I Kill (16 page)

Yoshida is still alive and conscious. He feels his blood and his life ebbing from the wounds opened everywhere on his body, which is now sending a lone signal of pain. A bead of sweat rolls down
his forehead and drops burning into his left eye. The man wipes Yoshida’s soaked face with the sleeve of his bloodstained shirt. A reddish smudge remains on his forehead.

Blood and sweat. Blood and sweat, like so many other times. And through it all, the gaze of the cameras, surprised by nothing.

The man is panting under his ski mask. He goes over to stop the VCR and rewinds the cassette. When the tape is back at the beginning, he presses PLAY.

On the screen, in front of Yoshida’s half-closed eyes and slowly bleeding body, it all begins again. The first stab, the one that went through his thigh like a searing iron. Then the
second, with its cool breeze. And then the others . . .

The man’s voice is that of fate now, soft and thickened by desire. ‘Here’s what I offer you. My pleasure for yours. Relax, Mr Yoshida.
Relax and watch yourself die
. .
.’

Yoshida hears the voice through space as if from the next room. His eyes are staring at the screen. As his life blood slowly evacuates his body, as the cold slowly rises to occupy every cell, he
cannot help but feel that same damnable pleasure.

When the light abandons his eyes, he cannot decide whether it is heaven or hell that he sees before him.

Margherita Vizzini drove into the underground garage at the Place du Casino. There weren’t many people around at that time of morning. The residents of Monte Carlo who
took part in its nightlife, the rich and the desperate, were still asleep. And it was too early for tourists. Everyone on the street, like her, was going to work. She left the sunshine, the
colourful, meticulously maintained flower beds, and the people having breakfast at the Café de Paris for the warm, damp shadows of the garage. She pulled up her Fiat Stilo at the entrance
and stuck her card in the machine. The barrier rose and she drove slowly inside.

Margherita came in every day from Ventimiglia, in Italy, where she lived. She worked at the Securities Office of ABC, Banque Internationale de Monaco, located in the Place du Casino right next
to the Chanel boutique.

She had been very lucky to find a job like that in Monaco, especially without any contacts or referrals. Like all good students she’d had a number of job offers after getting her degree in
business and economics with honors. Surprisingly, one of the offers had been from ABC.

She had gone to the interview without much hope, but to her surprise she had been selected and hired. There were many advantages. First of all, her starting salary was considerably higher than
anything she would have had in Italy. Then there was the fact that, working in Monte Carlo, the tax situation was much more favourable.

Margherita smiled. She was a good-looking woman, with light brown hair cut short to frame a face that was friendly as well as attractive. A smattering of freckles on her straight nose gave her a
mischievous elfin expression. A car was reversing to get out and she had to stop. She took advantage of the moment to glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She was happy with what she
saw.

Michel Lecomte was coming back that day, and she wanted to look her best.

Michel . . .

She felt a warm fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the thought of his tender gaze. A delightful game had been going on between them for some time, very delicate and therefore very intense.
The time had come to step it up a notch.

The way was clear. She turned on to the ramp and started to drive down to the next-to-last level in an area set aside for bank employees. Her parking space was at the back, behind the wall. But
when she turned right, past the wall, she was surprised to see her space taken by a limousine, a glossy black Bentley with tinted windows.

Strange. One rarely saw that kind of car in the underground garage. Those cars usually had chauffeurs in dark suits holding the door open for passengers, or else they were left carelessly in
front of the Hôtel de Paris for the hotel staff to park. It probably belonged to a customer of the bank. Given the make of the car, complaining would be a bad idea. She decided to park in the
free space next to it.

Distracted by these thoughts, Margherita misjudged the distance and hit the back of the Bentley on the left side. She heard her headlight smash as the heavy limousine absorbed the shock with a
light bounce of its suspension.

She backed up slowly, as if this extra caution could somehow make up for the small disaster she had just caused. She stopped and looked nervously at the back of the Bentley. There was a dent on
the body, not very large but visible as a mark from her plastic bumper. She banged her hands on the steering wheel in irritation. Now she would have to deal with all the annoying red tape involved
in an accident, not to mention the embarrassment of confessing to a bank customer that she had damaged his car.

She got out and walked over to the limo, bending to look in the back window. She was suddenly puzzled. There appeared to be someone inside, a form she could see indistinctly through the tinted
glass. She looked closer, shielding her eyes with her hands. It did indeed seem that there was someone in the back seat.

She narrowed her eyes. Just then, the figure inside bent over and slumped to the right, his head pressed against the window. In horror, Margherita saw the face of a man completely covered in
blood, his wide-open, lifeless eyes staring at her, his teeth completely bared in the smile of a skull.

She jumped back without realizing that she had already started to scream.

Neither Frank Ottobre nor Inspector Hulot had been able to sleep. They had spent the night staring at a meaningless record sleeve, listening over and over again to a tape that
told them nothing. One by one, they had constructed one hypothesis after another and demolished them all. Anyone with the slightest expertise in music had been asked for help. Even Rochelle, a cop
and music fanatic with an amazing record collection, was stumped by the agile fingers of Carlos Santana fondling the neck of his guitar.

They had surfed the Internet for hours in search of any hint that might help them decipher the killer’s message.

Nothing.

They were confronted with a locked door and the key was nowhere to be found. It had been a long night of confusion and bitter-tasting coffee, no matter how many sugars they added. Time had
passed and all their hopes had turned to naught.

Outside the window, beyond the rooftops, the sky was turning blue. Hulot got up from his desk and went to look through the glass at the worsening traffic. For all those people, it was a new day
of work after a good night’s sleep. But here, it would be another day of waiting after nothing but nightmares.

Frank was sitting on a chair, one leg swung over the arm, staring intently at the ceiling. He had been in that position for quite some time. Hulot pinched his nostrils together with his fingers,
then turned to Morelli with a sigh of fatigue and frustration.

‘Claude, do me a favour.’

‘What is it, inspector?’

‘I know you’re not a waiter, but you’re the youngest so you’ve got to pay your dues. Could you manage to get us some coffee that’s any better than the mud in that
machine?’

‘I was waiting for you to ask,’ replied Morelli with a smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind some decent coffee myself.’

As the sergeant left the office, Hulot ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, slightly parted at the nape of his neck to reveal the puffiness of his skin after a sleepless night.

When the call came, they knew they had failed. As Hulot lifted the receiver to his ear, it seemed as heavy as lead.

‘Hulot,’ the inspector answered laconically. He listened to the person on the other end and paled. ‘Where?’ Another pause. ‘Okay. We’ll be right there.’
He hung up and buried his face in his hands.

Frank had got to his feet during the conversation. His weariness seemed to have instantly disappeared. Suddenly, he was on high alert. His jaw tightened and his red eyes narrowed to tiny
slits.

‘There’s a body, Frank, in the underground car park next to the casino. No face, like the other two.’

Hulot got up from his desk and went to the door, followed by Frank. They almost bumped into Morelli, who was holding a tray with three cups.

‘Here’s the coffee, inspector.’

‘Put it down and get us a car, Morelli. They found another one – let’s get out of here.’

As they left the office, Morelli addressed a policeman walking past. ‘Dupasquier, get me a car downstairs. Now.’

It felt like the lift was descending to the lower depths.

Frank and Hulot went outside where a car was waiting, with its engine running. The doors had barely closed when they sped off.

‘Place du Casino. Turn on the siren, Lacroix, and don’t worry about the tyres.’ The policeman at the wheel was a young man with quick reflexes. The car took off with a
screech.

They drove up Saint-Dévote and reached the plaza with the siren shrieking and heads turning as they passed. In front of the entrance to the garage a small crowd was forming, just as it
had at the quayside a few days before. There was a splash of colour from the flower beds in the public garden in front of the garage. And more colour in the centre of the roundabout in front of the
Hôtel de Paris, where a landscaper had composed the date in flowers. Frank could not help thinking that for the new victim, today’s date was written in blood.

The car squeezed through the crowd, a policemen pushing back the staring onlookers trying to make out who was inside. They drove into the garage, their tyres screeching as they sped down to
where two other police cars were waiting at the level below. Their revolving lights made kaleidoscopic designs on the walls and ceiling.

Frank and the inspector jumped out of the car as if their seats were burning. Hulot yelled at an officer, pointing to the other cars: ‘Tell them to turn those lights off. They’re
making me feel sick.’

They went over to the large black Bentley parked against the wall. The body of a man was leaning against the window, the glass covered in blood. As soon as he saw him, Hulot squeezed his fist so
tightly that his knuckles whitened.

‘Merde! Merde! Merde!
’ he repeated over and over, as if his fit of rage could take away the sight before his eyes. ‘He did it again, God damn it.’

Frank felt the exhaustion of his sleepless night slide into despair. While they had been sitting in the office, desperately trying to decipher the message of a maniac, he had struck again.

‘Who found him?’ Hulot asked, turning to the policeman behind him.

‘I did, sir,’ replied a uniformed officer. ‘That is, I was the first to arrive. I was here to tow a car and I heard the girl screaming.’

‘What girl?’

‘The girl who discovered the body. She’s sitting in the car. In shock and crying like a baby. She works for the ABC bank above us. She hit the Bentley while parking her car, got out
to check the damage, and that’s when she saw—’

‘Did anyone touch anything?’ Frank interrupted.

‘No, I didn’t let anyone get close. We were waiting for you.’

‘Good.’

Frank went to the police car to get a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on as he went over to the limo. He tried the handle of the front door on the driver’s side. It clicked open. He
leaned in and looked at the body. The man was wearing a white shirt soaked with so much blood that Frank could barely make out its original colour. His trousers were black, presumably evening
clothes. There were slashes all over him from numerous stabbings. Next to the body, on the leather seat, were the words written in blood.

I kill . . .

Leaning over the padded leather, Frank grabbed the body by its shoulders, pulled it upright, and leaned it against the back of the seat so that it would not slip down again. As he did so, he
heard something hit the floor.

He backed out of the car and went to open the other door, next to the body. He squatted down to peer inside. Hulot, standing behind him, bent over to see better, keeping his arms behind his
back. He was not wearing gloves and didn’t want to risk touching anything.

From his position, Frank could see something had fallen on the floor. Wedged under the front seat was a VHS videocassette. It had probably been on the corpse’s lap and the movement had
caused it to fall. Frank took a pen from his pocket and stuck it into one of the spindles of the tape. He lifted it and looked at it for a second. Then he took a plastic evidence bag out of his
pocket, slipped the cassette inside and sealed it.

During this operation, he noticed that the dead man’s feet were bare. Frank stretched out his hand and tested the flexibility of the toes. He raised the trouser legs to see if there were
marks on his ankles.

‘This guy was bound with something stiff, probably wire. Judging from the clotting of the blood and the mobility of his limbs, he hasn’t been dead long. And he didn’t die
here.’

‘From the colour of his hands, I’d say he died through loss of blood, said Hulot.’

‘Exactly. So, if he died here, there’d be much more blood on the seats and the floor, not just on the clothes. And it doesn’t really seem like the right place to do the job.
No, this guy was killed somewhere else and put in the car afterwards.’

‘But why go to so much trouble?’ Hulot stepped back so that Frank could stand up. ‘I mean, why move a body from one place to another, at night, in a car, at the risk of being
discovered. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Frank responded, looking around him, puzzled. ‘That’s one of the things we have to figure out.’

They stood in silence a moment, looking at the body leaning against the back seat with wide-open eyes in the narrow space of its shiny, sumptuous coffin.

‘Judging from his clothes and car, he must have had a shitload of money.’

‘First, let’s see whose licence plate this is.’