Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Claude, could you come in here a moment?’

‘I was just about to. Be right there.’

The sergeant walked in the door a moment later. ‘Before you start, there’s something I have to tell you. Laurent Bedon is dead.’

‘When?’ Frank sat up in his chair.

‘Last night.’ Morelli hurried to give him the details, in order to avoid a predictable series of questions. ‘Nothing to do with us. The poor guy was killed during a robbery. He won a bunch of money at the Café de Paris last night and some chicken thief tried to steal it from him, right behind the casino. He fought back, fell into the street, and was hit by a car. The thief got away on his motorcycle. If the licence number a witness gave us is correct, we should catch him in a few hours.’

‘Yeah, but it’s one more death to add to the others in this mess. Christ, it’s beginning to feel like a curse.’

Morelli answered by changing the subject.

‘Aside from that bad news, what was it you wanted?’

‘I need a favour,’ Frank said, remembering why he had called him in.

‘What is it?’

‘It has nothing to do with this. Is there anyone free to trail a suspicious character?’

‘You know what things are like. Right now, we’re even using dog catchers.’

‘Here’s the photo and name of someone who might be involved in a case my partner is on in the States.’ Frank threw the floppy disk on the desk. ‘He’s a lawyer who’s officially here in Monaco for a regatta.’

‘Must be the Grand Mistral. That’s top-class yacht racing. The port of Fontvieille is full of boats.’

‘The guy’s the lawyer of a big-time drug dealer we caught some time back. The theory is that he’s more than just a lawyer and that he’s not here in Monaco just for a sail around the bay, if you know what I mean.’

Morelli went over to the desk and picked up the disk. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do, but it’s not a good time, Frank. I don’t have to remind you.’

‘Yeah. A bad time. No news?’

‘No news. Not a peep. After a flash of light we’re fighting shadows again. All the cops in Europe are chasing their tails and, as Inspector Hulot said-’

Frank finished his sentence for him. ‘The only thing attached to a tail is an asshole.’

‘That’s right.’

Frank leaned back in the chair. ‘Still, if you want my opinion… and I’m only talking about a feeling…’ He stopped, straightened up in the chair and leaned his elbows on the desk. Morelli sat down in the armchair and waited. He had learned that the American’s feelings needed to be examined very carefully. ‘I think he’s still here. Searching for him all over the world is pointless. No One hasn’t left the Principality of Monaco.’

Morelli was about to reply, but the phone rang and Frank looked at it as if it were asking him a question. He picked up on the third ring and was assaulted by the operator’s excited voice.

‘Mr Ottobre, it’s him on the phone. And he asked for you.’ Frank felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach. There was only one person that could be meant by him.

‘Put him on. And record the call.’

Frank pressed the speakerphone button so that Morelli could hear. He pointed to the phone with a slow movement of his right hand.

‘Hello?’

There was a moment of silence and then a familiar voice came through.

‘Hello, this is Jean-Loup Verdier.’

Morelli jumped from the chair as if he had been shocked. Frank rotated a finger in the air. Morelli answered with a fist and a thumbs-up and ran from the room.

‘Frank Ottobre here. Where are you?’

A short pause and then the deep voice of the deejay.

‘No useless chatter. I don’t need someone to try to talk to me. I need someone to listen. If you interrupt, I’ll hang up.’

Frank remained silent. Anything to keep him on the phone so that his men could trace the call.

‘Nothing has changed. I am someone and no one and I can’t be stopped. That’s why it’s useless to talk. Everything is the same. The moon and the bloodhounds. The bloodhounds and the moon. The only thing missing now is the music. I’m still here and you know very well what I do. I kill

The line went dead. Just then, Morelli came racing in. ‘We got him, Frank. He’s calling from a mobile phone. There’s a car waiting downstairs with a satellite dish.’

Frank jumped up and followed Morelli, running down the stairs four at a time. They shot out into the lobby like two bullets, almost knocking two agents to the ground. The car took off with the doors still open, tyres squealing. It was the same expert driver as the morning that Allen Yoshida’s body was discovered. Frank was glad to see him at the wheel. A plainclothesman was sitting in the passenger seat, looking at the monitor with a map of the city. There was a red dot on a wide street running along the coast.

Morelli and Frank leaned forward into the space between the two front seats, trying to see without blocking each other’s view. The agent pointed to the red dot, which was now moving.

‘That’s the mobile phone that made the call. We found it through satellite signals. It’s in Nice, right around Place Île de Beauté. We’re in luck. He’s on this side of the city. He wasn’t moving before, but from the speed, I’d say he’s on foot.’

Frank turned to Morelli.

‘Call Froben and tell him what’s going on. Tell him we’re on our way and get them there, too. Keep contact so you can tell them the subject’s movements.’

The driver was burning the tarmac.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Frank.

‘Xavier Lacroix,’ the agent answered in a calm voice, as though he were taking a walk rather than shooting down the road like an Exocet missile.

‘Okay, Xavier. If things work out, I’ll do all I can to get you into motor racing.’

The agent stepped harder on the gas, perhaps as thanks for the appreciation. As Morelli spoke excitedly to Froben, Frank turned to look at the display, where the red light was now flashing.

‘What does that mean?’

The agent answered without turning around. ‘He’s making a call.’

‘Can we hear him?’

‘Not with this equipment. All it does is locate the signal.’

‘It doesn’t matter. The only thing that counts is knowing where that son of a bitch is.’

They raced along the Basse Corniche at a speed that would have made any Finnish rally champion jealous. The racing driver – Frank thought it was the right thing to call him – drove that fireball through the city traffic with a coolness that comes only with natural talent.

Froben wants to know where-’

‘He’s going up Rue Cassini… Now he’s stopped. He’s making another call.’

There was a small traffic jam at the beginning of the square and Lacroix swerved around it by driving in the wrong direction and then raced up Rue Cassini as though qualifying for the Grand Prix. The agent in front of the monitor gave directions and Morelli passed them on to the Nice police.

‘Left here and go up Emmanuel Philibert.’

‘Emmanuel Philibert,’ repeated Morelli.

‘Right on Rue Gauthier.’

‘Rue Gauthier,’ echoed Morelli.

They turned right practically on two wheels, tyres smoking. When they reached the end of the short street with cars parked on either side, there were police cars blocking the junction with Rue Segurane in spoke formation. The uniformed police were standing in a group near by. One of them was replacing his gun in its holster. They stopped their car next to the others, jumped out, and sprinted over. Froben saw them arrive. He looked at Frank and spread out his arms with the expression of someone who has just stepped in a large pile of shit.