Page 29 of A Life Betrayed

Frances stilled. “Tahir?”

“That one.” He picked up an open can of beer from the end table. “Bunch of ingrates.” He brought the can to his lips and took a long swig. “She picked the names. I thought women from over there were supposed to be submissive, obey their husbands and all that. But she made such a stink about it I let her have her way.”

“Sir, Tahir Nadeau is dead,” Frances said dubiously, not sure whether he was simply confused or truly hadn’t known. “I have the police report with me. I was going to ask what you knew about the circumstances surrounding his death. It appears to be a homicide, but no investigation was launched.”

André gave a dispassionate grunt and took another pull from the can.

Frances frowned.He doesn’t care if his own kid is dead. But why does that surprise me?She’d read the custody-hearing transcript and seen the numerous attempts the court had made to contact this man. His definitive silence said everything.

“Tell me more about Rayan. When did you last hear from him? Has he made any contact recently?”

“I don’t hear shit.” André gave a phlegm-filled cough. “You think he’d bother to call once in a while, help his old man out. I’m on disability—it’s all I have.”

“He’s been associated with certain criminal groups,” Frances nudged. “What do you know about that?”

“It doesn’t surprise me. He was always following his brother into trouble.” André repositioned himself on the chair with considerable effort, his breath rasping as he held the can of beer close to his chest, making sure not to spill. “You wanna know more about the kid? Start writing, lady.”

As Frances recorded André’s testimony, she grew more skeptical of his credibility. He had plenty to say about his son—how disobedient he’d been as a child, how violent. Yet the details were vague and the timing all over the place, and she had a growing suspicion it was just a story he told himself. She would file it and add it to the case she was putting together on Rayan, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny.

Frances recalled Rayan’s expression when she’d addressed him by his family name, the briefest of flinches, as though she’d unearthed something unpleasant. Having seen his state records and now his childhood home, she struggled to reconcile the unwelcome sense of pity that surfaced. His surviving parent was a man convinced of his victimhood, with no comprehension of his own faults, the ripple of hurt forever expanding outward.

Frances left the house, less confident than when she’d arrived. She hurried to her car as a sprinkle of snow began to fall. Once in the driver’s seat, she pulled out her notebook and absently flipped through her notes. She let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the pad onto the seat beside her.

Despite her overarching belief in the rule of law, the cynical side of her knew that Rayan was someone who’d been given very few chances in life. She’d encountered many men like that during her time, and they almost always ended up addicts, criminals, or dead. Then there was the fact that Rayan was a student at one of the country’s top universities and apparently doing quite well for himself. In the brief overview of his movements that Stan had put together, Frances had been hard-pressed to find any indication that he was engaging in much else besides his studies.

Her theory about him working as a satellite agent for the family might be misplaced. Maybe instead, he’d had his likeness scrubbed from the record so he could leave his old life behind. If that was the case, she needed to figure out why.

“Repeat it back.”

Rayan rattled off the number he’d just saved to his phone, his mind already storing it away for future reference.

“Good.” Mathias tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “That’s who you call—no questions. He knows what to do.”

Rayan nodded. He’d arrived at the Collections office that morning to find Mathias’s Mercedes parked outside, which was unusual. Typically, Rayan sat around for a good half hour before his capo stalked into the office with a sour look on his face. Mathias was not a morning person. The reason behind Mathias’s early appearance had something to do with the notable absence of Franco Ricci.

“He’s got a semiautomatic stashed in the trunk and picks a fight with the cop giving him a speeding ticket!” Tony’s voice had a habit of carrying, and Rayan had been able to piece together the rest as he waited in the hallway for Mathias to emerge from the man’s office.

Mathias had been tasked with coordinating a peaceful resolution, and while their interactions with local law enforcement were brief—almost nonexistent—he’d decided to use this moment to impart an important lesson to Rayan. The phone number belonged to Grayson Dubois, a defense lawyer and well-oiled friend of the family. He sat on an annual retainer, the cost of which Rayan could only guess at. And in return, whenthere was trouble—as the present situation demanded—Dubois was called in to perform his magic.

Rayan drove Mathias downtown to a swanky bistro in the Quartier International. A man in a gray suit and tie was seated toward the back of the restaurant and waved them over. On the table before him were several plates of food—eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes. He picked idly from the plates with his fork, like a king at a banquet.

“It’s been a while, Mathias,” Dubois announced. “I know a smart man when I never see him. Now, some of your friends, on the other hand—”

“I have a job for you,” Mathias interrupted, taking a seat across from the lawyer. “But we need to move quickly.”

“We always need to move quickly,” Dubois said, spearing a large chunk of sausage and shoving it into his mouth. He was bulky, with sandy hair parted neatly to one side. The dewiness of his pale skin had the curious effect of obscuring his age. “I’m almost finished here. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Anything you’d like to order?”

Mathias ignored him. “Francesco Ricci. His bail hearing’s at noon.”

“What are we talking?”

“Unlawful possession, disorderly conduct.”

“Rather tame for your lot. I take it you’ll cover bail as required?”

Mathias gave a brief nod.

Dubois lifted his cup to take a large gulp of coffee then patted down his pockets for his wallet and tossed down a handful of notes beside the plates of half-eaten food. “Shall we?” he said, standing, and together they made their way outside to the car.

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