I Kill (31 page)

‘Both of us, or just me? I mean, this is Malva Reinhart and . . .’

‘You’d better come with us. It’s in your best interest. We have reason to believe that your life is in danger. The young lady’s too, perhaps.’

They had filled him in soon afterwards, in the car. Stricker had grown deathly pale and Frank knew that if he had been standing, his legs might have collapsed. Frank had translated for Reinhart
and it was her turn to go pale. They had reached Stricker’s building, Les Caravelles, a couple of blocks from police headquarters. They couldn’t help being stunned at the madman’s
nerve. If he was
really
aiming for Stricker, the choice was a defiant, mocking challenge. He intended to strike at someone who lived just blocks away from the centre of police
operations.

Frank had stayed with him and the girl while Nicolas, after inspecting the apartment, went to give instructions to Morelli and his men stationed below. There was a security net around the
building that was impossible to get through. Before he left, Hulot had called Frank into the hallway, given him a walkie-talkie, and asked if he had his gun. Without a word, Frank had opened his
jacket to show him the Glock hanging from his belt. He had shivered slightly as he brushed against the cold, hard weapon.

Frank stepped towards the centre of the room and responded patiently to Stricker’s objections.

‘First of all, we’re trying to guarantee your safety. You might not have noticed, but practically all the police in the Principality are stationed outside. Secondly, we have no
intention of using you as bait. We simply need your cooperation to try to catch the person we’re after. You’re not running any risk, I assure you. You live in Monte Carlo, so you must
know what’s been happening, don’t you?’

‘Listen,’ Roby said, as he turned towards Frank without moving from the window. ‘It’s not that I’m scared, okay? I just don’t like the whole situation. It
feels . . . overblown, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad you’re not afraid, but that doesn’t mean you should underestimate the person we’re dealing with. So please get away from that window.’

Stricker tried to appear nonchalant as he stepped back to the couch. In actuality, he was quite visibly terrified. Frank had been with him for an hour now, and if he’d had any say in the
matter he would have walked out of there and left the guy to his fate. Stricker fitted the stereotype of a spoiled rich boy so exactly that it was almost laughable.

Roberto Stricker, ‘Roby’ in the society pages, was Italian, from Bolzano to be precise, but his last name was German and he could pass for English if he wanted. He was just over
thirty and very good-looking. Tall, athletic, great hair, great face, total prick. His father was the wealthy owner of, among other things, a chain of discos in Italy, France and Spain called No
Nukes, whose symbol was an environmentalist sun. That was what had struck Barbara when she heard the name ‘Nuclear Sun’, the Roland Brant dance track that the killer had played on the
radio. Roby Stricker lived in Monte Carlo, doing whatever he wanted with his time and his father’s money – that is to say, absolutely nothing. The tabloids were full of his love affairs
and vacations, skiing at St Moritz with the hottest top models or playing tennis at Marbella with Björn Borg. As far as work was concerned, his father probably gave him money just to keep him
out of the family business, reckoning that whatever his son cost him was the lesser of two evils.

‘What are you going to do?’ Stricker picked up his glass but put it down again when he saw that the ice had melted.

‘Actually, there’s really very little we can do in cases like this. We just take the right precautions and wait.’

‘What does this nutcase have against me, anyway? Do I know him?’

If he decided to kill you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did know you. And probably pretty well you little shit.
Frank sat down in an armchair.

‘I have no idea. Quite frankly, aside from what we told you, we don’t have much more information on this murderer, except for the criteria he uses to select his victims and what he
does after he kills them.’

Frank spoke in Italian, emphasizing the harshness of the word
‘assassino
’ for Roby Stricker’s benefit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to frighten the girl
sitting on the couch any more. She was gnawing on her finger in fear. Although . . .

Like attracts like.

The two of them were together for a reason. Like Nicolas and Céline Hulot, like Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. And like Bikjalo and Jean-Loup Verdier. Out of love. Out of hate. Out of
self-interest. As for Roby Stricker and Malva Reinhart, however, it could be just simple physical attraction between two very shallow human beings.

Frank’s walkie-talkie started to buzz. Strange. They had decided to observe strict radio silence. No precautions seemed excessive with this criminal, who could tap phone lines so easily
that he might very well be able to listen in on any police frequency. Frank went into the foyer before answering. He didn’t want Stricker and the girl to hear.

‘Frank Ottobre.’

‘Frank, it’s Nicolas. We may have caught him.’

Frank felt as though a cannon had just fired next to his ear.

‘Where?’

‘Here, down in the basement, by the boiler. One of my men caught a suspicious character who was sneaking down the stairs to the basement and stopped him. They’re still there.
I’m on my way over.’

‘I’ll be right there.’ He ran back into the room. ‘Stay here and don’t move. Don’t let anyone in but me.’

He left them to be shocked and scared on their own, and rushed down the stairs two at a time. He reached the lobby just as Hulot was coming in from the street with Morelli behind him. A
uniformed cop was guarding the door to the basement.

They went downstairs, guided by the dim light of a series of bulbs set in the wall, protected by grating. All the buildings in Monte Carlo looked alike to Frank. Beautiful exteriors but shoddy
on the inside, where most people couldn’t see. It was hot down there and it reeked of dustbins.

The agent led the way. A policeman crouched beside a man sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall with his hands tied behind him. The policeman had a pair of infrared glasses for night
vision on top of his head.

‘Everything okay, Thierry?’

‘Here he is, inspector, I—’

‘Christ!’

Frank’s shout interrupted the policeman.

The man sitting on the ground was the redheaded reporter, the one he had seen outside police headquarters when Yoshida’s body had been discovered. The same one who had been standing in
front of Jean-Loup’s house that morning.

‘This guy’s a reporter, damn it!’

The journalist took advantage of the moment to make his voice heard.

‘You’re damn right, I’m a reporter. René Coletti
of France Soir.
I’ve been telling this blockhead that for the last ten minutes. If he had let me get my
press card out of my pocket, we could have avoided all this aggravation.’

Hulot was fuming. He crouched down beside Coletti. Frank was afraid he would punch him in the face. If he had, Frank would have defended him before any court.

‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed out of police business, you stupid jerk. And by the way, you’re in deep shit.’

‘Oh, really? And what’s the charge?’

‘For now, obstruction of a police investigation. We’ll find something else in time. We’re already busting a gut here without you media people making things worse.’ Hulot
stood up. He nodded to the two cops. ‘Get him up and take him away.’

They picked Coletti off the floor. Muttering to himself about the power of the press, the reporter managed to stand. He had a graze on his forehead from when he had scraped the wall. The lens
had fallen off the camera around his neck.

Frank grasped Hulot’s arm.

‘Nicolas, I’m going back up.’

‘Go on. I’ll deal with this idiot.’

Frank went back upstairs. He felt disappointment grinding in his stomach. All their work – waiting at the radio studio, struggling to decipher the message, all the men stationed there
– was useless because of that stupid reporter with his camera. It was his fault if their presence was revealed. If the killer really had meant to get Roby Stricker, he must have changed his
mind by now. Okay, they had avoided another murder, but they had also lost any chance of catching him.

When the lift door slid open at the fifth floor, Frank knocked at Stricker’s door.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. Frank.’

The door opened and Frank walked in. Roby Stricker would have to spend many hours on the beach or at a tanning salon to get rid of his pallor. Malva Reinhart didn’t look any better. She
was sitting on the couch and her eyes seemed even bigger and more violet against her ashen skin.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Did you arrest anyone?’

‘Yes, but not the one we’re looking for.’

Just then the walkie-talkie buzzed. Frank took it off his belt. After his rush down the stairs he was surprised he still even had it.

‘Yeah?’

He heard Hulot’s voice and did not like the sound of it at all.

‘It’s Nicolas. I’ve got some bad news.’

‘How bad?’

‘Very bad. No One screwed us, Frank. All the way. Roby Stricker wasn’t his target at all.’ Frank knew this would be harsh. ‘They just found the body of Gregor Yatzimin,
the ballet dancer. Same condition as the other three.’

‘Shit! I’ll be downstairs in a minute.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Frank gripped his walkie-talkie and for a moment he was tempted to hurl it at the wall. He felt the fury well up in him like volcanic lava. Stricker approached him at the front door. He was so
nervous that he didn’t even notice the state Frank was in.

‘What’s happening?’

‘I have to go.’

The young man looked at him, stunned.

‘Again? What about us?’

‘You’re not in any danger. You weren’t the target.’

‘What? I wasn’t the target?’ Relief cut the strings of his tension and he slumped against the wall.

‘No. There has been another victim.’

The certainty that he had escaped from death helped Stricker’s transition from fear to indignation.

‘Are you telling me that you practically gave us heart failure by mistake? While you were hanging around here showing off how great you are, that guy was going around killing someone else?
You fucking incompetent idiots. When my father hears about this he’ll . . .’

Frank listened in silence to the beginning of his outburst. He was right. There was an element of truth in what Stricker was saying. No One had made fools of them all over again. But they were
being duped by someone who took risks, who went out and fought his battles, evil as he was. Frank couldn’t let that good-for-nothing tell him off, after all they had done to try to save his
miserable existence. The ice inside Frank suddenly turned to steam and he exploded with all his might. He grabbed Stricker by the balls and squeezed hard.

‘Listen, you piece of shit . . .’ Stricker paled and fell back against the wall, turning his head to one side to avoid Frank’s flaming eyes. ‘If you don’t shut your
fucking mouth, I’ll make you see your own teeth without your having to look in the mirror.’ He squeezed Stricker’s testicles harder and the young man grimaced in pain. Frank went
on in the same hissing voice. ‘If I had anything to say about it, I’d be glad to hand you over to that butcher, you toerag. Fate’s been too good to you. Don’t flaunt it and
go looking for trouble.’

He let go. Stricker’s face slowly returned to its normal colour. Frank saw that there were tears in his eyes.

‘I’m going now. I’ve got more important things to do. Get rid of that whore you’ve got in there and wait right here for me. We’ve got some stuff to talk about, you
and I. You’ll have to clear up a few things about the people you hang out with here in Monte Carlo.’ Frank backed away from Stricker who slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting
on the floor. He put his head in his hands and started to cry. ‘And if you want to call Daddy in the meantime, go right ahead.’

Frank turned and opened the door. As he waited for the lift, he regretted the fact that he hadn’t been able to ask Stricker about one person in particular. He was about to do so when
Nicolas had called.

He’d be back later on. He wanted to find out the person Roby and Malva had been talking to when they had stopped them in front of Jimmy’z, the man who had melted into the night when
he saw them drive up. Frank wanted to know why Roby Stricker had been talking to Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army.

The trip to Gregor Yatzimin’s home seemed to take for ever, yet no time at all. Frank sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead, listening to what Hulot was
telling him. His face was a mask of silent fury.

‘You know who Gregor Yatzimin is, I suppose.’ Frank’s silence showed that he did. ‘He lives – lived – here in Monte Carlo and was the artistic director of the
ballet company. He was having problems with his eyesight recently.’

Frank suddenly exploded, interrupting as if he had not heard what Hulot had just said.

‘I realized how stupid we were as soon as I heard the name. We should’ve anticipated that the bastard would step it up. The first clue,
A Man and a Woman,
was relatively easy
because it was the first one. He had to give us a method. “Samba Pa Ti” was more complicated. The third one obviously had to be harder still, but he even told us that much,
too.’

Hulot could not follow the American’s line of reasoning. ‘What do you mean, he told us?’

‘The loop, Nicolas. The loop that goes
round and round and round.
The dog chasing its tail. He did it on purpose.’

‘Did what on purpose?’

‘He gave us a clue with a double meaning so it could be misunderstood. He made us spin around on our asses. He
knew
we’d get Roby Stricker from the deejay’s English name
and the No Nukes disco. And while we had every cop in the Principality falling over themselves to protect that little creep, we gave the killer complete freedom to strike his next
victim.’