One glance at the man waiting in Sabine's flat told me it was her husband. I think I might have recognized him, even if we'd passed in the street. He was around fifty, more than six feet tall, and trim. He moved with athletic grace, but most telling were his eyes. They were like hers. I would have expected to see anger or jealously. Instead, I saw curiosity and anticipation of something outside my grasp.
"Mick Sanchez?"
I nodded.
"I suppose you know who I am."
"Mr. Duveau."
"No, I am—I was—Sabine's husband, but my name is Geir Oddsson." A smile brushed his face like a distant memory. "A wise choice, don't you think, to keep her maiden name."
"Ms. Duveau thought I should stay here to work. To avoid questions at the office."
"Sabine and I had no secrets from each other, at least I don't think so. It had been that way for years. I won't say it didn't bother me at first, but she could not deny who she was. I could accept that or live without her. For me it was an easy choice. Besides, I took my cue from her and decided that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. I have no regrets, but there was no one like Sabine."
"She said she loved you as passionately as the day you married."
Mr. Oddsson's smile was thin. "As did I. You loved her, didn't you Mr. Sanchez?"
I drew a breath and held it. That admission somehow felt like a greater transgression than physical intimacy.
"You must have, in some fashion," he said.
"Who could not?"
"Quite so. Why don't we sit down? Would you like a drink, Mr. Sanchez? May I call you Mick?"
I could have used a few shots of tequila, but accepted the offered wine. Oddsson explained that he was, in one sense, a househusband and, in another, Sabine's private banker. She made the income; he invested it. Very shrewdly, by his own admission. They had amassed considerable wealth, he said. I believed him.
"What do you know about Sabine's death?" he said.
"Just that it was sudden."
"There was a gray pallor in her face that implied a heart attack, but she was in excellent health. She trained hard and had physical examinations regularly. I know professional athletes, people who appear in perfect health, die suddenly from undetected heart conditions, but there's more." Geir stared at his hands as he spoke. "She was in her study. There was a disturbance around her. A lamp was tipped over. Items from her desk were on the floor. I thought she might have tried to stand. Perhaps grabbed for things as she fell. But the positions—when I picked up—they didn't look right. I haven't set a date for the funeral. I've ordered every examination possible. I want to know exactly what happened."
He looked up at me.
"I want your help, Mick."
I hadn't expected the encounter. Certainly not the overture. I shook my head. "I'm not the man you're looking for. If you want to hire an investigator, I can recommend someone."
"You're exactly who I'm looking for. When Sabine told me about you, I had your background checked. Your former supervisor, Abe Granger, was enthusiastic in his praise of your professional skill and, more importantly, your integrity."
Abe had been my commander in Vietnam and my boss at Global Risk Management. My departure from that agency hadn't exactly been on friendly terms, but I still respected him.
"Sabine told me about the work you did for Trevor Jones. I also understand that you successfully directed a politically charged murder investigation in Japan."
"I had a lot of help with that. I'm used to working in a team. I thought I could take that experience and apply it to a one-man operation. Now I'm not so sure. I've gotten nowhere in locating Trevor."
"There could be a lot of reasons for Trevor to have vanished. Do you think it was coincidence that two men broke into his home the day he disappeared and that the only thing missing was his computer?"
A simple burglary was a possibility. After I hit the guy who went into the study, they might have panicked, grabbed the easiest thing to sell and run. I shrugged.
Oddsson dismissed my doubt with a flick of his hand. "You said you were used to teamwork. Assemble a team. This flat is valued at more than seven hundred thousand euros. I intend to sell it. It was Sabine's private lair. What better way to use part of that money than to find the truth of her death."
"I had planned to take the first available flight home. I think that's what I should do. You can find a better investigator than me, Geir."
"Perhaps, locally. But, what if the investigation goes beyond France?"
"Hire Abe."
"It isn't just about professional skill. If the medical tests indicate Sabine's death was not from natural causes, I will be the first suspect. That's how the minds of policemen work. There are motives—a cuckold whose jealousy finally consumed him, a grasping wretch who coveted his wife's share of their wealth. Another investigator might share those suspicions."
Oddsson swirled his wine slowly. "I have neither jealously nor greed. I believe you know that. Even before you responded to my question, I knew how you felt about Sabine. Would you grant me, and her memory, the favor of staying until the tests are complete? You can decide then whether to go home or accept my request. If my instincts are correct, the investigation will be difficult. We'll need more than competence. We will need the impassioned tenacity, the love, of an avenging angel, Mick Sanchez." He raised a toast.
As well as I can remember, no one had ever mistaken me for an angel, avenging or otherwise. Oddsson obviously couldn't hold his wine as well as he appeared to. Nevertheless, I agreed to wait for the results. Two days later, medical examiners reported they had found in Sabine's body traces of a muscle relaxant that could induce heart failure.
I took the job.