I Kill (24 page)

‘I’ll leave, if you’d rather. But if you can get over my title and invite me in, I’d like to speak to you.’

Frank collected himself. The man was certainly charming. He pointed to his bare chest. Strangely enough, he was not ashamed of showing his scars to a stranger. And in any case, Bolton gave no
sign of noticing them.

‘Sorry. You took me by surprise, but that’s okay. As you can see, I always receive my country’s diplomatic corps dressed like Rambo. It’s patriotic. Come on in, Mr
Bolton.’

The consul stepped forward. He turned to someone in the hallway behind him, a tall bluff man with a gun under his jacket and letters stamped on his forehead – FBI, CIA or DEA, but
certainly not the Salvation Army.

‘Could you wait for me here please, Malcolm?’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Thanks.’

Bolton closed the door. He took a few steps and stopped in the centre of the room, looking around.

‘Not bad. Great view.’

‘Yeah. I’m a guest in this apartment. I guess you already know why I’m here.’

Frank made his declaration to avoid wasting time. Before arriving, Bolton must have gleaned all the information on him that he needed. Frank could imagine his secretary placing a folder with his
name and résumé on the desk.

Frank Ottobre. Square peg, round hole.

The folder must have passed through so many hands by now that Frank no longer cared. All he wanted Bolton to know was that there was no reason for embarrassment and useless verbal gymnastics
between them.

The consul understood and seemed to appreciate it. Bolton had the decency not to pretend that Frank was an easy guy to like, knowing that admiration and respect were an acceptable
alternative.

‘Please sit down, Mr Bolton.’

‘Dwight. Call me Dwight.’

‘Okay, Dwight then. Call me Frank. Do you want something to drink? Nothing fancy, though. I’m not very well stocked right now,’ he said, going out on to the terrace to retrieve
his shirt.

‘Can you manage a Perrier?’

No alcohol. Good. As Frank passed him on his way to the kitchen, Bolton sat down on the couch. Frank noticed that his socks were the same colour as his trousers. The man liked to match.
Meticulous but without overdoing it.

‘I think so. No frills, okay?’

Bolton smiled. ‘No frills.’

Frank came back with a bottle of Perrier and a glass and handed them to him without ceremony. As Dwight poured the sparkling water, Frank went to sit on the other couch.

‘You’re asking yourself what I’m doing here, right, Frank?’

‘No,
you’re
asking. I think you came here to tell me.’

Bolton looked at the bubbles in his glass as if it were champagne. ‘We have a problem, Frank.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, we. You and I. I’m heads and you’re tails. Or vice versa. But right now, we’re two sides of the same coin. And we’re in the same pocket.’

He took a sip of water and placed the glass on the coffee table in front of him.

‘First, I want to say that my visit is only as official as you want to make it. I consider it completely off the record, a friendly chat. I must admit that I expected a different sort of
person. Not Rambo necessarily, but Elliot Ness perhaps. I’m glad I was wrong.’

He picked up the glass again, as if he felt more confident holding it.

‘Want me to explain the situation, Frank?’

‘Might not be a bad idea.’

‘Well, I can tell you that Allen Yoshida’s death only accelerated something that Arianna Parker’s had already set off. You know that General Parker’s here in the
Principality, don’t you?’ Frank nodded. Dwight continued, showing relief and at the same time concern that he was already informed. ‘We’re lucky you just happened to be
here. It kept me from the embarrassment of insisting that one of our representatives be included in the investigation, because you already were. The United States has an image problem right now.
For a country that decided to assume the leadership of modern civilization, as the one and only true superpower, we got a sound beating with 9/11. They hit us where we were strongest, where we felt
invincible: at home.’

He looked out through the open French doors at the city. The first shadows of evening were starting to settle.

‘And then this mess happens . . . Two Americans killed just like that, right here in Monaco, one of the world’s safest countries. Ironic, eh? Doesn’t it feel a little like a
rerun? And now we’ve got a broken-hearted father who has decided to take matters into his own hands. A US Army general who intends to use the same terrorist tactics we’re fighting
elsewhere for his own ends. As you can see, we’ve got the makings of another big international fiasco.’

‘So?’ Frank looked at Bolton, impassive.

‘So, you have to catch him, Frank. The killer.
You
have to. Before Parker does. Before the local police. In spite of the local police, if need be. Washington wants this case to be
the pride and glory of America. Whether you like it or not, you have to take off your Elliot Ness shirt and turn into Rambo.’

Frank thought that in different circumstances, he and Bolton could have been great friends. ‘You know I will, Dwight. I’ll do it, but not for any of those reasons. Heads and tails
maybe, but we’re only the same coin in the same pocket by accident. I’ll catch the killer, and you can give it any meaning you like. Just one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say that your meaning has to be mine, too.’

Bolton didn’t say a word. Either he didn’t understand or he understood too well, but that was enough. He stood up and hitched up his trousers. The conversation was over.

‘Okay, Frank. I think we’ve covered everything.’

Frank stood up as well. They shook hands in the waning light of the late spring afternoon. Night would soon fall. Voices and killers in the darkness. And everyone would try to grope his way to a
hiding place.

‘Don’t show me out. I know the way. Bye, Frank. Good luck.’

‘Luck’s not a lady tonight. She’s going down kicking and screaming.’

Bolton went to the door and opened it. Malcolm could be seen standing outside as he closed the door behind him.

Frank was alone again. He decided he deserved another beer. He went into the kitchen to get it and sat down on the couch that his guest had occupied.

We’re the same coin . . . Heads or tails, Dwight?

He relaxed and tried to forget Bolton and their meeting. Diplomacy, wars, legal battles. He took a swig of beer and began to do something he had not done in a long time. He called it
‘opening’. When an investigation came to a dead end, he sat down by himself and tried to release his mind, letting all his thoughts free-associate, like a mental puzzle fitting together
on its own. His only aim was to give free rein to his unconscious. Lateral thinking in images. Sometimes it brought excellent results. He closed his eyes.

No, no. Not now!

Suddenly, with an involuntary jump, Frank Ottobre found himself standing in front of the couch. It was such a tiny detail that his mind had recorded it and filed it away as if
it was of no importance.

He had to go over to headquarters immediately and check on what he had remembered. Maybe it was just an impression, but he grasped at that scrap of hope. If he had a thousand fingers, he would
have crossed them all.

The sun was setting as Frank reached police headquarters on Rue Notari. He had walked there from Parc Saint-Roman, slipping through the early evening crowds on the streets
without even noticing them. He was on edge. When he was chasing a criminal, he always felt that same anxiety. That frenzy. An inner voice pushing him to run faster. Now that the investigation was
at a dead end and their leads had gone nowhere, he had a small gleam of inspiration. There was something shining just below the surface and Frank couldn’t wait to dive down and see whether it
was a real light or just a mirage.

The cop standing guard let him in without a word. As he climbed the steps to Nicolas Hulot’s office, Frank wondered if they used his name when they talked about him, or just called him
‘the American’. He walked down the corridor to Hulot’s door. He knocked a couple of times and turned the knob. The office was empty. He stood back a moment, puzzled, then decided
to go in. He was feverishly impatient to see if his hunch was true. Nicolas wouldn’t mind.

The file with all the reports and papers on the case was lying on the desk. He opened it and looked for the envelope with the pictures of Allen Yoshida’s house that Froben had brought over
after they checked the place. He studied them carefully. He sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, and called the inspector in Nice.

‘Froben?’

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘Christophe, it’s Frank.’

‘Hi, Americano. How’s it going?’

‘Do I have to answer that?’

‘I read the papers. Is it really so bad?’

‘Yeah, really bad. Which means we’re just relieved it’s not worse.’

‘Great. And what can I do for you in this mess?’

‘Answer a couple of questions.’

‘Shoot.’

‘As far as you know, did anyone touch anything at Allen Yoshida’s place? Maybe accidentally move something before you came and took the photos?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Froben. ‘The maid who discovered the crime didn’t go in. She practically fainted at the sight of all that blood and called security right
away. Valmeere, the head of Yoshida’s security team, is a former cop, remember? He knows the rules. No one touched anything, for sure. The photos I gave you are exactly what we found at the
house.’

‘Okay, Christophe. Sorry, but I needed to be absolutely sure of that.’

‘Any leads?’

‘I don’t know. I hope so. I have to check one detail but I don’t want to raise a false alarm. Just one more thing . . .’ There was silence on the other end as Froben
waited.

‘Do you remember if there were any vinyl LPs in Yoshida’s music collection?’

‘This one I can answer for sure. No, there were not. I can tell you that, because one of my men, who’s into this stuff, mentioned that there was a record player in the sound system
but only CDs in the collection. He commented on it.’

‘Great, Froben. I didn’t expect anything less of you.’

‘Okay. I’m here if you need me.’

‘Thanks, Christophe. You’re a great help.’

Frank hung up and was lost in thought for a moment. Now he could find out if that bastard had made one tiny mistake, the first since it had all started. Or if
he
was the one making the
mistake.

He opened the desk drawer. Inside, there was the copy of the video-cassette they had found in Yoshida’s Bentley. Frank knew that Nicolas kept it there with the radio tapes. He took it out
of the drawer and slipped it into the VCR. He turned on the equipment and pressed PLAY.

The coloured bars appeared on the screen and the sequence started. If he lived 100 years and watched those images once a day, he would still never get used to them. He saw the man in black wave
the dagger in his hand. Frank felt a knot in his stomach and his throat seized up. His rage would not go away until he caught him.

Here we go. We’re almost there
. . . He was tempted to fast-forward, but was afraid that the detail would elude him. The video finally reached the point he was waiting for. He
shouted to himself.

Yes, yes, yes . . .

He paused the image. It was such a tiny detail that he couldn’t have discussed it with anyone, for fear that it might be another false lead. Yet here it was, right in front of his eyes,
and it was worth trying to see if it could mean something. Sure, it was so insignificant that it might be nothing. But it was all they had.

He looked carefully at the scene on the monitor before him. The killer was motionless, with the dagger raised over Allen Yoshida. His victim was staring at him, wide-eyed, his arms and legs
bound with wire, his mouth covered with tape, a grimace of pain and fear on his face. The man would die anew, whenever someone watched that tape. And from what they knew about him, he deserved his
fate each and every time.

Just then, the door opened and Morelli walked into the room. He stopped next to the door, speechless at finding Frank there. But then Frank noticed that Morelli wasn’t surprised, he was
embarrassed.
Frank felt slightly guilty at the sergeant’s discomfort.

‘Hi, Claude,’ he said. ‘Sorry I burst in, but there was nobody here and I had to check something out right away.’

‘Not a problem. If you’re looking for Inspector Hulot, he’s in the conference room downstairs. The bigwigs are there, too.’

Frank could smell something fishy. If it was a meeting to go over the investigation and coordinate things, it was strange that they hadn’t told him. He’d always been unobtrusive so
as not to step on Hulot’s toes. He’d stayed a step behind and only taken the initiative when asked. He didn’t want to lower anyone’s opinion of the inspector, either that of
his superiors or, more important, his subordinates.

Nicolas’s state of mind was another story. Frank had been struck by his outburst over Jean-Loup that morning, but it was perfectly understandable, from a personal and professional point of
view. He and Hulot understood each other. They felt each other’s pain. There were no problems between them.