Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Parker’s tone of voice softened. There was a hint of sadness.

‘To be quite frank, she’s suffering from a serious nervous breakdown. Very serious. Arianna’s death was the last straw. We tried to hide it from her, but it was impossible.’

The general’s head dropped. Nonetheless, Frank found it hard to see him in the role of a broken-hearted old father. It had not escaped him that the general defined the boy first as his grandson and then as Helena’s son. Hierarchy and discipline were probably as much a part of his private life as his public one. Cynically, perhaps, Frank saw the presence of his daughter and grandson in Monte Carlo as a cover for his real intentions.

‘Arianna was different. She was made of steel. She was my daughter. Helena is like her mother, fragile. Very fragile. Sometimes she does things without realizing, like today. A few times, she’s gotten out and wandered around for a couple of days until we find her. You can imagine her state. That’s what would have happened this time, too. She has to be watched so that she won’t be a danger to herself or to others.’

‘I’m sorry about your daughters, general. Helena, but especially Arianna. However, that doesn’t change my opinion of you and what you’re doing. Maybe I’d do the same thing in your place, I don’t know. I’ve been put on this case and I’ll do everything I can to catch this killer, you can count on that. But I will also do everything I can to keep you from whatever road you’re planning to take.’

Parker did not react angrily, like the night before. Frank’s refusal to collaborate was probably filed away as ‘tactically irrelevant’.

‘I’ll remember that. You’ve got character, Frank, but then so do I. So I would suggest you be very careful when you cross that road, if I’m on it, Mr Ottobre .’

This time, the sarcasm leaked out and Frank noticed. He smiled. Like Ryan, like Parker.

‘I’ll keep your advice in mind, general. But I hope you won’t hold it against me if I continue the investigation my way. But thanks, Mr Parker.. .’

Irony for irony, an eye for an eye, like the jeering cry of the seagull overhead, like a killer torn between justice and revenge.

Frank turned and walked slowly back to the main road. He could feel the general staring at his back. To his right, over the bushes, he could make out the roof of Jean-Loup’s house. As he crossed the road to get to the waiting car, Frank wondered whether the fact that Parker had rented a house so close to the deejay’s was coincidental.

From the balcony of his Parc Saint-Roman apartment, Frank watched the car that had brought him home turn right on to Rue des Giroflées, then on to Boulevard d’Italie. The guys had probably started their wisecracks about the situation, about him in particular. He was aware of the general opinion of his role in the affaire, as they called it. The bigshot FBI man, come to show them how it’s done. Except for Nicolas and Morelli, there was a dose of understandable chauvinism where he was concerned. Not that anyone at police headquarters was against him. Basically, they all had the same goal. But there were definitely some misgivings. His friendship with Hulot and his FBI qualifications were enough to earn everyone’s cooperation, but not necessarily their camaraderie. The doors were only half open to their American cousin.

Too bad. He wasn’t there for show, but to get a killer. It was a job, and he didn’t need any pats on the back.

Frank looked at the clock. It was two thirty in the afternoon. Realizing that he was hungry, he went back inside to the tiny kitchen. He’d asked Amélie, the housekeeper who came with the apartment, to do a little shopping. He used whatever was in the fridge to make himself a sandwich, opened a Heineken, and went back to the terrace to eat his lunch in the sun. He removed his shirt and sat bare-chested. For once, he didn’t worry about his scars. It was different now. He had other things to think about.

Frank looked up at the cloudless sky. The seagulls circled high above, white specks in the clear blue sky. It was a beautiful day. Ever since this whole thing had started, the weather had decided not to reflect human misery and had headed instead towards summer. Not a single cloud had covered the sun, not for an instant. Someone, somewhere, had decided to leave the handling of light and darkness to human beings, the lords and masters of their own eclipse.

He let his eyes run along the coast.

Monte Carlo under the sun was a small, elegant hive with too many queen bees, and even more who just played the part. They propped up a flimsy image of elegance, like phony buildings on a movie set. The only thing behind them was the faraway line of the horizon. But the killer, in a long dark coat, was opening the doors, one by one, with a scornful bow, pointing to the void behind them with a black-gloved hand.

Frank finished his sandwich and took the last sip of beer from the bottle. He looked at his watch again. Three o’clock. If Cooper wasn’t out on another case, he would be at the office in that huge stone building that was FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. He picked up his cordless phone and punched in the number.

‘Cooper Danton,’ he answered at the third ring in his usual dry tone.

‘Hi, Cooper. Frank again.’

‘Hey, man. Getting a tan on the Côte d’Azur?’

‘No sun on this Côte d’Azur. Our friend has us living the nightlife. I’m white as snow.’

‘Yeah, right. Any progress?’

‘Totally in the dark. The few lightbulbs we had are blowing out, one by one. And if that wasn’t enough, this General Parker and his sidekick are complicating things. I know I’m being a pain in the ass, but have you found anything on them?’

‘Lots, if the big time doesn’t scare you. I was about to send you an e-mail with a file attached. You beat me to it.’

‘Send it anyway but tell me a little first.’

‘Okay. Just a summary. General Parker, Nathan James, born in Montpelier, Vermont, in ’thirty-seven. Family not incredibly wealthy, but very well-to-do. Left home at seventeen and forged papers to get into the army. First in his class at the Academy. Brilliant officer with a fast-track career. Decorated in Vietnam. Brilliant operations in Nicaragua and Panama. Wherever they needed to flex muscles, use some fists and some brains, that’s where he’d be. He was Army Chief of Staff very early on. Secret mastermind of Desert Storm and the war in Kosovo. A couple of presidents later, and he’s still there. Which means that when he talks, people listen. And his opinion counts in Afghanistan now, too. He’s got money, power and credibility. He can wet the bed and say he was sweating. He’s tough, Frank. Real tough.’

Cooper stopped to take a breath and let him process the information.

‘What about the other one?’

‘Who? Mosse?’

Frank remembered the knife against his nostril. He scratched his nose to banish the memory.

‘Yeah. Did you get anything on him?’

‘Sure did. Captain Mosse, Ryan Wilbur. Born 2nd March ’63, in Austin, Texas. There’s less on him. And a lot more.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘At a certain point, Mosse became Parker’s shadow. If you got one, you got the other. Mosse would give his life for the general.’

‘Any special reason, or is it just Parker’s charm?’

‘Mosse’s loyalty is tied to the reason that Parker was decorated in Vietnam. One of the things he did was cross the Charlie line with a wounded soldier on his back, saving his life.’

‘Now you’re going to give me a name.’

‘Right. The soldier was Willy Mosse, Ryan’s father.’