Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘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.’