I Kill (21 page)

‘General, nothing is as easy as it seems. You’re acting as though you think all men have a price. Quite frankly, so do I. There’s a price for everything. You just don’t
know what mine is.’

‘Stop playing the hero with me, Mr Ottobre.’ The general’s cold rage shone brighter than the lights in the lobby of Frank’s building. The words
Mr Ottobre
echoed
in the small space of the car like a threat. ‘I know who you are. We’re two of a kind.’

The car pulled up smoothly in front of the glass doors of Parc Saint-Roman. Frank got out and stood outside the car, leaning against the door. He bent down so that his face could be seen from
inside.

‘That may be, General Parker. But not quite. Since you know all about me, you must know about my dead wife. Yes, I’m perfectly aware of what it’s like to lose someone close. I
know all about living with ghosts. We may be two of a kind, but there’s one difference between us. I cried when I lost my wife. I guess I’m no soldier.’

Frank gently closed the car door and walked away. The old man lowered his eyes a moment as he considered his reply. When he raised them again, Frank Ottobre was gone.

As soon as he woke, without even getting out of bed, Frank dialled the direct line to Cooper’s office in Washington. He hoped he’d be there, in spite of the time
difference. Cooper answered on the second ring.

‘Cooper Danton.’

‘Hey, Cooper. It’s Frank.’

‘Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?’ If there was surprise on the other end, Cooper didn’t show it.

‘Shitty.’

Cooper said nothing. Frank’s voice had changed. There was a new energy that hadn’t been there during the last phone call. He waited in silence. ‘They’ve put me on a
serial killer case here in Monaco. You wouldn’t believe it!’

‘It’s all over the papers here. CNN too. They’re majoring on the American celebrities angle. But Homer didn’t tell me you were involved. Is it that bad?’

‘Worse. We’re hunting shadows. This guy’s made of air. No trace. No clues. And he keeps egging us on. He’s making us look like complete fools. And we’ve got three
bodies already.’

‘So things like that happen in good old Europe too, not just here.’

‘No patent on it. How’re things going over there?’

‘We’re still on Larkin’s trail. Jeff is dead and nobody misses him. Osmond’s in the cooler and he’s keeping his mouth shut. But we’ve got some good leads. One
goes to South-east Asia, a new drug racket. We’ll see what happens.’

‘Cooper, can you do me a favour? I need all the information you can get on a certain General Parker and a Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army.’

‘Parker? Nathan Parker?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘He’s big time, Frank. And that’s an understatement. Vietnam hero. The real mastermind behind the Gulf War and Kosovo, that kind of thing. A member of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff. Very close to the White House. When he talks, everybody listens, including the President. What does Nathan Parker have to do with you?’

‘His daughter was one of the victims. And now he’s here with a knife between his teeth because he doesn’t trust the local police. I’ve got a feeling he’s organizing
a posse for his own little war.’

‘What’s the other guy’s name?’

‘Mosse. Captain Ryan Mosse.’

‘Don’t know him. I’ll find out and let you know what I dig up. How can I get it to you?’

‘E-mail it to me. Don’t send anything to the Monaco police. I’d rather keep this out of the official investigation. We’ve got enough trouble. I want to handle it
myself.’

‘Okay, I’ll get to work.’

‘Thanks, Cooper.’

‘Don’t mention it – anything I can do to help, man. I’m happy for you.’

Frank knew what his friend meant by that. He didn’t want to disappoint him.

‘I know, Cooper. Bye.’

‘Good luck, Frank.’

He walked into the bathroom naked, not looking at himself in the mirror. He got in the shower and crouched on the floor, letting the cold water run over his head and shoulders. Shivering, he
waited until the water warmed up, and then mechanically started to soap himself. As the suds washed away, he tried to open his mind, step outside his own body and become someone else: that
formless, faceless someone who was waiting to attack.

The germ of an idea was forming. If what he suspected was true, Arianna Parker had been one of the unluckiest women on earth. A pointless death, except in the twisted mind of the assassin.

Frank turned off the jet of water and stood there for a moment, dripping wet, watching the water gurgle down the drain.

I kill . . .

The dots of the ellipsis, three deaths. And it wasn’t over. In some part of his brain, something was trying desperately to come to the light. There was a detail locked away, banging
against a closed door, trying to make itself heard.

As he put on his bathrobe he ran through his conclusions one more time. Nothing was certain, but it was very plausible. And it restricted the field of investigation. He still did not understand
how or when, let alone why, but at least he could conjecture
who.

That was it. That must be it.

Frank went into the study, sat down at the desk, and turned on the computer. He sat and stared for an instant at the French keyboard, and then logged on to the Internet. Luckily for him,
Ferrand, his host, had nothing to hide, at least not on that computer, and the password entered automatically. He sent Cooper an e-mail from the address where he wanted his friend to send the
information. Then he shut down the machine and went to get dressed, still mulling over his thoughts from different viewpoints to see if they would still hold water. The phone warbled just as he
passed the table.

He answered on the first ring.

Frank, it’s Nicolas.’

‘I was just about to call you. I’ve got an idea. Nothing much, but it’s a start.’

‘What?’

‘I think I understand what he’s after.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘It’s the men he’s interested in. Jochen Welder and Allen Yoshida. They were his victims.’

‘Then what does Arianna Parker have to do with it?’

‘She was a guinea pig. It was the first time he’d done it. The guy wanted someone to practice on before he did the real job, Jochen Welder’s face.’

‘If that’s true,’ Hulot said, after a silence as he evaluated the theory, ‘then we can exclude women, and we have a smaller circle of potential victims.’

‘Precisely, Nicolas. Men. About thirty or thirty-five. Famous, wealthy and good-looking. It’s not much, but it’s something. There aren’t millions of people like
that.’

‘It’s worth considering.’

‘We don’t have anything better. Anyway, why did you call?’

‘Frank, we’re in deep shit. Have you seen the papers?’

‘No.’

‘The story’s on the front page of every paper in Europe. There are TV crews here from all over. Roncaille and Durand are on the warpath. They must be facing terrible pressure, from
the Interior Ministry to the Prince himself. And now the Americans are getting involved.’

‘I’m not surprised. Allen Yoshida wasn’t just anybody.’

‘Exactly. All hell broke loose. Roncaille told me that the American Consul called him from Marseilles on behalf of your government. If we don’t produce something, I’m worried
my head’s on the block. And we have another problem.’

‘What?’

‘Jean-Loup Verdier. His nerves are shot. If you consider the position he’s in, you can understand why.’

‘We can’t risk losing him. If the murderer has no one to talk to, he might stop calling. He won’t stop killing, but there will be no more clues. And if he decides to find
someone else, at another radio station or something, it’ll take time until we get things under control again. Which means more people might die.’

‘We have to talk to him, Frank. I want you to do it.’

‘Why me?’

‘I think you have more influence on him. It’s just a feeling, but the letters FBI have more of an effect than the words Sûreté Publique.’

‘Okay. I’ll get dressed and be right there.’

‘I’ll send a car. See you at Jean-Loup’s.’

Frank was already heading towards the bedroom. He dressed hurriedly, and as he returned the things to his pockets that he had put on the dresser the night before, he thought
about what he should say to Jean-Loup Verdier. The kid was scared stiff and that was hardly a surprise. Frank realized that he was calling Jean-Loup a kid when he was really only a few years
younger than himself. Frank felt much older. You aged faster as a cop. Or maybe some people were just born old.

He got in the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. They would get the killer; that was certain. Sooner or later, he would slip up and they would catch him. But how many victims with
mutilated faces would there be between now and then?

The lift stopped with a slight jolt and the doors opened on to the elegant marble lobby of Parc Saint-Roman. Frank went out through the glass doors and saw a police car waiting for him.
They’d got there fast; they had probably been nearby. The doorman saw him and nodded through the glass guard box.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur Ottobre,’ the doorman said, addressing him in French.

‘Bonjour.’

‘They left this for you after you got back last night.’ The man handed him a plain white envelope with nothing on it except his name written in ink.

‘Thanks, Pascal.’

‘Pas de quoi.
A pleasure, Monsieur.’

Frank took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a sheet of paper folded in three. He opened it and read the message, written in shaky but clear handwriting.

At the bottom of the page there was an address and two phone numbers. As he got into the car, Frank could not help thinking that now there were two bloodthirsty maniacs on the loose in Monte
Carlo.

The police car left Monte Carlo behind and took the uphill road to Beausoleil and the A8, the highway linking Monaco to Nice and Italy beyond. Sitting in the back seat, Frank
opened the window to let in some fresh air. He read the general’s message a second time and slipped it into his pocket. Then he continued looking out the window. The scene outside unfolded
before his eyes like one long, indistinguishable rush of colour.

Parker was a complication he didn’t need. Although this was a private matter, the man represented power with a capital
P.
He was not simply boasting. Not in the least. He really did
have access to all the things he claimed. Which meant that, along with the police, there would be others around with unofficial methods of investigation. People who were not required to stay within
the law.

The niceties of the justice system in the Principality of Monaco wouldn’t deter Nathan Parker’s thirst for vengeance. He was old enough and determined enough not to give a damn about
the possible effects on his career. And if things were the way Cooper said, Parker was powerful enough to protect the men with him, too. If he captured the killer, the press would turn it into the
romantic account of a distraught father seeking justice, succeeding where others had failed. He would be turned into a hero and become untouchable. The United States desperately needed heroes just
then. The government and public opinion would back him all the way. Principality authorities would gag on it for a while, but then they would have to swallow their pride.
Game over.

And then there was Jean-Loup. Another problem.

Frank had to find a way to dissuade Jean-Loup from a decision he couldn’t blame him for. The fame you get from hosting a hit radio show is one thing, but having your name in all the papers
because you’re the only person a serial killer will talk to is quite another. It was enough to make anyone run for cover. He had every right to be scared.

And time was running out, ticking away minute by minute, marked by the chronometer that senior Principality officials were holding up to them.

The car slowed down beside a large house built into the hillside. Frank could make out the roof behind a row of cypress trees on the other side of the road. It overlooked all of Monte Carlo. A
great view. That was the deejay’s house, for sure. There were a number of cars parked outside and a couple of satellite trucks from the TV stations. A small crowd of reporters and cameramen
were laying siege to the house. There was also a police car nearby. The reporters quivered with excitement when they saw the car arrive – even though, as yet, they didn’t know who Frank
was or what his role was in the investigation. The policeman in the front passenger seat picked up the mike.

‘Ducros here. We’re coming up.’

The iron gate started to open. As the car slowed down to drive in, the reporters came right up to Frank’s window. Two policemen got out of the parked car to keep them from following inside
the gate.

They drove slowly down a paved ramp and found themselves in the driveway in front of the garage. Hulot was already there, waiting. He greeted Frank through the open window.

‘Hi, Frank. Seen the chaos?’

‘Hi, Nicolas. I see it. Typical. It’d be strange if they weren’t here.’ Frank got out of the car and checked out the building. ‘Jean-Loup Verdier must make quite a
salary to afford this.’

‘There’s a story to this house,’ Hulot said with a smile. ‘Haven’t you read the papers?’

‘No, that’s something I gladly leave to you.’

‘They’ve all written about it. Jean-Loup inherited this house.’

‘Nice relatives.’

‘It wasn’t a relative. Sounds like a fairytale, but he inherited it from a rich old widow. He saved her dog.’

‘Her dog?’

‘That’s right. In the Place du Casino a few years ago. This lady’s dog escaped and ran into the middle of the street. Jean-Loup jumped out to save it just as it was about to
get run over by a car. He was almost killed, too. The woman hugged and kissed him, crying with gratitude, and that was that. A few years later, a notary called him and told him he was a
homeowner.’