Art and Murder. Don Easton

Jack said. “If they’re handing out passports to dope runners, I hate to think who else might be getting them.”

      “Makes the rest of what you found seem insignificant in comparison.”

      “It’s all insignificant when compared to a policeman being murdered.” Again, feelings of guilt and self-doubt clouded his mind.

      “I know, I know,” Rose said. She paused, uncertain of how to respond, then asked, “How did Roche react?”

      “I didn’t give him time to talk. The reason I stalled for two hours was to figure out what my strategy should be. Did the French give you something?”

      Rose took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She knew that today would be a long one, followed by a sleepless night. “Okay, according to the French, Roche is a high roller. Sharp dresser, expensive restaurants, high-class hookers, and he owns a villa on the outskirts of Paris.”

      “Which means his boss, or the Ringmaster as they call him, will be similar or even more so. Is drugs their main thing?”

      “No, from what Kerin learned, that was a venture that Roche was doing on his own. Stolen property appears to be what the Ringmaster has made a living out of. Roche had also hinted that the Ringmaster might retire and hopes he’ll become Ringmaster.”

      Jack thought about that. “The Ringmaster must be busy if he’s in charge of different crime rings operating out of different countries.”

      “I expect he travels a lot, but we’re talking Europe. EU nationals can hop in and out of different countries without even showing a passport.”

      Sounds like a lonely life, Jack thought, recalling all the times he was away from home and missing his family. “Do we know if the Ringmaster’s married?”

      “They don’t know. They said he’s like a ghost. They only know it was the Ringmaster who killed him because of what Kerin said before he was shot. They still have no idea who he is or what he looks like.”

      “What about the witness who saw him run from the washroom?”

      “The men’s washroom adjoins the women’s. A lady heard the shot and at first thought someone had banged a stall door really hard, but when she walked out, a man burst past her from out of the men’s side. She suspected then that it wasn’t a door banging she’d heard. So she peaked inside and saw the body.”

      “Did she see the killer’s face?”

      “No, he had his hand up to the side of his face when he ran past. After that she only saw him from behind. She was too rattled to remember what he was wearing. She described him as having a stocky build, collar-length black hair, and said that his hand had lots of black hair on it.”

      “That describes a lot of men.”

      “I know. She did add that he was agile. Apparently he jumped a waist-high stone wall without using his hands. Made her think the guy was an acrobat.”

      “Some circus act,” said Jack cynically.

      Rose paused, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

      “The French appear to be onboard with us,” Jack noted.

      “How about you give me Roche’s number and I’ll pass it on to them?” Rose suggested. “Maybe they’ll be able to triangulate the call to know where he is.”

      “I’ll text it to you, but these guys are phone savvy. His number will continually change.”