Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘What do you think?’

‘The missing person meets No One’s criteria. He’s thirty-three, good-looking, moderately well-known in the sailing world… an American, Hudson McCormack.’

When he heard the name, Frank started so abruptly that Morelli was afraid he would fall off the chair.

‘What’s the name again?’

‘Hudson McCormack. He’s a lawyer from New York.’ Frank stood up. ‘I know, Claude. I know exactly who he is. That is, I don’t know him at all, but he’s the person I told you about, the one I wanted to have watched.’

Morelli slipped a hand in his back pocket and pulled out the floppy disk Frank had given him the day before.

‘The disk’s right here. I just didn’t have time yesterday. I was going to take care of it today.’

Frank and Morelli were thinking the same thing. They both knew what putting off that surveillance had meant. If there had been a man watching McCormack the day before, he might still be alive and they might have Jean-Loup behind bars.

There were just too many ifs and mights in this business. Every one of those words was a stone that could build a tower of remorse.

‘Okay, Claude. Check it out and let me know.’

Morelli threw the now useless floppy disk on the desk and left the room. Frank was alone. He picked up the phone and called Cooper at home, in America, despite the time. When he answered, his friend sounded surprisingly awake.

‘Hello.’

‘Coop, it’s Frank. Did I wake you?’

‘Wake me? I haven’t gone to bed yet. Just got home and my jacket’s still half on. What’s up?’

‘A mess, that’s what. Something crazy. The man we’re looking for, our serial killer, bumped off a man we think is Hudson McCormack last night and skinned him like an animal.’

There was a moment of silence. Cooper probably couldn’t believe his ears.

‘Christ, Frank. The world’s gone nuts. We’re in utter chaos here, too. We’ve got constant terrorist alarms and we’re on alert 24/7. You wouldn’t believe it. Another brick fell yesterday. Osmond Larkin was killed in prison during recreation. There was a fight and he got caught in the middle.’

‘Nice.’

‘Yeah, nice. After all our work, we’re left empty-handed.’

‘Everyone’s got their problems, Coop. We’re not much better off here. Another corpse this morning.’

‘How many so far?’

‘It’s incredible. Ten.’

Cooper wasn’t aware of the latest developments. He whistled as Frank updated him on the victims.

‘Shit. Is he trying for the world record?’

‘Seems like it. He’s got ten murders on his conscience. Unfortunately they’re on mine, too.’

‘Hang in there, Frank. That’s what I keep telling myself, if it’s any help.’

‘There’s nothing else I can do.’

He hung up. Poor Cooper. Everyone was in trouble. Frank was puzzled for a moment. While waiting for official confirmation on Hudson McCormack and for Roncaille to come in hopping mad at any moment, he was at a loss as to what to do. Just about then, the solemn Roncaille was probably getting a reprimand that he would then be sure to pass on to his men.

Frank took the floppy disk from the desk, turned on the computer and slipped it in. There were two JPEG files and he clicked one open. There was a photograph on the screen, shot in some restaurant, probably without McCormack’s knowledge. He was in a crowded bar, one of New York’s many long, narrow bars, full of mirrors to make it look larger. Hudson McCormack, the lawyer, was sitting at a table talking to someone whose back was to the camera and who was wearing a trench coat with the collar pulled up.

Then he opened the other file. It was an enlarged, grainier version of the same photo. Frank stared at the all-American guy with his hair cut stylishly short, wearing a blue suit that was perfect for someone who spent his time in court.

So that was what the faceless corpse in the boot had looked like not long ago. How could the poor guy have ever imagined, when he left for Monte Carlo for a regatta on the open sea, that his life would end in the boot of a car? And that the last waterproof garment he would wear would be a body bag…

Frank stared at the photo. Suddenly, a crazy idea came to him, like the point of a drill coming through from the other side of a thin wall.

But it was possible.

He opened the contacts program on Nicolas’s computer. His friend had not been a computer person, but he did have an electronic address book. Frank hoped that the number he wanted would be there. He typed the name into the search bar and the corresponding number leapt to the screen, along with the complete name and address.

Before he made the call, he buzzed Morelli.

‘Claude, did you record Jean-Loup’s phone call yesterday?’

‘Of course.’

‘I need a copy. Right away.’

‘Already done. I’ll bring it over.’

‘Thanks.’

Morelli was a good man, laconic but efficient. As he dialled the number, Frank wondered how things were going with Barbara, now that Morelli was no longer hanging around the station. Actually, Claude seemed anything but laconic with her, though just as efficient. His musing was interrupted by the voice that answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

He was in luck. It was just the person he wanted.

‘Hi, Guillaume. It’s Frank Ottobre.’

The boy was not the least bit surprised by the call. He responded as if they had just spoken ten minutes earlier rather than the day Nicolas was killed pursuing the lead that Guillaume had provided. ‘Hey, Mr FBI. What’s up?’

‘I think I need your services again. Just tell me to go screw myself if you feel you can’t handle it so soon after the funeral. Either way, it’d be good to see you, Guillaume.’

‘Don’t worry. I miss Nicolas terribly, of course I do. But I’m not one to dwell on things. If you have a propostion for me, Frank, I accept. Come over any time.’

‘I’ll come over right away.’

Frank hung up and sat staring at the photo of McCormack on the computer before closing the file and ejecting the disk. As Frank looked at the screen, his expression was that of a seasoned gambler watching the ball spin on a roulette wheel.

Frank stopped his Mégane in front of the gate at the road that led to Helena’s house. He got out of the car, surprised to see the gate half open. His heart was racing at the thought of seeing the woman he loved. But he would also see General Nathan Parker, and that made him clench his fists. He forced himself to calm down before going any further. Rage is a bad counsellor, and the last thing he needed was bad advice.

Frank, on the other hand, could give excellent advice. His meeting with Guillaume that morning had been extremely productive. The day before, he had asked the young man to check something out for him. When he had met Guillaume in the wing of his house where he worked, the room was a complete mess. The boy was working on a job and couldn’t free up his machine right away. He had needed that whole evening and night to do what Frank had asked of him. Guillaume had been forced to improvise, but he had landed on his feet. Which had put Frank Ottobre, FBI special agent, back on his feet as well.

When Guillaume showed him the results of his research, Frank was stunned to see how right his complex hypothesis had been. It had seemed like an unrealistic hunch, a half-baked conjecture. He himself had thought it was crazy. But as it turned out…

He’d wanted to give the boy a hug. Instead, he told himself that he had to stop calling him a boy. Guillaume was a man, and a brave one at that. He had realized it when he was leaving the house and Guillaume walked him silently to the gate. They had crossed the garden together, each deep in his own thoughts. Frank had already opened the gate and was about to get in his car, but the expression on Guillaume’s face had stopped him.