Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

His own presence in Monaco was becoming a diplomatic necessity. As with everything, it had advantages and disadvantages. Frank was sure that Roncaille would try to maximize the first and minimize the second. He was well acquainted with the methods of the Monte Carlo police. Nobody ever said anything, but they knew everything.

Everything except the name of the killer …

He decided not to worry about the police. He had felt that way all along. This was not a joint police investigation. Even if Roncaille and Durand represented authority, it didn’t matter. Neither did America nor the Principality. This was a personal matter between him, Nicolas Hulot and a man dressed in black who collected the faces of his victims in a gory, delirious carnival. All three of them had put their lives on hold, waiting to see how this no-holds-barred struggle between three dead men pretending to be alive would end.

They had to change.

He sat down at the computer and opened an e-mail from Cooper. The attachments held the information he had found on Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. It wasn’t much use now that Mosse was in jail and Parker was temporarily harmless. Temporarily, he repeated. He had no illusions about Parker. The general was a man you couldn’t rule out until there were worms in his dead body.

There was a note from Cooper in his e-mail.

Give me a call after you’re done sailing the seas with your new cruiser and have a free second. At any time. I need to talk to you. Coop.

He wondered what was so urgent and looked at his watch. At this hour, he could call him at home. He wouldn’t be disturbing anyone. Cooper lived alone in a loft overlooking the Potomac.

His friend’s sleepy voice answered after a few rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Coop? It’s Frank.’

‘Oh, it’s you. How’s it goin’?’

‘A huge oil tanker just crashed and you wouldn’t believe the size of the spill.’

‘What happened?’

‘Two more murders last night.’

‘Oh, man!’

‘You said it. One was killed according to the usual ritual – he’s the fourth. My friend the inspector was politely kicked off the case. The other guy’s dead thanks to our dear friend Ryan Mosse. They’ ve got him in jail now and the general is raising hell to get him out.’

‘Jesus, Frank.’ Cooper was fully awake now. ‘What the fuck’s going on over there? Next, you’ll tell me it’s nuclear war.’

‘Don’t rule that out. What did you have to tell me that was so urgent?’

‘There’ve been some new developments here. The Larkin case, I mean. The things we’re finding out make us think they’ve got a good cover somewhere, a joint venture with something big. But we don’t know what it is yet. And Hudson McCormack’s in from New York.’

‘Who’s he? What does he have to do with Larkin?’

‘That’s what we want to know. Officially, he’s a lawyer, defence counsel for Osmond Larkin. That surprised us because the bastard could get himself someone better. He has done in the past. This McCormack’s a mediocre thirty-five-year-old attorney from the Big Apple. He’s better known for being on the Stars and Stripes ocean yachting team at the Louis Vuitton Cup than for his legal success.’

‘Checked him out?’

‘Sure. Turned him inside out. Nothing doing. Lives within his means, not a penny more. No vices, no women, no coke. All he cares about besides work is sailing. And now he comes out like a jack-in-the-box to show us what a small world it is.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I mean that right now Hudson McCormack is on his way to Monte Carlo.’

‘Great. This isn’t the best time to visit.’

‘Apparently he’s going for a pretty important regatta. But…’

‘But?’

‘Frank, doesn’t it seem strange that a modest New York lawyer, unknown and unproven, gets the first important case of his career and takes off, even for a few days, to go sailing in Europe? Anyone else would have thrown himself into it 24/7.’

‘When you put it that way… But what’s it got to do with me?’

‘You’re there and you know the story. Right now this guy is Osmond Larkin’s only link to the rest of the world. Maybe he’s just his lawyer, but it might be more than that. There’s a lot of money and a lot of drugs at stake. We all know what goes on in Monte Carlo and the money that goes through there, but in cases of terrorism and drugs we could get a few safes opened. You’re in with the police there – it wouldn’t be difficult for you to have McCormack watched, discreetly and efficiently.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He didn’t tell Cooper that in Monte Carlo almost everyone, including him, was being discreetly and efficiently watched.

‘I attached a photo of him to the e-mail, and there’s some other info on McCormack’s visit to Monaco.’

‘Okay. Go back to sleep. Guys with low IQs need sleep so their brains can function in the morning.’

‘Thanks, asshole. Break a leg.’

Another lap, another race, another mess. He saved the Hudson McCormack attachment on to a floppy disk without even opening it. He found a label in the drawer and wrote ‘Cooper’.

His brief conversation had taken him home for a moment, although home was an elusive concept. He felt displaced from the ruins of his existence, like an invisible ghost who sees without being seen.

He closed his eyes and in his mind returned to a conversation he had once had with Fr Kenneth, a priest who was also a psychologist at the private clinic where Frank had been admitted after Harriet’s death. When Frank had been pulled down as far as he could go. The time when, if he hadn’t been in therapy or analysis, he’d sat on a bench in the park of that luxury asylum, staring into the void and fighting the desire to follow Harriet. One day, Fr Kenneth had walked silently across the grass and sat down next to him on the bench, wrought-iron with dark wooden slats.

‘How’s it going, Frank?’

Frank had looked at him carefully before answering. He’d studied his long, pale face, that of an exorcist, aware of the contradiction between his role as man of science and man of faith. He hadn’t been wearing his collar and could easily have passed as a relative of any of the patients.

‘I’m not insane, if that’s what you want to hear.’

‘I know you’re not insane and you know that’s not what I was asking. When I asked you how it was going, I really wanted to know how things were going.’

Frank had spread out his arms in a gesture that could mean many things.

‘When do I get out of here?’

Fr Kenneth had answered his question with a question. ‘Are you ready?’

‘If you ask me, I’ll never be ready. That’s why I asked you.’

‘Do you believe in God, Frank?’

He’d turned to the priest with a bitter smile. ‘Please Fr, try to avoid clichés like “Seek God and He will hear you.”’

‘Stop offending my intelligence and, most of all, stop offending yours. If you insist on assigning me a role to play, maybe it’s because you’ve decided to play one yourself. There’s a reason that I asked you if you believe in God.’

Frank had raised his eyes to stare at a gardener who was planting an oak sapling.

‘I don’t care. I don’t believe in God, Fr Kenneth. And that’s not to my advantage, whatever you might think.’ He’d turned to look at him. ‘It means there’s no one to forgive me for the evil that I do.’

And I never thought I had done any. But it turns out, I did a great deal. Bit by bit, I took life away from the person I loved, the person whom I should have protected more than anyone else.

As he slipped on his shoes, the ring of the phone brought him back to the present.