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A bold kidnapping. Modern day slave trade. An elusive criminal known only as the Scorpion.

When private investigator Raja Williams gets a call from a frantic English professor whose wife has disappeared, he and his partner Vinny Moore head to Paris, France on another adventurous case.

The search for the professor’s wife leads Raja and Vinny deep into the French underworld, including the club scene riddled with designer drugs, and a modern day white slave trade. Will they find the missing woman before she falls victim to the international criminal known as the Scorpion?


I love the subtle humour of Jack Thompson’s series of mystery-suspense starring Raja Williams, a very unexpected but highly efficient, and adorable, private investigator. Raja is not the ordinary routine P.I. Raja is a down-to-earth individual who doesn’t push his way using his wealth or expertise. In fact, he approaches everybody with civility and respect, from the people he employs, to clients, even to small-bit drug dealers.” Mallory Anne-Marie Haws, Top 1000 Reviewer
The author has created another fantastic book that ranks as one of my top mysteries of all time. The story-line is smooth so it flows easily start to finish with a great concept. I don’t tend to connect with main characters that are male often but for me Raja was easy to connect with and very likable….Raja has a partner who helps out on his cases, a super hacker named Vinny who looks like a Victoria secret model but is the ultimate hacker. She’s a great asset to Raja’s character she’s just adds to the fun. I just really love this duo.” Mandy, The Reading Diaries
Move over Hammett! Your rival is here! … I love Raja and all of his friends, especially the new ones he meets in France.”
Sometimes an author will just stir and shake the first episode of a character, not true with this writer.”


Margaret Browning strolled along the Rue des Écoles, enjoying a holiday in Paris which her husband Phillip had been promising her for the past two years. Usually Dr. Phillip Browning’s academic commitments as ranking professor of literature at King’s College London in Westminster took precedence in their lives, leaving little time for holiday. However, a hastily convened conference in Paris on a newly discovered written work by nineteenth century French author Guy de Maupassant, and his wife’s persistence had finally won out. Today Phillip was somewhere inside the Institut de France, giddy over the possibility that a de Maupassant story had gone undetected for over one hundred thirty years and reeling with the opportunity to be one of the first to study it. Such a once in a lifetime happenstance overwhelmed and absorbed the professor completely, dimming the rest of the world and leaving his wife Margaret free to shop on her own. The day before, a small antique shop had drawn her interest, but a scheduled dinner with her husband’s colleagues had delayed her chance to explore it until now. As she neared the shop, she phoned Phillip, catching him waiting for the museum preservation room to finish preparing the next batch of documents he was to study.

“Margaret, I trust you have found something to entertain you,” said Phillip. He well knew how excited his wife was to be in Paris.

She was about to launch into an animated rundown of the places she had visited, when she spotted his wry humor. Without missing a beat, she said, “Why, yes, Phillip, although I may have to hire an extra cab to carry all the expensive antiques I have purchased.”

Phillip smiled. He and Margaret knew each other too well. “Where are you now?” he said.

“I’ve just arrived at that shop you pulled me away from yesterday. They will surely have some bargains … oh dear.” The shop had all the curtains drawn together and the sign on the door read FERMÉ. Margaret looked at her watch, hoping it might be a short dinner break. Then she cupped her hands and peeked in through a gap in the window curtain. “Oh, dear Lord,” she said.

“What is it, Margaret?” asked her husband, hearing the alarm in her voice.

Margaret never heard him. Her phone had already dropped to the sidewalk. Inside the shop, she saw a man strapped to a wooden chair. Two men held him roughly by the shoulders. Another man with a horrific tattoo on his neck stood in front of the victim, alternately firing questions at him in French and pistol whipping his face.

Margaret could do nothing but stare like a passerby at an accident, frozen by the sheer brutality of the scene. Her husband continued to call her name from the phone lying at her feet, but it was a faraway dream.

Finally, the man with the tattoo forced the barrel of his gun into the other man’s mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering blood and brains on the men holding him.

The loud blast snapped Margaret from her trance. She backed up into the street. A small blue car screeched its tires, barely avoiding her, and the driver laid heavily on the horn. Margaret turned toward the car and watched the driver’s mouth move angrily as he passed by. Then Margaret remembered what she had just witnessed and she looked back to the shop, hoping that no one inside had noticed her.

An arm yanked aside the window curtain and she was face to face with the tattooed man. The evil in his gaze cut her to the bone. As adrenalin took over, Margaret turned and ran headlong across the busy boulevard, careening off the hoods of several cars before reaching the other side. She looked back and saw two men dart out of the shop across the way, guns drawn. She knew they were coming for her. With nowhere to run, she stood helplessly, resigned to a certain death.

Suddenly a blue and white police van she had not noticed swerved over to the curb in front of her and stopped. The side door opened.

Montez! Montez!” said the officer in the van.

Needing no translation, she darted inside. The door slammed shut and the van sped away into the flow of traffic.

“Thank you so much,” said Margaret, to the two uniformed police officers who were in the back of the van with her. “You saved my life. Those men…” Her voice trailed off.

“You are safe now. What did you see?”

“I don’t know. A man with a tattoo.”

“Could you recognize him?”

“I will never forget his face. He shot a man. He killed him.”

The policemen spoke to each other rapidly in French.

There was an explosively loud crunch, and Margaret was thrown violently into the wall of the van. The van rocked and spun around, skidding to a stop. Woozy from a bump on the head, Margaret slumped to the floor. She tasted blood. One of the policemen was lying next to her, his head twisted at an odd angle. She heard shouting from the front, then gunshots. The other policeman opened the side door and stepped out, disappearing to the rear. More gunshots, then nothing.

A long ten seconds later, a man in a black ski mask appeared in the side door opening and climbed into the van. When he reached down toward her, Margaret passed out.

Buy C’est la Vie Now for $4.99:
Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CA | Amazon AU
Kobo, Apple, Nook and More

Paperback $12.99: Amazon

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