Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

He shook himself vigorously and tucked his shirt back in his trousers. Running back to the car, he paid no attention to the fact that his zip was undone. There’s a murderer in this city, René, he told himself. Who gives a damn if your flies are open?

He got in the car and picked up his phone, calling back Barthélemy at the paper.

‘It’s Coletti again. Find me an address.’

‘Out with it.’

‘Roby Stricker. That’s S-t-r-i-c-k-e-r with a c and a k. Roby might be short for Robert. He lives here in Monte Carlo. And if we’re really, really lucky, he might even be in the phone book. If not, get it some other way, but fast.’

‘Hold on a minute.’ The newspaper wasn’t the police, but they had their methods.

That minute felt endless, even longer than when his bladder had been full. Barthélemy came back on the line.

‘Bingo. He lives in a condo called Les Caravelles, Boulevard Albert Premier.’

Coletti held his breath. He could not believe his luck. It was just 200 yards from where he was parked.

‘Great. I know where it is. I’ll be in touch.’

‘René, I’m telling you again. Watch out. Not just for the cops. This No One guy’s dangerous. He’s already killed three people.’

‘Touch wood, cross your fingers. I don’t want to lose my skin, but if things end up the way I think they will, it’ll be a sensation.’ He hung up.

For a moment, he heard the voice on the radio again.

I kill…

He shivered in spite of himself. But the excitement and the adrenalin were already flowing and dispelling any normal sense of caution. As a man, Coletti had his limitations, but as a reporter, he knew his job and was willing to risk anything to do it. He could recognize something big. A piece of news to hunt down, open like an oyster and let the world see whether there was a pearl inside or not. And this time, there was a gorgeous pearl, as big as an ostrich egg.

Everyone had a drug, and this was his.

He looked at the brightly lit windows of Radio Monte Carlo. There were several police cars parked outside the entry. The blue flashing light on one of them went on and the car pulled out. Coletti relaxed. That must be the police escort that took Jean-Loup Verdier home every night. He had followed them a number of times and knew what they would do. They drove up to the deejay’s house, slipped inside the gate, and that was it. With the police standing guard, any contact was impossible.

He would have given half of Bill Gates’s fortune for an interview with Verdier, but for the moment there was no way. He was sealed tight, coming in and going out. He’d stood in front of that house long enough to know that it was impossible.

Everything seemed impossible recently. He’d done all he could to get an assignment in Afghanistan to cover the war. He could feel the story in his gut. He knew he could tell it better than anyone else, like he had done in the former Yugoslavia. But they had picked Rodin, maybe because they thought he was younger and hungrier and more willing to take risks. Maybe there was some politics behind it, the right connections with someone he wasn’t aware of.

Coletti opened the glove compartment and pulled out his digital camera. He placed it on the seat beside him and checked it carefully, like a soldier testing his weapon before battle. The batteries were charged and it had four 128 meg cards. He could shoot the Third World War if he needed to. He climbed out of his Mazda, not bothering to lock it, and hid the camera under his jacket so it would not be noticed. He left the car and the Piscine behind him and headed off in the opposite direction. A few dozen yards away were the stairs leading up to the promenade.

As he reached the street, an unmarked police car with a flashing light on its roof left the Rascasse and sped off in front of him. He could see two people inside and imagined who they might be. Inspector Hulot and Sergeant Morelli, no doubt. Or maybe that dark-haired cop he had seen that morning coming out of Jean-Loup Verdier’s house, who had looked at him as his car passed by. He had a strange feeling when their eyes met. That man was very familiar with evil and could recognize people who carried it with them. Maybe he should find out more about that cop.

Coletti had long ago given up on following police cars. The cops were not stupid and would have detected him immediately. He’d get stopped and could forget about the scoop. He could not risk making any mistakes.

There had been that hoax call earlier in the evening, as fake as a bad cheque. The cops must have turned nasty. He wouldn’t want to be the guy who made that call when they got hold of him. He saw no point in getting caught in a similar trap.

If the maniac’s next victim was really Roby Stricker, they would use him as bait, and the only place where that could happen was at his house. So all he had to do was find some place to wait, where he could see without being seen. If his assumptions were correct and they caught No One, he would be the only eyewitness and reporter with photos of the arrest. If he could manage it, the story was worth its weight in plutonium.

The streets were practically empty. Everyone in the city must have been listening to the radio and heard No One’s new call. Not many people felt like going out for a walk, knowing there was a killer lurking.

Coletti headed for the well-lit entrance of Les Caravelles. When he reached the glass doors of the condo, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a normal lock that did not require a code. Coletti rummaged in his pockets like any normal tenant looking for his keys.

He pulled out a gadget given to him by an informant, a sharp-witted bastard he had once helped out of a jam. The guy loved money, whatever the source – either what Coletti passed him for his leaks or the money he found by breaking into apartments. Coletti slipped the gizmo in the lock and the door opened. He entered the lobby of the luxury building and looked around. Mirrors, leather sofas, Persian carpets on marble floors. There was no security there now, but during the day the doorman was probably pretty strict. His heart was pounding. It wasn’t fear, but pure adrenalin. This was paradise on earth. This was his job.

To his right, at the shorter end of the rectangular room, there were two wooden doors. One had a brass sign that said CONCIERGE. The other, on the opposite corner, probably led down to the basement. He had no idea what floor Roby Stricker lived on, and waking the doorman at that hour to ask was definitely not a good idea. But he could take the service lift, ride up to the top floor, and go down the stairs until he found the right floor. Then he’d find a good observation point, even if he had to hang out of a window, something he had already done in the past.

The Reeboks on his feet made no noise as he reached the basement door. He pushed against it, hoping it wasn’t locked. He had his gizmo, but every second saved was a second gained. He breathed another sigh of relief. The door was unlocked. It was pitch black inside. In the reflection of the lobby lights, he could see the stairs descending into darkness. The tiny red dots of the light switches shone at regular intervals like cats’ eyes.

Coletti couldn’t risk turning on the light. He went down the first two steps, easing the door closed and giving silent thanks for the efficiency of the person who had oiled the hinges. Feeling along the wall with his hands, he turned and started groping his way down the steps. Coletti’s heart was beating so loudly that he wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone in the building could hear.

At last he reached the bottom of the stairs. He put a hand out, felt the rough plaster and began to advance slowly. Searching in his pocket, he realized that, along with his cigarettes, he had also left his Bic lighter in the car. It would have come in handy. Proof that haste makes waste. He continued inching his way along. He was just a few steps further into total darkness when he felt an iron grip around his neck and his body was thrown violently against the wall.