Chapter 9 Pierre
PIERRE
Pierre Raveaux adjusted his laptop screen to avoid the glare streaming through the window of his ground floor apartment in Waikiki.
The late morning sun painted golden rectangles across his polished floor.
Visible in the distance was Diamond Head, the famous crater rising like a sleeping giant against the cerulean sky.
The beach where he swam each morning was a short walk away, close enough that he could smell the ocean on the trade winds.
His place was on a quiet side street near the yacht harbor, far enough from the tourist chaos that he could hear mynah birds arguing outside, and when the wind was right, the clang of boat rigging.
He liked to think that his minimalist living space—clean lines, white walls, modern furniture—reflected the orderly nature of his mind.
The truth was more complex. After Gita’s death, he’d stripped away everything that might trigger memory.
When he’d moved to Honolulu for a fresh start he’d left behind her textiles, plump pillows, little icons, and paintings that had once covered their walls in a riot of color.
He’d kept only one, wrapped in acid-free paper in his bedroom closet: an impression of their child, four-year-old Lucie, building a sandcastle with her characteristic focused intensity.
Even five years after their funeral, he couldn’t look at it.
Currently, the only concession to chaos in his life was Lisette, his young gray tabby cat. She had draped herself across his keyboard with feline entitlement, and emitted a loud purr while curling a paw and twitching her tail, clearly expecting petting.
“Non, ma petite,” he murmured, gently relocating her to his lap where she settled with a reproachful huff. “We have work to do.”
He poured his Perrier, always with two lime wedges and a generous measure of ice. The ritual was as important as the beverage itself. He was years sober now, though the thirst never truly left. It lived in his chest where his grief did, manageable but ever-present.
He wiped condensation from his fingers on the linen napkin he kept folded beside his workspace. Small civilities, Gita used to say, made the difference in quality of life.
He’d been notified by Paula about an imminent team meeting; it was perfect timing as he’d been readying to check in with Sophie about a plan for the investigation today. The case intrigued him—not just the puzzle of it, but the way it seemed to be pulling Sophie into dangerous emotional territory.
The video conference window opened, revealing Sophie in the Security Solutions conference room. Her style was sophisticated today and highlighted how uniquely beautiful she was.
“Bonjour, Pierre,” she said.
“Bonjour, Sophie. May I say, that blouse is very good on you?” Pierre cocked his head. The silk caught the light, its deep blue tone setting off her golden skin. “You should wear it more often.”
“I will, now that Sean isn’t spitting up on everything.” She smiled, touching the V-neck of the fabric. “Merci.”
Marcus Kamuela joined next, his massive shoulders making the video frame look cramped; the HPD detective filled any space like a force of nature. “Hey,” he said, his casual greeting at odds with tension visible in his mouth and jaw.
FBI Special Agent Marcella Scott appeared last. Even in a black suit, wearing no makeup and with her hair scraped back in a bun, the agent was a stunning woman: all cheekbones, flashing eyes, sensuous lips.
“Good morning, all.” She and Marcus exchanged a nod, the only indication the pair were married, before she turned to Sophie.
“Nice to see you, Sophie. It’s been a while. ”
These people had history—shared cases and long friendships that formed a complex web where the professional and personal were inseparable. Pierre sipped his Perrier, the bubbles sharp against his palate, content to wait and see how his role intersected with theirs.
“Glad each of you could make time for this meeting.” Sophie’s voice was steady despite tension around her eyes.
She pulled up a file and shared it to their screens.
“I’ll dive right in with my news. The antiquities burglaries at the Palace and the museum aren’t just high-end theft. They’re connected to the Yām Kh?mk?n.”
Pierre’s eyebrows rose as Lisette kneaded his thigh through his linen trousers. Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his bulk making his office chair creak, as he frowned.
Marcella leaned forward with focused attention. “The Thai organization?” Marcella’s voice was sharp. “Are you sure?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Sophie clicked through some images of code that were meaningless to Pierre.
“The level of expertise and a digital signature . . .” she paused, seeming to choose her words, “. . . also, confirmation from a reliable source. All point to a splinter faction of the group being involved.”
Reliable source. Pierre’s chest tightened. That meant she had to have talked to her former lover Connor Standish about the case.
He took another sip of Perrier, catching the lime slice in his teeth and letting its sourness ground him.
He was Sophie’s colleague and her friend. The fact that he dreamed sometimes of her laugh, of the way she moved—that was his burden to carry.
Sophie went on, emotion excised from her tone. “It’s likely the burglaries are connected to a succession dispute within the organization. Someone is trying to prove their worthiness to lead by acquiring artifacts of power.”
“Power?” Marcus’s skepticism was evident even through the digital connection. “We talking symbolic or literal?”
“Both,” Sophie said. “The stolen items aren’t random selections. It seems their strategy has been to pull me in, using the plumerias as a message. It’s possible the pieces may have significance to the organization’s mythology.”
Marcella straightened. “If this is confirmed Yām Kh?mk?n activity, then this case now falls under federal jurisdiction. Specifically, the Terrorism Organization Incursion protocols.”
“Wait.” Marcus’s voice rose. “Marcella, this is my case. I’ve been working—”
“Had been working,” his wife corrected gently. “Marcus, you know how this goes. The moment international terrorism organizations are confirmed as operating on U.S. soil, the FBI takes lead. This is no longer a burglary investigation. It’s a national security matter.”
“Message received,” Marcus said. “I’ll send my work product to the FBI office when you send confirmation. See you all later.” He disconnected abruptly, his window going dark as abruptly as a slammed door.
The silence that followed was awkward. “I’ll need access to all your files, too,” Marcella addressed Sophie. “And your source. We’ll need to verify—”
“My source’s identity remains confidential,” Sophie said; of course she wanted to keep Connor’s name out of any FBI investigation. The enigmatic leader of the Yām Kh?mk?n had tangled with all the federal agencies in the past. “But I can provide corroborating intel through secure channels.”
Lisette chose that moment to stand, stretch luxuriously, and resettle in Pierre’s lap, her tail flicking across the screen and drawing the women’s gazes. The feline interruption provided a distraction.
“I see you’ve got some feminine company,” Sophie said, her smile genuine for the first time. “Hullo, Lisette.”
The cat disappeared as she lay back down.
Pierre stroked her silken fur, grateful for the excuse to look away from his screen.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “if these criminals are seeking specific artifacts, we can predict their next targets, non? What else might they make a play for? Perhaps set up a trap for them?”
He was offering Sophie an escape route from the direction of Marcella’s questioning, and from the flash of gratitude in her eyes, she knew it.
“I’m working on that. There are several possibilities, both in private collections and public institutions.
I’ll work with the curator of the Bishop who has been helping us and have a list of possible targets ready by tomorrow. ”
“Good.” Marcella was typing, probably drafting the paperwork to process the case.
The rapid click of her keys carried through the connection like hail hitting a window.
“I’ll need a full briefing with our Special Agent in Charge once I’m officially assigned.
I’ll have my office reach out to schedule it. ”
Federal involvement meant more resources but also more scrutiny. More questions about Sophie’s role in the case. That was bound to be uncomfortable, given Connor’s history of operating in the shadows between legal and otherwise.
“One more thing,” Sophie said. “We need to consider protective details. Not just for the artifacts, but for people who might be leveraged.” The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning.
“You thinking the thief might escalate to kidnapping?” Marcella asked.
“The Yām Kh?mk?n doesn’t hesitate to use any means necessary to reach its goals. If someone is desperate enough to challenge the current leadership, they won’t stop at theft,” Sophie said.
Current leadership. The lime in Pierre’s Perrier had gone bitter and the ice had melted to nothing as he finished the drink and filed that comment away. Another careful phrase that danced around Connor’s name like a waltz around a land mine.
“I’ll include threat assessments, then,” Marcella said.
“I’m aware of the attempted breach at your house, Sophie.
You must be thinking of your father, too, now that he’s retired and no longer has a Secret Service detail.
” She made eye contact with each of them.
“Pierre, I’m not sure we’ll have a role for you once I have official jurisdiction, but we’ll reconvene another time at least. Thank you both. ”
The FBI agent’s window went dark, leaving Pierre and Sophie alone in the digital space.
“Well,” Pierre said after a moment, setting his empty glass on the coaster—always a coaster, small civilities—“that was illuminating.”
“Was it?” Sophie shook her head, and he could see her stress now that the official meeting was over.
“I worry we’ll be squeezed out of the investigation entirely.
Just when I’ve confirmed the faction is targeting me because it’s after Connor.
” She sighed. “I can say his name now, but I’m going to do my best to keep it out of Marcella’s files.
She’s my friend, but she’s ambitious. She might see this as a career-making case and bringing in someone like Connor would be .
. .” she didn’t finish. “Anyway, she’s never liked him. ”
“Meanwhile, Marcus sees it as his wife stealing his investigation.” Pierre absently scratched behind Lisette’s ears, finding comfort in the simple pleasure of making another creature happy. “I hope their dynamic won’t complicate things.”
“I’ve dealt with complicated before.” Her smile was rueful. “The FBI has resources we’ll need. Marcella is competent. I trust her.”
“But?” He could hear a reservation she hadn’t voiced.
“But trust has limits when national security is involved.” She looked directly at him, and he felt the weight of her gaze. “Pierre, I may need . . . help. If things go wrong.“
“You have it,” he said simply. “Always.”
“Thank you, mon ami.” Something had shifted in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. Of what, he couldn’t guess—because he didn’t want to wish for more.
After she ended the call, Pierre sat back, staring at the monitor. The apartment felt larger in the silence, empty in ways that had nothing to do with minimalist décor. Outside, someone was grilling on a hibachi, the smell of teriyaki mixing with charcoal—the perfume of urban Hawaii.
He’d done his best to suppress and deflect his feelings for Sophie, but hope had become a persistent weed, springing up through cracks in his resolve now that Connor’s desertion was clear.
Sophie’s attachment to the man seemed to be fraying.
The way she’d said his name—like touching a bruise to test if it still hurt.
“Plus ca change,” he murmured to his cat, “plus c’est la même chose.” The more things change, the more they stay the same.
He stood, carrying Lisette to her favorite perch by the window, and then returned to reach into the refrigerator for another Perrier. The bottle was cold against his palm, sweating in the humid air, as he freshened his glass and came to stand beside Lisette’s carpeted sun spot.
The bright light outside reminded him of his wife. Gita had painted with her whole body, dancing in front of her canvases as if creating art was a celebration. She would have liked Sophie.
“Watch over Sophie, ma chérie,” he whispered to the empty air, the words a prayer. “She has children who need her.“
Pierre sat back down and opened a new browser window. He began online research into the background of the Yām Kh?mk?n, and another file pulling together provenance on the artifacts.
Anything he could do to prepare for what was coming their way—and to fill the void of his loneliness.