The Midas Murders Read Online Free PDF

calves.
    Mario didn’t spare the Glenfiddich. One bottle of cola was enough to fill the glasses to the brim.
    â€œIt’s been a while, Commissioner,” he bellowed. “And your luck’s in. Véronique’s here. Want me to call her over?”
    Van In sensed Leo’s disapproving glare burning a hole in his left cheek. The booze isn’t the only thing that’s free , he could hear him think.
    â€œNot today,” Van In roared. “We’re here on business.”
    Mario grimaced. “Nothing serious, eh?”
    Van In showed Mario the photos. “Do you recognize him?”
    He stared the bartender in the eye when he asked the question. Even seasoned liars can sometimes give themselves away with an evasive glance or an overly glib answer.
    â€œWait a minute,” Mario shouted. “Can’t be…. Surely…. Isn’t that … nah. Sorry, Commissioner. A stranger to me. Gimme a sec. I’ll ask Jacques.”
    Mario disappeared without troubling himself with the half-wit dandy who had been trying to order a fresh margarita for the last two and a half minutes.
    â€œBingo,” Leo roared when the bartender vanished behind the back of the bar. “Our friend’s heading in the wrong direction. That’s Jacques over there.” He pointed to a table near the dance floor. Van In barely reacted. The whiskey was struggling with the Duvels. He felt nauseous.
    â€œIt never fails to amaze me,” Leo raved, “that the last address is always the right address. If you’re looking for a report, it’s guaranteed to be at the bottom of the pile.”
    Van In nodded. All the shouting made his ears ring, and he was doing his best to fight the fuzziness filling his head.
    â€œI should call it Vanmaele’s law,” Leo roared.
    Van In nodded once again. But he wasn’t quite sure what connected Leo’s last two statements.
    After five minutes or so, Mario reappeared with Patrick, alias the Gigolo. Patrick was forty, slim, tanned. He had been running the Villa for the best part of six years and he knew the tricks of the trade. In principle, the world of after-hours bars and private clubs tended to be frequented by two types of cop: the ones who did their job, and the ones you could sweeten up. Van In was the proverbial exception to the rule. The commissioner didn’t like to be pigeonholed. The Gigolo was on his guard.
    â€œBonsoir, Pieter.”
    He extended a cheerful hand. A fortune in gold chains dangled from his wrist.
    Van In tapped his ear. The Gigolo understood immediately.
    â€œLet’s go to my office. There’s less noise.” Leo saw the Gigolo beckon with his head. He hadn’t heard what the man had said. The words had wriggled through the elated jumble of groggy dancers grinding to the perverse beat.
    Van In knew the way. He had been there more than once.
    The padded door absorbed ninety of the decibels. The Gigolo’s office was furnished like a Greek temple, complete with Corinthian columns and salacious chaises longues. The white marble fluoresced blue in the indirect UV light. A fountain splashed in the corner. The tasteless thing, three shell-shaped basins piled on top of one another, was crowned with a plaster replica of the Venus de Milo .
    â€œTell me, Pieter. What can I do for you?”
    The Gigolo settled unashamedly into one of the chaises longues. Van In followed his example, and Leo perched on the arm like a leprechaun. His short legs didn’t quite reach the mosaic floor.
    â€œI’m looking for a man,” said Van In with difficulty. His tongue was acting up, and the Gigolo knew what that meant.
    â€œThat’s strange,” he answered lightheartedly. “You’re usually looking for a woman.”
    â€œThis man,” said Van In. He took the photos from the envelope and handed them to Vanmaele. Leo played go-between without protest. A good slap in the face was what the