Principal Inspecteur Lambert could smell it. Much like fish gone bad in the heat of Provence. He didn’t know how or why but he felt it in his professional gut that this investigation spelled trouble. He’d been on the force long enough to know when something was heading south and in this case he thought it already had. Something didn’t feel right. Not that he hadn’t held his nose on more than one investigation that was, after all, part of business, you expected it, it came with the territory down here: beautiful people with far too much money for their own good; much of it going up their noses or to support various non-civic oriented amusing distractions. Each year he saw more and more and each year it got worse, it got uglier, nastier and more violent. Lambert had seen his share of ruthless crimes on victims both young and old, bodies dumped in almost every imaginable place from Nice to Cannes and back and that was just for his little part of the coast. Murder, drugs, ruthless gangland slayings as well as nasty crimes of passion; it was all part and parcel of that seedy underbelly that framed his world and his professional career as an officer of the law. If ever there was a good time for him to retire it was right, right at this moment and he should have handed in his badge and walked away. But he didn’t.
This little affaire was different. One thing he knew for sure was that for one reason or another, it had somehow caught the attention of Paris and was now on someones radar and whoever that “someone” was, they seemed more than a little interested in this case and the late Monsieur Moshberg. Within twenty four hours of taking over from the Municipal Police, Lambert took a call from a “Monsieur Bertrand” who identified himself as being with the Ministre de la Défense “Direction Innovation” a rather benign sounding name. Not the Police Nationale or the Gendarmerie Nationale as he would have expected but the Ministre de la Défense. Bertrand could not have been more polite, very polite, almost too polite as if the next words out of his mouth might be was under arrest or regrettably, would be facing a firing squad. Bertrand expressed his admiration of Lambert as an officer of the law with a sterling service record, all above reproach, someone who evidently had worked long and hard to ensure the safety of the citizens of la Republique Française; and so close to retirement especially with that lovely little retirement home. Bertrand concluded, he must indeed be looking forward to a quieter life. Lambert felt the unmistakable squeeze of a pro and took note of this calculated politeness. Why did the Ministre de la Défense want to play in his back yard and why these veiled insinuations and who in the hell was this Bertrand? Lambert thought most likely here was some slick little bureaucrat who had nothing better to do then screw around with people and their lives, someone an over-inflated sense of self-importance and probably at this very moment, angling how to take some beach time and enjoy the sights. Maybe, Lambert thought, the stiff in the morgue was perhaps related to one of those slow moving creatures who would, on occasion, slug their way down south to Cannes or Nice and pretend to be on important matters of state when all they wanted was to find a young Russian beauty for a long work-related weekend. He’d seen enough of them and sadly more catch-and-release than putting them behind bars. Yes, more was coming he could smell it, he could sense it; a cop’s gut never lies. Things were starting off on the wrong foot and this was not going to be a marriage made in heaven.
As expected, Lambert was advised that Bertrand was coming down for a full briefing. His boss already knew it, in fact everyone it seemed in his jurisdiction knew about the second coming except for Lambert and maybe his dear wife. He would check that. The way he figured, Paris, having been caught once again perhaps with their proverbial pants down, screamed at someone in the Ministry of Defense to make it right yesterday who then screamed to someone in a Bureau tucked away somewhere who then picked up the phone and screamed at his boss who then directed him to bend over backward for Paris and not hold back on any level of cooperation “we can’t be too thorough on this one, I assure you, Lambert.” There are certain things that are guaranteed to always flow downhill and Lambert felt he might be the one at the bottom of the hill, arms wide open to catch it. Professional cooperation on the investigation, yes fine of course, this meant “Bertrand of Paris” could flash his special security badge at Lambert and stamp his foot like a two year old or petty bureaucrat whatever shoe fits and he would be expected to run for coffee. If Bertrand wanted to be a real salaud he could make his life miserable. Some traits in human nature come naturally others are developed, over time into a real skill. Lambert knew that.
Mr. Nicolas von Klein’s passport was one of the newer ones with the biometric chip but already quite well worn for having been issued less than a year ago in Los Angeles. Klein’s photo gave him a somewhat puffier look than what Lambert casually had observed, but still the very closely cropped hair, making him appear almost bald. Klein’s port of embarkation was New York JFK, then on to Istanbul for three days before arriving in Nice via De Gaulle. All in order, Lambert stated as he looked up with his best official smile. Before handing the passport back, he quickly thumbed through the pages looking at the visa history. Lambert expected to see the usual Paris, London, Geneva, Vienna, New York maybe even Moscow with so much loose cash at their disposal these days they were buying everything in sight. But the visas were from Mumbai, Jakarta, Lagos, Luanda, Algiers, Shanghai and a few other godforsaken former colonial outposts and now, Monsieur Klein was here in Nice. Obviously fine art drew an interest far and wide and l’Americain seemed to be doing well. Despite the heat, Lambert noticed that Klein was impeccably dressed in an expensive looking double-breasted jacket with a paisley foulard, open neck linen shirt revealing a yellow gold-linked necklace, a pair of cream colored summer flannels, Italian loafers and all the while holding a Panama hat with all the coolness of someone ordering a Gin and Tonic at the bar. An extra lime would you please? Lambert inquired if Monsieur Klein had been in the business with the late Monsieur Moshberg, hence the little visit? On the contrary, Klein informed him that he worked for a high-end art brokerage firm with offices in Los Angeles and New York and relationship offices in Geneva, Paris and London. The firm, Smith, Wallingford and Lindquist International (SWL) had a number of well-heeled clients and this particular piece of art had come to someones attention. Klein went on to explain that he as a representative of SWL was merely acting on behalf of the firm and one of it’s client in obtaining the painting and closing the deal. If that was not possible then the client expected to be repaid the sum of 2.5 million Euros.