Clear Skies Page 7

  “The first news is that Mrs. Palmer’s model agency is nothing more than a front using a post office box and an answering and forwarding service to deal with inquiries,” Hirota said. “It’s a real low-budget operation, and we’ve drawn a blank in identifying the models at Palmer’s dinner party.”

  “So we’re still nowhere,” Slade said.

  “Not exactly. I’ve tracked down Richard Palmer to a London-based company called British Fighter Industries plc,” Roche said. “He’s the president.”

  “We’ve attempted to contact him, so far without success,” Hirota said. “His personal assistant said he flew back today from the French Riviera, where he spent several days with his wife on their yacht.” Hirota paused and cocked his head at Slade, the unspoken question in his eyes. “He’s now in transit to an undisclosed retreat in Scotland, where he and colleagues from his company will meet uninterrupted for twenty-four hours to finalize a high-value business proposal. The PA refuses to disturb him and says his wife is alive and well in Europe.”

  “I’ll take the midnight Air France flight through Paris to London tonight,” Slade said. “I’ll get to London in the morning, UK time, and achieve more face-to-face.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Roche said. “En fait, I’m due to return to SCSSI for my quarterly briefing. I’ll head to Paris after we finish up in London.”

  “Great. I could use your cyber skills.”

  “I’ll go too,” Isa said. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but this morning, Ono asked me to join her team at the London Fashion Week event later this week. It was more of an order than a request because she’s included my earlier designs in the London collection. She’ll pay for my ticket to Europe and I can leave Japan whenever I want, as long as I arrive before the event.”

  “You’re at risk and shouldn’t expose yourself,” Slade said.

  “I’ll be with you if I go and alone here if I don’t. There’s no way I’ll stay cooped up in your apartment twenty-four-seven while you’re away. In any case, I met Richard Palmer. I can help you.”

  Slade hesitated while he tossed her argument off the ceiling and walls and back into his head. The sound of Isa sniffing broke the tense silence. Tears streamed down her face now that her sister’s death took a delayed hold of her emotions. As much as he wanted to reject the idea from an emotional standpoint, it made objective sense.

  Slade opened the meeting room door to leave, and the sounds of the squad room rolled over him. Tapping by administrative staff on their computers and ringing of landlines and cell phones pulled him back to the reality of criminal investigation, a process that grinds on utilizing every tool at its disposal.

  Before he moved, Slade stared at Isa for a moment longer, still weighing the pros and cons. He nodded, a wave of resignation washing over him.

  “Okay. But as long as you are with us, you will follow instructions.”

  “Agreed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  (Friday Afternoon— London, Local Time)

  The entrance lobby of British Fighter Industries plc, better known to the general public as BFI, was impressive by any standard. A quarter-size replica of the company’s first fighter aircraft, put together with meticulous detail, anchored one end of a supersized reception desk. Three unsmiling pinstripe-suited men manned that desk. They looked to Slade more like aspiring executives than receptionists. Another quarter-size replica of BFI’s current fighter flanked the other end of the desk, balancing the layout. Sliding glass doors with security guards and security checking equipment sealed an entrance at one end of the massive lobby.

  Slade approached the trio, and a call to the president’s office led to the prompt appearance of a young woman wearing a navy-blue striped power suit.

  “Welcome to BFI. My name is Jane Upton, and I’m Richard Palmer’s personal assistant.” She signed them into the visitors’ book and steered them through the security check.

  “I apologize, but Mr. Palmer has been held up in an urgent meeting and will not be available for twenty to thirty minutes. I will take you to our VIP reception room upstairs in our executive suite, and you can help yourselves to refreshments while you wait.”

  The VIP room was smaller than the entrance lobby but no less impressive. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows on two adjacent sides afforded spectacular views across London. Plush leather sofas and armchairs surrounded a massive bar backed by a third wall. The remaining wall served as BFI’s pictorial history, with over one hundred corporate photographs dating back to the company’s origins when Palmer’s grandfather had started the business with a single-engine aircraft.

  Slade and Roche helped themselves to coffee while Isa studied the photographs.

  “Oh, my God. Look at this photo. It was taken this year,” she said after peering at it for a few minutes. “The caption says the person on the far left is the president, Richard Palmer, and the man next to him, his executive assistant, Tony Hewitt.”

  “And the reason you’re surprised is . . . ?” Slade stood beside her to take a closer look.

  “The executive assistant is the person I met in Washington, D.C.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstood who he was,” Slade said.

  “No way. He didn’t introduce himself as Richard Palmer but knew I believed he was Chloe’s husband. I addressed him by that name, and he did not correct me. I’ve never seen the Richard Palmer in this photograph.”

  “This makes Tony Hewitt a person of interest.”

  Slade noted his significantly shorter stature than Palmer’s, which might explain the differently sized suits in Carol Palmer’s Tokyo apartment.

  “Isa, you should leave now, in case Hewitt meets us with Palmer. He could recognize you, and if he’s a significant player in the crimes, we won’t want him to know you’re here in London. Since we’re not one hundred percent sure who’s who, it could be dangerous for you.”

  Roche jumped up from his seat and said, “It could be useful to download his hard drive if I can get access to his computer, non?” He pulled out a flash drive from his pocket and noticed Slade’s attempt to conceal a smile. “I always carry a high-performance drive, in case I need it.”

  Slade laughed. “Yes, I forgot. You’re an officially sanctioned hacker.” He went to the door and looked out at the deserted passage. “Alex, take Isa to the first-floor exit, see that she gets into a cab, and come right back.”

  # # #

  Roche walked with Isa along the passage to the elevator and noticed a door bearing Tony Hewitt’s nameplate. He signaled Isa to step back and opened the door. A secretary behind a desk opposite the door looked up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry. Wrong office. I’m looking for Tony Hewitt.”

  “This is his office, but you’ve missed him. He’s out of the country at the moment.”

  “That’s a bad break. I’m hoping he’ll upgrade his life insurance policy. When will he be back?”

  “Next week. I’ll tell him you were here. May I have your name?”

  “Don’t worry about a message. I’ll catch up with him next week.” Roche backed out of the room to rejoin Isa.

  “I can get into Hewitt’s office from the next door down the passage. Are you prepared to take a risk?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Go back to Hewitt’s secretary and ask her to take you to the ladies’ room. Tell her you feel faint or something. Try to keep her there for five minutes at least, then persuade her to accompany you to the lobby to get a taxi. That’ll give me ten to fifteen minutes at least.”

  He opened the second door a crack, and when he saw the secretary stand up and move with Isa to the door in her section of the office, he went in.

  Six minutes later, Roche heard footsteps approach the secretary’s door. He crouched behind Hewitt’s desk and waited for the hard drive to download as the woman dropped back in her seat. He pulled the flash drive from the machine and wondered how to get out through Hewitt’s door unnoti
ced. At that moment, Isa entered the secretary’s section again and thanked her with exaggerated gratitude to distract her attention away from Hewitt’s end of the room.

  Back in the passage, Isa said, “She wouldn’t take me to the lobby and leave her office unattended with visitors on the floor. I knew I’d have to distract her again to give you enough time.”

  “You were superb,” Roche said. “Just like a trained pro.”

  They hurried to a waiting elevator and went down to the lobby. After waving off Isa in a cab called by one of the receptionists, he rejoined Slade upstairs.

  # # #

  One minute later, Jane Upton reappeared.

  “Where is your colleague?”

  “She’s not feeling well, so we sent her back to the hotel,” Slade replied. They followed Upton to Palmer’s office.

  Slade watched Richard Palmer lean back in his leather chair and take in his visitors with the restless eyes of a busy executive meeting people not critical to his work and stealing precious time from his schedule. He had a full head of silver-streaked black hair, a deep tan, and bespoke clothing down to his shirt and tie. He stood and moved to the front of his desk. His presence was overwhelming. He towered at around six foot four, but Slade thought his domination stemmed more from his self-assurance, a sense of his ability to acquire anything he pleased combined with an unleashed ego.

  “Gentlemen,” began Palmer when they sat down after showing him their credentials. “What can I do for you?”

  Slade sat up straight while Roche relaxed and looked around, taking in their surroundings. “My department called you from Tokyo forty-eight hours ago, but your PA told them unequivocally that we could not reach you.”

  “That’s right,” Palmer said. “I gave Jane strict instructions to block all calls. Our company’s top executives held a retreat in the north of Scotland to finalize a tender we’ll submit independently of our US partner to Japan’s Ministry of Defense. It’s for our upgraded fighter aircraft, the BF-20. You must have seen the model of it downstairs in the lobby. If our tender is selected, it will be a historic breakdown of the US domination of Japan’s defense industry. Japan will be the first of our allies other than the US to purchase the latest version of our cutting-edge fighter.”

  His deep blue eyes gleamed as he went on. “It’s the most advanced fighter in the air at present. The contract is worth billions of pounds, so you’ll understand why we could not be distracted until this morning.”

  Slade nodded. “I needed to speak to you urgently and directly on a highly sensitive matter. Since this was not possible until today, we came to London to talk with you directly. Your PA kindly adjusted your schedule to accommodate us.”

  Palmer looked at his desktop diary. “Yes, I can see that Jane shuffled meetings around, but she didn’t say why you wanted to see me.”

  “Unfortunately, I bring you disturbing news. Three days ago, a woman identified as your wife was discovered dead in your Tokyo apartment. Her death was the result of foul play.”

  If Palmer was surprised, he did not show it.

  “Nonsense. There must be a mistake. I talked to Carol this morning by phone. She’s on our yacht sailing the Mediterranean right now. I left her there two days ago. We usually spend a few days together on the yacht when she comes back from Japan. I cut it short this time because of the retreat, but she was alive and well when I left for Scotland. She’ll rejoin me here in a week’s time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer, but the body matches her description and photographs.”

  “There has to be an explanation. It can’t be her. I’ll call Carol now and settle this.” Palmer summoned Jane Upton and instructed her to call his wife by satellite phone. “She’s at sea, so her cell phone could be out of range,” he explained.

  A few minutes later, Upton patched the call through to his desk. “Carol, I have a detective here who thinks someone killed you in Tokyo. Tell him you’re safe and sound.” He handed the phone to Slade.

  “I understand that you are at sea at the moment. When and where will you tie up in port?” Slade jotted down notes and said, “Okay. We’ll meet you there to ask a few questions that could help us with our inquiries.”

  Slade handed the phone back to Palmer. “Are you sure you heard your wife’s voice? There was slight distortion.”

  “One hundred percent certain.”

  Slade stood and reached over Palmer’s desk to hold a photograph of the dead woman squarely in front of him.

  “This is not your wife?” Slade asked.

  A crack appeared in Palmer’s composure. “She looks just like my wife, but Carol is alive, so who the hell is this?” he asked.

  “I was counting on you to answer that question. Your wife says she’ll arrive in Monte Carlo late tomorrow evening. We’ll meet her the following morning and see if she can throw some light on this bizarre situation.”

  “Please do so and keep me informed.”

  “Does your wife have a sister or relative who could be the person in this photograph? Perhaps a twin sister?” Slade asked.

  “Absolutely not. I knew her father from business contacts. That’s how she and I met. She never mentioned a sister and I have never met one.”

  “I noticed from the photographs in your reception room that you have an executive assistant, Tony Hewitt. Where is he today?”

  “In the US. We have business interests there needing regular hands-on attention.”

  “Just in case we need to contact him, can you tell me where in the US?” Slade asked.

  “Washington, D.C. We have business associates there and in Maryland. My PA can give you his contact details, but he’s taken extra time for a well-deserved vacation and will be back here in a couple of days. I’m sure he can’t help you with this any more than I can.”

  They stood up to leave. “Thank you for your time,” Slade said. “This is a mystery, but rest assured, we’ll sort it out and keep in touch with you.”

  They left the building in tense silence.

  “There must be a reason why he doesn’t know she has a half-sister. Perhaps the two women fell out,” Roche said when they hit the street. “Do you believe him?”

  “Unfortunately, I do. That means barring witchcraft, holography, and the fourth dimension, there must be a logical explanation for Palmer having a wife who’s dead in Tokyo and sailing the Mediterranean at the same time. And we have the unenviable task of uncovering that explanation.”

  Sanity is a brittle nylon thread, and Slade felt like his had snapped, sending beads of cogent thought into shambolic disarray.

  CHAPTER 14

  (Saturday Afternoon— Monte Carlo)

  The Monte Carlo Harbormaster expected the Chevalier to berth late that evening and couldn’t be more precise. But he knew for sure where it would tie up—beside the Quai Rainier-III, a prime marina slip leased to owners of larger superyachts at the southern side of the entrance to Port Hercule.

  Slade and Isa sat in the rental car they’d used earlier that morning to travel the twenty-five kilometers separating Monte Carlo’s main harbor from Nice Cote d’Azur Airport. Parked in a caravan of vehicles on the far side of the driveway beside the berths, they were far enough away to avoid notice from the Chevalier yet sufficiently close to have a clear view of anyone on deck.

  Roche climbed into the front passenger seat and handed Isa a paper bag with drinks and sandwich packs for a late lunch. “You can do the honors.”

  Isa distributed the food and drinks, and they ate in silence.

  “I chatted with staff in the café beside the marina,” Roche said after finishing his first sandwich. “They all know the Chevalier. It’s one of the largest luxury yachts tying up here several times in the past year—three hundred feet of white indulgence staffed by a twenty-five-member crew. Three feet longer and it probably wouldn’t fit. They think it’s worth eighty million euros and costs about five million euros a year to maintain.”

  Roche gulped down his drink and went o
n.

  “The Palmers are well known here. The word is, their money flows like water, with lots of Asian guests and parties, especially during Monaco’s Grand Prix. And it seems they’re high rollers at the Casino—no strangers to the maximum bet, sometimes hot, sometimes cold. They’ve been known to drop several million euros in a single evening but mostly come away big winners.”

  “These boats give a whole new meaning to the word yacht,” Isa said. “I always took it to mean a small sailing vessel used for pleasure on Sunday afternoons on a lake or off the coast in sight of the beach.”

  “You and me too. Life is different here.” Slade twisted to face Roche beside him and Isa in the back seat and held up his iPhone. “Palmer can afford it. I’ve just downloaded an FBI report on him. He ranks ninth on the Forbes list of the world’s richest men, with personal wealth equivalent to roughly forty billion dollars. His money doesn’t come from his salary alone. He has a mind-boggling portfolio of shares in BFI and private investment in real estate. He’s been investing heavily in luxury apartment blocks in Hyde Park, office buildings in central London, and other construction projects for more than twenty years. But there’s a rumor he’s taken serious losses recently, and his name won’t appear on the Forbes list next year.”

  “Anything on his personal life?” Roche asked.

  “He married Harris twelve months ago, his first marriage, and he was fifty-six years of age at the time.” Slade continued to skim through the report.

  “It looks like she hit the jackpot,” Isa said. “But I wonder why he never married before.”

  “As a Frenchman, I’d say it’s because he likes women too much to be tied down to one or he’s gay. Rumors are floating around the Internet suggesting the latter. Either possibility would mean he may not be a perfect husband.”

  “Which could explain why they’ve spent extended periods of time apart, even as newlyweds,” Slade said. “The report says that BFI will submit a bid in response to a procurement call by the Japanese government for an upgraded fleet of fighter aircraft. Japan expects bids from two US companies and BFI. Palmer told us they were finalizing their application.”