Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘So you did it, Frank. You found your killer. You’re a man with a great deal of initiative.’

‘I might say the same of you, general, although yours are not always initiatives to be proud of. Helena told me everything, in case you’re interested.’

The old soldier didn’t blink an eye.

‘She told me everything about you, too. She told me all about your masculinity, when it comes to taking advantage of a woman who is not in her right mind. You made a big mistake by playing the knight in shining armour. If I remember correctly, I advised you not to get in my way. But you didn’t listen.’

‘You’re a contemptible man, General Parker, and I will destroy you.’

Ryan Mosse stepped forward but the general stopped him with a gesture. He smiled with the duplicity of a serpent.

‘You’re a failure, and like all failures, you’re a romantic, Mr Ottobre. You’re not a man, but only the remnants of one. I can crush you with my bare hand. Now you listen to what I have to say.’ He came so close that Frank could feel the heat of his breath and the slight spray of saliva as he hissed his fury in Frank’s face. ‘Keep away from my daughter, Frank. I can reduce you to a state where you’ll beg me to kill you. If you care nothing for your own safety, then think of Helena’s. I can lock her away in a mental institution and throw away the key, whenever I feel like it.’

The general started circling around him as he continued speaking. ‘Of course, you can join forces and try to defeat me together. Try to spit your poison at me. But remember. On one side, there’s a US Army general, a war hero, military adviser to the President. On the other side, there’s a woman known to be unstable and a man who spent months recovering in a mental institution, after practically forcing his wife to commit suicide. Tell me, Frank, who would they believe? Besides the fact that anything that you two might invent about me would affect Stuart, which is the last thing Helena would want. My daughter already understands that, and promises not to see you or have anything more to do with you. Ever again. I expect the same from you, Mr Ottobre. Do you understand? Never again!’

The old soldier took a step back with the light of triumph in his eyes. ‘However this ends, you’re finished, Mr Ottobre.’

The general spun around and walked off without looking back. Mosse came over to Frank. His face glowed with the sadistic pleasure of striking a man when he is down.

‘He’s right, Mr FBI agent. You’re finished.’

‘That’s something, at least. You, on the other hand, never even got started.’ Frank took a step back, waiting for his reaction. When Mosse tried to make his move, he found the Glock pointed at him. ‘Come on, give me an excuse. Anything at all. The old man has his back covered, but you are neither as useful nor as dangerous as you think.’

‘You’ll end up in my hands sooner or later, Frank Ottobre.’

‘We’re all in the hands of God, Mosse.’ Frank spread out his arms to illustrate the possibility. ‘And that’s not you. Now run after your master and get out of here.’

He stood still in the hallway until Mosse and Barker were gone. Then he put his gun back in the holster and leaned against the wall, slowly slipping down until he was sitting on the cold marble floor. He realized that he was shaking.

Somewhere out there was a dangerous killer, ready to strike. The man had already killed several people including his best friend, Nicolas Hulot. Only a few days before, Frank would have given the rest of his life just to write that killer’s name on a piece of paper.

Now he could think of nothing but Helena Parker, and he didn’t know what to do.

Laurent Bedon left the Café de Paris, caressing the wad of €500 notes in the inside pocket of his jacket. He thought about his incredible luck that night. He had pulled off what every roulette player only dreams of doing. Chevals and en plein on 23 red, three times in a row, with the top bet, the onlookers delirious and the croupier devastated at a practically unheard-of stroke of luck.

He had gone to the cashier and started pulling an endless amount of coloured chips from his pockets, as if his jacket belonged to Harry Houdini. The clerk had not reacted to the size of the win, but he had had to ask the other clerk for more cash because there wasn’t enough in his drawer to cover the amount.

As he retrieved his canvas bag from the cloakroom, Laurent had thought about how, when luck finally decides to play your side, her ability to give poverty a slap in the face is almost embarrassing. He’d gone into the Café de Paris just to pass the time, and in half an hour he had recovered everything he’d lost in the past four years.

He glanced at his watch. Perfect timing. He stood on the pavement for a moment, looking out on the square in front of him. To his left, all the lights of the Casino Municipale were sparkling. Next to the entrance, a BMW 750 was parked at an angle, skilfully lit with spotlights. It was the prize for a game of chemin de fer to be held later that night.

In front of him, the Hôtel de Paris looked like a natural outgrowth of the casino, as if one could not exist without the other. Laurent imagined all the people inside. The maids, the porters and the concierges. The guests who were full of self-importance and stinking rich.

As far as he was concerned, things were finally starting to fall into place. Since the beginning of his collaboration with that American, the wind seemed to have changed direction. He realized full well that Ryan Mosse was dangerous. That was clear from the way he had dealt with Valentin. But he was also extremely generous and, as long as that was the case, nothing else seemed very important. When you got right down to it, what had he asked him to do? Just to pass on what he learned about the No One investigation from the police who were waiting at the radio station for the killer to call. A small task that had given him enough money to plug several holes in the leaky boat of his finances.

He had been deeply disappointed when Mosse was arrested as a suspect in the murder of Roby Stricker. Not that he cared much about either of them. The American was clearly a psychopath and, quite frankly, he belonged right where they had put him, in a maximum security prison in the Rocca. As for Stricker, that playboy wasn’t worth shit; his only value in life was the bimbos on his arm. Nobody would miss him, probably not even his own father. May the little prick rest in peace, amen, was Laurent Bedon’s perfunctory prayer in memory of Roby Stricker.

Laurent’s only regret at the news of Mosse’s arrest had been the loss of his own golden egg. Concern over losing his sponsor, as he called him, had overcome his fear of being accused of spying. The guy didn’t seem the type who would talk easily. The cops would have to work very hard if they wanted to get anything out of him. Mosse was tough, even more so with the backing of General Parker, the father of the murdered girl. Parker was big time, and probably held Mosse’s purse strings, to Laurent’s great benefit.

In any case, he had welcomed the news of Mosse’s release from jail with a sigh of relief and a surge of renewed hope. That hope had turned into genuine triumph when he had received a second e-mail from his rich uncle asking to set up a meeting. He hadn’t asked himself what they could want of him, now that they knew who the killer was. The only thing he cared about was renewing the flow of cash into his pockets.

He could still see Maurice’s suspicious eyes peering at him when he had finally paid back his debt. He had looked down at the money on the desk in the back office of the Burlesque, his sleazy Nice nightclub full of cheap whores, as though it were counterfeit. If Maurice had asked him where the money had come from, Laurent wouldn’t have said a word.