I Kill (55 page)

‘Maybe, but not likely. The sailors on the yacht get up early and someone would have seen him. And his clothes from last night were scattered all over the cabin. It was the official
uniform of the
Try for the Sun
team that he had been wearing at last night’s ceremonies, a sign that he had gone back to change . . .’

‘It’s not conclusive evidence, but we have to follow everything. Compare the prints of the corpse with those in the cabin. That’s the surest way . . .’

‘I already gave the orders. And I told an agent in the area to isolate the cabin. Someone from forensics is on his way to Fontvieille.’

‘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.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know, Frank. A strange feeling. Like a blindfold has just been taken off.’

‘What do you mean?’ Frank knew what he meant, but he asked the question anyway.

‘All of this. It’s like suddenly discovering that there’s another world, something beyond. A world where bad things don’t only happen to others, but to
us.
People
aren’t just killed on TV but on the pavements that you’re walking down . . .’

Frank had listened to his epiphany in silence. He knew where it was going.

‘Frank, I want to ask you something and I want you to answer honestly. I don’t need the details. Just clear something up for me. What I did for you the other time, and today, will
that help you catch the guy who killed Nicolas?’

Frank looked at him and smiled. ‘Sooner or later, when this is all over, you and I will have a talk. I don’t know when that will be, but when we talk I’ll explain
exactly
how important you’ve been in all this, especially forme.’

Guillaume had nodded and moved to one side, waving uncertainly as the Mégane pulled away.

You were great, Guillaume.

With that thought in mind, Frank walked through the gate and into Helena’s yard. He was taken aback by what he saw. All the windows on the upper floor and all the French doors overlooking
the garden were wide open. Inside, a woman with a blue apron was plugging something into the wall. She moved out of his line of vision but he could hear a vacuum cleaner. He saw her approach the
French doors, moving the appliance back and forth. On the upper floor, in Helena’s room, another woman in a similar apron came out on the balcony holding a kilim rug. She hung it over the
railing and started hitting it with a bamboo carpet beater.

Frank went up to the house. He wasn’t happy. A man walked out the front door. He was elderly and wearing an elegant, light-coloured suit. His Panama hat was in perfect keeping with the
house. The man saw him and came over. Despite his youthful air, Frank could tell by looking at his hands that he had to be pushing seventy.

‘Hello, may I help you?’

‘Good morning. I’m Frank Ottobre, a friend of the Parkers, the people who live here . . .’

The man smiled, showing off a row of white teeth that must have cost him a fortune. ‘Ah, another American. Nice to meet you.’ He held out a firm hand covered with spots. It was more
than his age, Frank thought. There was probably something wrong with his liver. ‘The name’s Rouget, André Rouget. I’m the owner of this little place.’ He waved
towards the villa with nonchalance. ‘And I’m afraid your friends have left, young man.’

‘Left?’

He seemed genuinely sorry to have to corroborate the bad news.

‘That’s right. Left. I negotiated their lease through an agency, though I usually do it in person. This morning, I came with the cleaning ladies to meet my tenants and I found them
in the courtyard with their suitcases ready, waiting for a taxi. The general – you know who I mean – told me that something urgent had come up and they had to leave immediately. A
shame, because they had already paid another month’s rent. To be fair, I said I would reimburse them for the amount he overpaid, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Fine man.’

I could tell you exactly how fine he is, you mummified ladies’ man.

‘Do you know where they were headed?’ asked Frank, trying hard to sound only mildly surprised.

Monsieur Rouget had a sudden coughing fit, with enough phlegm to indicate a few cigarettes too many. Frank had to wait for him to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his mouth before he
continued.

‘They were going to Nice. To the airport, I think. They had a direct flight back to the States.’

‘Shit.’ The word escaped Frank before he could stop himself. ‘Pardon me, monsieur.’

‘Don’t worry. It can be liberating to let yourself go.’

‘You don’t happen to know what time their flight was leaving?’

‘No, I’m sorry. Can’t help you there.’

Frank’s expression was not one of joy and Monsieur Rouget, a man of the world, noticed. ‘Cherchez la femme, eh, young man?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I understand your dilemma. The woman, I mean. You’re thinking of the general’s delectable daughter, if I’m not very much mistaken? If I had been expecting to meet a
woman like that and found an empty house instead, I’d be disappointed, too. I could write several books about the adventures that went on in this house when I was a young man.’

Frank was extremely agitated. All he wanted to do was leave old Rouget to his Don Juan memories and race to Nice airport. The man grasped his arm and Frank would gladly have broken it. He
didn’t like people to touch him under normal circumstances, never mind at a moment like this when he could feel the passing of each second like a bell pealing in his head.

Rouget escaped Frank’s wrath only through what he was saying. ‘I lived a good life, that’s for sure. Completely different from my brother, who lived in the house next door,
over there. You can see the roof through the cypresses.’

He took the attitude of someone about to tell a secret that only he knew, which was hard to believe. ‘It’s the home of that crazy sister-in-law of mine who left the house to a young
man just because he’d saved her dog. A mutt not even worth the tree he peed on, if you like. I don’t know if you heard about that crazy business. And you know who the young man turned
out to be?’

Frank knew exactly who he was, in the greatest detail. And he had no desire to hear it again.

Rouget grabbed Frank’s arm once more. ‘He’s a murderer, a serial killer, the one who killed all those people in Monte Carlo and skinned them like rabbits. Just think: my
sister-in-law left a house of that value to a . . .’