I Kill (33 page)

Frank had left the inspector and Morelli to face the onslaught of reporters who were swarming around the new murder like flies to shit. When they’d spotted Hulot and the
sergeant through the car windows, they started pressing up against the police barricades and the officers on duty had difficulty holding them back. It was a repeat of the scene at the harbour when
the bodies of Jochen Welder and Arianna Parker had been discovered and the whole nasty business had begun.

The reporters reminded Frank of locusts. They moved in swarms and consumed everything in their path. True, they were only doing their job, but that excuse could be used by anyone. Even the
killer, who kept pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes – and they kept following, like sheep. He, too, was doing his job, and Frank hoped he would burn in hell for it.

He had stopped inside the lobby and glanced out of the window at the crowd.

‘Claude, is there a side entrance?’

‘Of course, the service entrance.’

‘Where is it?’

‘The service lift is behind the stairs. Press
S
and you’ll be in the courtyard next to the ramp that goes to the garage. Turn right, go up the ramp, and you’re on the
street.’

Hulot had looked at him, confused. Frank didn’t want to do too much explaining. Not then, anyway.

‘I’ve got a couple of things to do, Nicolas, and I’d like to do it without half the reporters in Europe at my heels. Can I borrow your car?’

‘Sure. Keep it for now. I won’t be needing it.’

Hulot had handed him the keys without another word. The inspector was so tired that he even lacked the strength for curiosity. All three were unshaven and looked as though they had been through
a war, all the worse for the fact that they had just lost another battle.

Frank had left them there and followed Morelli’s directions. He had crossed the basement that smelled of mould and oil and reached the street. He had gone over to the car that was parked
on the other side of Avenue Princesse Grace, right behind the reporters who were bombarding poor Nicolas with questions. Luckily, nobody had noticed him.

Frank parked Nicolas Hulot’s Peugeot in a no-parking zone in front of Roby Stricker’s building. He took the POLICE ON DUTY sign out of the glove compartment and placed it on the rear
window under the windscreen wiper. A cop walked towards him as he was getting out of the car, but he saw the sign and raised a hand to show that everything was okay. Frank answered with a nod,
crossed the street, and headed over to Les Caravelles.

He pushed the glass doors and went into the building. The doorman was not at his post. Looking at his watch, Frank saw that it was exactly 7 a.m. He fought back a yawn. The lack of sleep was
beginning to get to him. First the radio station, then the hunt for Roby Stricker, then standing guard at his house. The hope, the disappointment and, finally, the new murder, the disfigured body
of Gregor Yatzimin.

Outside, the sky and sea were tinged with the blue of a new day. How he would have liked to forget everything and relax in his comfortable Parc Saint-Roman apartment, close the shutters and his
eyes, and stop thinking about blood and words on walls.

I kill . . .

He remembered the wall in Yatzimin’s bedroom. If they didn’t stop him, that bastard would
never
stop. There wouldn’t be enough walls to write on or cemeteries for the
dead.

It was not yet time to sleep, even if he could. He still had to clear up the unfinished business with Roby Stricker. He wanted to know how and why Ryan Mosse had got in touch with him, although
he could probably guess. He had to know how far the general had got with his investigation and what else the soldiers were planning.

Frank looked around. Just then, the doorman came out of what must have been his apartment, buttoning his jacket. He approached, hurriedly chewing something. Caught in the act of eating his
petit déjeuner.
He went into the guard box and looked Frank over from behind the glass.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Roby Stricker.’

‘My orders are to say that he’s sleeping.’

Frank pulled out his badge. As he removed it from his jacket, he made sure that the doorman saw the Glock hanging from his belt. ‘This says you can wake him.’

The doorman changed his tune immediately. The saliva he swallowed was harder to get down than that last mouthful of food. He picked up the intercom and punched in the number in a single nervous
movement, letting it ring for a long time before pronouncing his verdict.

‘No answer.’

Odd. Stricker couldn’t have slept through those rings. Frank didn’t think he had the balls to skip town. He had scared him badly enough to keep him from doing anything rash. Though
if he had taken off, it would be more of a nuisance than a tragedy. If they needed him, that asshole would be very easy to find. Even hidden behind his father’s legal protection.

‘Try again.’

The doorman shrugged.

‘Still no answer.’

Frank had a sudden, terrible premonition. He thrust his hand at the guard.

‘Give me the master key, please.’

‘But I’m not authorized—’

‘I
said please.
If that’s not enough, I can be less polite.’ Frank’s tone was final. The doorman swallowed nervously. ‘And then go outside and tell the
policeman there to come up to Stricker’s apartment.’

The man opened a drawer and gave him a key on a BMW key chain. He shifted his weight as if he were about to get up. ‘Get moving!’ Frank headed towards the lift and pressed the
button.

Why aren’t lifts ever there when you need them? And why are they always on the top floor when you’re in a hurry? Damn Murphy and his law . . .

The door finally slid open and Frank got in, hurriedly pressing the button of Stricker’s floor. In the eternity of that ride, he hoped that he was wrong. He hoped that his sudden suspicion
would not become a mocking reality.

When he reached the fifth floor, the lift opened with the same soft
whoosh.
Frank saw that the door to the playboy’s apartment was ajar. Taking out his Glock, he pushed the barrel
against the door to avoid touching the handle.

The hallway was the only thing in order. The living room where he had sat with Stricker and the girl was a complete mess. The curtain of the French door was half torn from the rod and hanging
down like a flag at half mast. There was a glass on the floor and the bottle of whisky that Stricker had been drinking from earlier lay shattered on the pearl-grey carpet. The contents had spilled
on to the floor, leaving a dark stain. A painting had fallen, revealing a small safe in the wall. The glass had slipped off the table, strangely enough without breaking, and lay on the floor beside
the crooked frame. Cushions lay scattered on the floor. There was nobody in the room.

Frank crossed the living room and turned right, down the short hallway that led to the bedroom. On the left, a door opened on to the bathroom. Empty. The room was neat and untouched. He reached
the doorway of the bedroom and had to catch his breath.

‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit,’ he uttered.

Frank stepped forward, careful where he placed his foot. Roby Stricker’s body lay on the marble floor in the centre of the room, in a pool of blood. The entire room seemed covered in it.
He was wearing the same shirt he had on when Frank had left, except now it was soaked red and glued to his body. There were a number of stab wounds on his back. His face was heavily bruised and
there was a deep cut on his cheek. His mouth was a bloody mess and Frank could see that his left arm, bent at an unusual angle, was broken. Frank leaned over and touched his throat. No pulse. Roby
Stricker was dead. Frank jumped up and tears of rage obstructed his vision.

Another one. The same night. Another fucking murder just hours later. He silently damned the world, the day, the night, and his role in the whole thing. Damn Nicolas for involving him. Damn
himself for letting him do it. He damned everything he could think of.

He removed the walkie-talkie from his belt, hoping they could pick up his signal. He pressed the button.

‘Frank Ottobre for Nicolas Hulot.’

A crackle, a sputter, and finally the inspector’s voice. ‘Nicolas here. What’s up, Frank?’

‘Now I’m the one who has to give you some bad news, Nick. Really bad.’

‘What the hell happened now?’

‘Roby Stricker’s dead. In his apartment. Murdered.’

Hulot let loose with a string of curses that ordinarily he would seem incapable of pronouncing. Frank knew exactly how he felt. When his anger cooled down, and after a little more crackling, the
inspector asked what he wanted to know most.

‘No One?’

‘No, just plain murdered. His face is still there and there’s no writing on the wall.’

‘Describe it.’

‘I’ll tell you what I see at first glance. Death probably wasn’t instantaneous. He was attacked and stabbed. There are signs of a struggle everywhere and blood all over the
floor. His murderer thought he was dead and left while he was still alive. It sounds strange, but that poor bastard Roby Stricker accomplished much more as he was dying than he managed to do in his
whole life . . .’

‘Meaning?’

‘Before he died, he wrote the name of his killer on the floor.’

‘Do we know him?’

Frank lowered his voice slightly, as if he wanted to let Hulot digest what he was about to say.

‘I do. If I were you, I would call Durand and have him issue a warrant for the arrest of Ryan Mosse, captain in the US Army.’

The door opened and Morelli entered the small, windowless room and placed a stack of black-and-white photos, still damp from printing, on the grey Formica table where Frank
Ottobre and Nicolas Hulot were sitting. Frank leafed through them, chose one, and turned it in the direction of the man in front of him. Leaning forward, he pushed it to the other end of the
table.

‘Here we are. Let’s see what this tells you, Captain Mosse.’

Ryan Mosse, sitting handcuffed, lowered his gaze to the photo with complete indifference. He turned his expressionless hazel eyes back to Frank.

‘So what?’

Morelli, who was leaning against the door beside the one-way mirror that covered the entire wall, shifted at the sound of Frank’s voice. On the other side of the mirror were Roncaille and
Durand, who had rushed to headquarters at the news of the two new murders and the arrest.

Frank was conducting the interrogation in English and they were both speaking quickly. Morelli missed a word here and there, but he understood enough to realize that this suspect had steel
cables instead of nerves. Confronted with the evidence, he was about as emotional as an iceberg. Even the most hardened criminal would give in and start blubbering in a situation like that. This
guy made you feel uneasy despite his being handcuffed. Morelli imagined Roby Stricker face-to-face with this guy holding a knife. It was not pretty.

Frank leaned back in his chair.

‘Well, this here on the floor looks like a dead body, right?’

‘So?’ repeated Mosse.

‘So, doesn’t it seem strange to you that your name is written next to the dead body?’

‘You need a good imagination to get my name out of that scribble.’

Frank leaned his elbows on the table. ‘You’d have to be illiterate not to.’

‘What’s wrong,
Mr Ottobre
?’ Mosse smiled. ‘The stress getting to you?’ It was the smile of a hangman opening the trap door.

And Frank’s smile was that of a condemned man hanged by a rope that had suddenly broken.

‘No,
Captain Mosse.
The stress got to you last night. I saw you talking to Stricker in front of Jimmy’z when we came for him. You cleared out when you saw us, but not quite
fast enough. If you like, I can guess what happened next. You were watching his house and then you waited a little longer after you saw us leave. You saw Stricker’s girlfriend leave, too, and
then you went upstairs. You had an argument. The poor guy must have freaked out and then so did you. There was a fight and you knifed him. You thought he was dead and you left, but he had time to
write your name on the floor.’

‘You’re hallucinating, Ottobre, and you know it. I don’t know what drugs you’re on, but you’re taking too much. Obviously, you don’t know me very well.’
Mosse’s eyes turned to steel. ‘If I use a knife on someone, I make
sure
he’s dead before I go.’

‘Maybe you’re losing your touch, Mosse,’ Frank said with a wave of his hand.

‘Okay. At this point I have the right not to answer without a lawyer present. It’s the same law in Europe, isn’t it?’

‘Sure. If you want a lawyer, you’ve got a right to one.’

‘Okay then. Go fuck yourselves, both of you. That’s all I’m saying.’

Mosse closed himself off. His eyes settled on his reflection in the mirror and went blank. Frank and Hulot looked at each other. They would get nothing more out of him. Frank gathered the photos
on the table and they got up and went to the door. Morelli opened it to let them through and followed them out of the room.

In the next room, Roncaille and Durand were on edge. Roncaille turned to Morelli. ‘Give us a minute, would you, sergeant?’

‘Sure, I’ll go and get some coffee.’

Morelli left the four of them alone. On the other side of the mirror they could see Mosse, sitting in the middle of the room like a soldier fallen into enemy hands.

Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army, number . . .

Durand nodded in his direction. ‘A tough nut to crack,’ he said.

‘Worse. A tough nut to crack, who knows he has all the connections he needs. But even if he’s connected to the Holy Ghost, he can’t get out of this one.’

The attorney general took the photos from Frank’s hand and examined them once more.

The image showed Stricker’s body on the marble floor of his bedroom, his right arm bent at a right angle, his hand on the floor. He died writing the word that nailed Ryan Mosse.