I Kill (48 page)

The secret Frank had asked him to keep as an
honourable
policeman apparently did not include his dear friend Jean-Loup. Ironically, it was to him and to him alone that Pierrot had
confided Frank’s question about the Robert Fulton record. That was how Jean-Loup had realized he’d made a mistake, and then No One had taken off after Nicolas Hulot who was on his quest
to find out what he could about the record.

Frank had retraced the inspector’s steps one by one and had learned everything that he had learned. Hulot had discovered the identity of the killer long before they had. And that’s
why he was dead. Roncaille’s voice roused Frank from his thoughts.

‘. . . I will now turn the floor over to the man who succeeded in giving the serial killer known as No One a name and a face: FBI Special Agent Frank Ottobre.’

There was no applause, just a forest of raised hands. Roncaille pointed to a reporter with red hair sitting in the first row. Frank recognized him and prepared himself for a fusillade of
questions. Coletti stood up and identified himself.

‘René Coletti,
France Soir.
Agent Ottobre, have you been able to come up with any motive for why Jean-Loup Verdier mutilates his victims’ faces so horribly?’

Frank tried not to smile.

Two can play at that game.

Frank leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s a question that Dr Cluny is more qualified to answer than I am. I can say that, as of today, we are unable to give a satisfactory motivation
behind the methods used in the killings. As Chief Roncaille has already stated, there are still a number of details under investigation. However, there are several elements that we know for certain
and can share with you.’ Frank paused for effect. Dr Cluny would have been proud. ‘This certainty comes from the work done previously by Inspector Nicolas Hulot, which I then used to
help identify No One. Thanks to an oversight on the part of the killer during the homicide of Allen Yoshida, Inspector Hulot managed to trace him back to an obscure case that happened years ago in
Cassis, Provence. It was a violent crime and an entire family was killed. The case was filed away fairly quickly as a homicide-suicide. That judgement will now probably be up for review. I can tell
you that the face of one of the victims was disfigured in exactly the same manner as those of No One’s victims.’

The room was abuzz. Other hands shot in the air. A young, vigilant-looking reporter stood up before anyone else. ‘Laura Schubert,
Le Figaro
.’

Frank gave her the floor with a nod.

‘But wasn’t Inspector Hulot removed from the case?’

Out of the corner of his eye Frank could see Roncaille and Durand stiffen. He smiled at the young woman who was about to hear a different story, the real one.

Up yours, assholes.

‘That’s actually not quite true. It was a misinterpretation by the press of certain declarations, which never mentioned that possibility. Inspector Hulot was simply detached from the
inquiry here in Monte Carlo, to be able to follow his lead with the utmost discretion. As you can imagine, this detail was not revealed to the public for a number of reasons. It is with great
sorrow that I have to announce that his investigative ability was itself the cause of his death, which did not occur in a simple car accident. Instead, it was yet another murder by No One who,
realizing his identity had been discovered, came out in the open to kill again. I repeat, the credit for identifying the person responsible for these murders goes to Commissioner Nicolas Hulot, who
paid for it with his life.’

The story didn’t hold water, but it made the journalists sit up and take notice. It was something for the media to tell, which was all Frank wanted. Durand and Roncaille were beside
themselves but they tried with all their might to grin and bear it. Morelli, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sneaked Frank a thumbs-up from under his elbow.

A reporter who spoke French with a heavy Italian accent stood up. ‘Marco Franti.
Corriere della Sera,
Milan. Can you tell us something more about what Inspector Hulot found out in
Cassis?’

‘I repeat, that investigation is still under way and it will be some time before it is concluded. There is only one thing that I can tell you with certainty. We are trying to find out No
One’s real name, since we believe that even Jean-Loup Verdier is an alias. Investigations at the Cassis cemetery based on Inspector Hulot’s lead have uncovered the fact that Jean-Loup
Verdier is the name of a boy who drowned at sea many years ago while diving, around the time that the violent episode I mentioned earlier took place. The coincidence is suspicious, considering that
the boy’s grave is just a few feet from that of the family.’

Another reporter raised his hand and shouted out his question without even standing, miraculously managing to make his voice heard over the uproar.

‘What can you tell us about the incident with Captain Ryan Mosse?’

A sudden silence fell over the room at the mention of one of the affair’s most stinging questions. Frank looked carefully at the reporter and then ran his gaze over all those present.

‘The arrest of Captain Ryan Mosse, who has already been released, was a mistake on my part. I am not looking for excuses or circumstantial evidence, which seemed enough to suspect Mosse of
the murder of Roby Stricker at the time. Unfortunately, innocent people can sometimes get entangled in a very complicated investigation. This, however, is not and can never be a justification. I
repeat, it was a mistake for which I am solely responsible and ready to face the consequences. Nobody else is to blame. Now, if you will excuse me –’ Frank stood up.
‘Unfortunately, I am still working with the police to capture a very dangerous killer. I am sure that Attorney General Durand, Chief Roncaille and Dr Cluny will be happy to answer the rest of
your questions.’

Frank left the table, walked towards where Morelli was standing by the wall and disappeared through a side door. He found himself in a wide, circular hallway adjacent to the conference room. The
sergeant joined him moments later.

‘You were terrific, Frank. I’d pay anything for a photo of Roncaille and Durand’s faces when you said that about Inspector Hulot. I’d show them to my grandchildren as
proof that there is a God. Now—’

Steps approaching behind them interrupted Morelli. He stared at a point behind Frank.

‘So, we meet again,
Mr Ottobre.’

Frank immediately recognized the voice. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the lifeless eyes of Ryan Mosse and the damned soul of General Nathan Parker. Morelli was immediately by his
side. Frank sensed his presence and was grateful.

‘Is there a problem here, Frank?’

‘No, Claude, no problem. I think you can go. Right, general?’

‘Of course. No problem. If you will excuse us, sergeant.’ Parker’s voice was cold as ice.

Morelli walked away, not wholly convinced. Frank heard his steps on the marble floor. Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse stood in silence until he turned the corner and disappeared. Then, Parker spoke
first.

‘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.