, you don’t understand. These are guys everyone loves to hate. They say they create employment; the media say they profit from child labour and exploit the poor. They say they provide materials and goods people want; the media point to deforestation, environmental pollution, and global warning. Day after day, week after week, they get a bad press. Comes a PR function like this, it’s manna from heaven.”

  “So they’re here to get good publicity?”

  “Yeah, but not just that. The charities employ a lot of very pretty girls to buttonhole these guys. I meanreal pretty. ‘Ambassadors’ they call them. I’d call them something else.”

  “That’s a bit hard, isn’t it?”

  “You think so? Rumour has it these girls get a nice commission on a big donation. Ten per cent of a few million bucks could be worth having, so some of them are prepared to go beyond the call of duty, if you get my drift.”

  I shook my head. “Jesus. And all this is in the name of charity?”

  “Right. I tell you, it’s another world up there in the stratosphere, Jim.”

  I noticed his glass was empty. “You want another beer?”

  He sighed. “Sure, why not?”

  As I went over to the dispenser I heard Max’s mobile sound.

  “Keller… Yes, Ralph…”

  I put a full glass in front of Max and carried mine over to the window. A minute or so later I heard Max say:

  “Great stuff, Ralph. Thanks. Keep it coming, will ya? Yeah, you too.”

  He clicked off and I wandered back to the table, but remained standing.

  Max looked up at me. “It was Ralph. The lab analysed the spectrum from the sniffer.”

  “That was quick.”

  “It’s all digital, doesn’t take long. There was a characteristic set of peaks. I knew I could smell something in there. Heard of a perfume called ‘Oronsay’?”

  “I’ve seen the adverts.”

  “Okay, well that’s what this chick uses. And they did a preliminary scan on the contents of the champagne bottle, compared it with one of the genuine articles they opened themselves – and I bet they didn’t waste what was left over, neither. The two were identical: they didn’t pick up anything that shouldn’t have been there.”

  “So whatever killed him was in one of those glasses.”

  “Right.”

  “We need to find out who talked to him at that party thing.”

  “We’re ahead of you there. The organisers took stills to distribute to the companies and selected media. My boys pulled in the lot.”

  “Holovids, too?”

  “No. They say too much coverage is intrusive and the lights spoil the ambience.”

  “Can we take a look at those pictures?”

  “Yeah, Ralph made an extra copy for me.” He took out his billfold, and removed a memory tile. Then he went over to one of the screens and looked along the side. “Yeah, this has a slot.” He inserted the tile.

  The screens responded only to touch; voice-operateds are just a damn nuisance when you have more than one in a room. We sat down and started to flick through them with the usual gestures. I conjured up my memory of Ridout from the Tanzania operation and tried to match it with what I saw. I turned to Max.

  “Have your people done this already?”

  “They’re still on it, trying to identify every damned person he talked to. The organisers aren’t much help; they wouldn’t recognise most of these people if they fell over them in the can.”

  “Okay, tell me if I’m going too fast.”

  I continued to bring the images up one after another. They were informal shots, such as you might take at a party. I saw almost immediately that Max’s friends from the Bureau were going to have a problem and so were we. The photographers must have been told to concentrate exclusively on the invited business leaders, no doubt to demonstrate how charitable they were without compromising them or revealing the identity of the girls. The stills showed the men, some slim and dapper, others flushed and overweight, chatting, drinking, smiling, or listening; what they didn’t show was who they were speaking to. Some of them seemed to have used the opportunity to have an informal exchange of their own: on this shot there were two in earnest conversation, one shooting a sideways glance at the camera. I went to the next. Then a little bell rang inside my brain.

  “Hang on a moment.”

  I brought the previous shot back, the one of the two men in conversation. I didn’t know either of them; what I’d registered was in the background – a girl with shortish blond hair. I couldn’t see her face; it was the way she was standing, close to a guest, wine glass poised, pelvis thrust forward, like a model.

  “See something?”

  “I don’t know. Is this high definition?”

  “Yes, this is the raw stuff.”

  I set the cursor and zoomed in. The girl was wearing a watch on her left wrist. I zoomed in further. The resolution didn’t run out but the focus wasn’t wonderful that far back. Still, I could see the watch was ne
at and rectangular and from the way it was squinting points of light back at the strobe – even at that distance – I could bet there were diamonds around the bezel.

  “Well?”

  “I guess not. Reminded me of something, is all. Max, have you spoken to the organisers yourself?”

  “No, but I gather Charities International is very anxious to bill this as death from natural causes. We can go along with that, at least for the moment, so long as they cooperate fully. Which they’re doing.”

  “Including a list of participants?”

  “Sure, one of the first things we asked for.”

  “Do you have a copy?”

  “Yeah, it’s on that tile. You want a print-out?”

  “In a moment. Let’s just flick through the rest of the shots.”

  There were about a dozen left. We both sat up when Ridout appeared in one shot but there was no one in the frame with him.

  “That’s it, then.”

  I got up and paced the room while Max busied himself printing out the list.

  Moments later he came over and handed me the sheets. I folded them into an inside pocket without looking at them.

  “Do I get to see the crime scene?”

  “Sorry, Jim. They won’t even let me in there. But there’s another suite, pretty much identical to that one. They’ve closed off the entire floor so it won’t be occupied. We can take a look.”

  “Okay, let’s do that.”

  The suite was very much as Max had described it: a sumptuously furnished bedroom with a door to an adjoining bathroom and a separate living area with a coffee table, sofa, and several comfortable armchairs. The carpet felt like it was a foot thick. I walked around, nodding, and ended up at one of the big windows, where it seemed I could look out on the entire city. I turned to Max.

  “Okay. Look, I don’t think there’s a lot more I can do right now. I should get back.”

  His face fell. “Sorry, Jim. I dragged you all the way here for nothing.”

  “You weren’t to know. In any case, I may not be done with this yet.”

  “You want to talk to the organisers, or the manager, or anybody? I might be able to swing it.”

  “Not right now. Let me think it over. If I come up with something I’ll let you know.”

  *

  I took the elevator but I didn’t stop at the third floor where my room was. Instead I continued down to the basement mall and began to walk. Before long I located what I was looking for: a large pharmacy. At the perfume counter I was immediately attended by a young girl who looked like she’d spent most of her day applying makeup. Right now she was on the third layer.

  “Help you?”

  “I want to buy some perfume for my partner but there’s only one she likes and I’ve forgotten what it’s called. It’s meant to be a surprise so I can’t very well ask her.”

  The pretty face in front of me looked totally blank.

  “Would you recognise the container?” she asked, turning towards the glass-fronted shelves behind her, which were stacked with tier after tier of bottles.

  “Maybe…” I said, earnestly scanning the collection. Then, “I guess not. Was it something like ‘Colonsey’?”

  Impossibly long lashes flicked up. “Do you mean ‘Oronsay’?”

  “Maybe. I’d know the scent.”

  “We have a sampler of the eau de toilette,” she said. She came back with a bottle, sprayed a paper strip, waved it around, then presented it to me. I bent forward and sniffed.

  “I’m not sure. Do you sell much of this one?”

  “Not a lot, no. It’s a very light perfume. Most women prefer something a little heavier for the evening. Of course, for daytime use it’s fine.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to compare it when I get back. Could you do me a favour? Would you mind putting some on this?”

  I pulled a clean tissue out of my pocket.

  She sprayed some onto it.

  I tucked it back in my pocket and gave her a smile.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I walked back to the elevator and touched my keycard to the reader. As the doors closed behind me I retrieved the tissue and lifted it to my nose. Oronsay. Isn’t it funny how a smell can take you back instantly? The last time I breathed that particular fragrance I was standing in the front room of a house in Queens, breaking the sad news that David van der Loos was dead.

  To Chrissie Stapledon.

  27

  Back in my room I laid my tunic on the bed, took an armchair by the window, put my feet up on the table, and closed my eyes. After about ten minutes I stirred myself and depolarised the window. Even if there was no view it let in a little natural light. I reached for my tunic and took out the sheets Max had printed for me.

  There were three columns: the first listed the names of the participants in alphabetical order; the second gave their affiliation. The third column was a kind of quick reference designating them as company, charity, or organiser. I ran my finger down the first column and stopped in the s’s.

  Stapledon, Christine World against Poverty Charity

  I wasn’t surprised to see the name there. The girl in the shop had more or less indicated that Oronsay wouldn’t be that common, especially for evening use. On its own it meant very little, but put it together with the posture of the blonde in the photo and what looked like that nice little Rolex on her wrist and there wasn’t much room for doubt. Of course it didn’t prove Chrissie was in Ridout’s room last night, but I had a mighty strong hunch she was.

  So Chrissie worked as an “ambassador”. She was a stunning girl and it would be easy enough for her to attract rich men and extract large donations from them. The charity circuit would give her access to some of the most influential industrialists in the country and by cultivating a few of them she could make a nice living from commission alone. If she was working for the Russians as well they’d pay her plenty for confidential information, imparted unwittingly between the sheets.

  How much of a stretch was it from that to knocking Ridout off? The Vlasovs failed to do it in Tanzania; maybe they decided to give their little informant a special job. They could have told her to set up a liaison with Ridout at the party last night and given her the stuff to put in his drink.

  There was just one thing that bothered me: how could she possibly expect to get away with it? She was many things, but Chrissie Stapledon didn’t strike me as being naïve.

  I picked up the room phone and spoke to reception.

  “I’m sorry, sir. We aren’t allowed to give out room numbers.”

  “I don’t want her room number. I’d just like to know if she’s still in the hotel.”

  “I can have a look… No, sir. She checked out about an hour ago.”

  “Thank you.”

  The party’s on Saturday night, Mark Ridout’s found dead in bed Sunday morning, and within hours Chrissie’s on her way. Interesting.

  *

  I went back to the list and started again, running my finger down the names.

  Ridout, Mark CEO, Cuprex Incorporated Company

  On a whim I scanned for more names from Cuprex – apart, that is, from Max Keller and his buddies, who wouldn’t have been there as guests. I stopped at another Cuprex entry in the column and looked to the left.

  For a moment I just stared and blinked. Then I took out my phone.

  “Max? It’s Jim. Are you in your room?”

  “Yeah, you want to drop by?”

  “In a bit. I forgot to mention: before you broke the news I was planning to escort you guys to the airport. I bought some hardware in case we hit trouble. A Steyr M80, no metal, sealed ammo. Any use to you?”

  “You got good taste, Jim. Yeah, I can take it off your hands. Let me have the bill and I’ll get you reimbursed.”

  “Thanks. I’ll drop it off before I leave. By the way, do you know George van der Loos?”

  “Sure. Well, as much as I know any of th
e Board members. Why?”

  “You didn’t mention he was at the party.”

  “I didn’t? No, I guess I didn’t. Sorry, there’s been too much happening. I bumped into him in the lobby earlier – he was just on his way out. Bad business, he said, almost certainly foul play. He really wanted to hang around in case he could help with the investigation but he had a lot of paperwork to go through before the meeting tomorrow. ‘Max,’ he said, “You stay here as long as you need to, and don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything I can do.’ Then he left. He seemed pretty upset.”

  “How long’s he been with Cuprex?”

  “Oh, two or three years. One of his own companies merged with Cuprex and he stayed on as a Director.”

  “He get on all right with Ridout?”

  “So far as I know. But they were different people, Jim. Mark was new money, energetic, aggressive. George was old school, more refined.”

  “Is he normally in on these charity bashes?”

  “Couldn’t say for sure – this is the first time I’ve been to one myself. You don’t suspect him, surely?”

  “Just saw his name when I was going through the list and thought I ought to check. Thanks, Max.”

  *

  I sat down at the terminal in my room. Perhaps members of the van der Loos family valued their privacy because I found surprisingly little. Even information on the companies was hard to come by. A brief biographical note read:

  “The van der Loos family first rose to prominence in the second half of the nineteenth century. Christiaan van der Loos bought up limestone deposits at precisely the time Portland cement was needed for building new roads and skyscrapers. He made a fortune and his heirs diversified into copper, silver, aluminum, nickel, tin, and gold. They initially acquired mines in Michigan, then in Arizona, Chile, and Colombia, and finally in India, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, and the Philippines. The company, trading as VDL, is still in private ownership.”

  This note is dated 2050. That’s five years ago. Two or three years after this, according to Max, one of George’s companies merged with Cuprex. Has he started to sell off his empire?