Simon stood at the entry of 41 Rue Charlot, reading the directory of tenants. “Falconi, L.” was third from the bottom, a buzzer next to it. “He’s not hiding.”
“Go ahead,” said Nikki. “Ring it.”
Simon pressed the button. He looked at Nikki as he waited for Falconi to ask who was there. No one answered. He pressed the button again. “Must be out for an early walk.”
“Or maybe a workout at his gym,” said Nikki. “He looked like a CrossFitter.” She stepped back and gazed up at the building. “Did the StingRay tell you what floor he’s on, too?”
“One through six. Can’t be too hard to find.” He looked through the glass door at a dark, deserted lobby. Either he could wait for someone to leave the building or he could take matters into his own hands. He eyed the lock, an old Kwikset. “Come here,” he said, motioning her closer.
Nikki stepped nearer.
“Closer. Like you’re giving me a hug.”
Nikki held her ground. “What for?”
“Please,” he said as politely as possible.
Nikki approached so that she was brushing against his chest. He pulled her closer still, and for a moment, they were face-to-face. Content that no passersby could see what he was up to, he removed his pick kit from his pocket, selecting a slim rake and one slightly fatter. He slid both into the lock, sawing back and forth until the tumblers released. “Open it,” he said.
Nikki pushed down on the handle and the door opened inward. “First illegal eavesdropping, now breaking and entering. I can’t wait to see what laws we’ll break by lunchtime.”
“After you,” said Simon, slipping his kit back into his pocket.
Falconi lived in a modern apartment building, which in Paris meant it had been built sometime after the Second World War. There was a small elevator with a door that opened outward and a stone stairway that wound around a central court. Two apartments shared each floor. Nameplates beside the doors indicated the occupants. They found the one with Falconi’s name on the top floor.
“I’m not thinking this was a friendly visit,” said Simon as they took up positions on either side of the door.
Nikki had her pistol drawn. “Me neither.”
He rang the doorbell. Kneeling, he pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Unlike the downstairs entry, Falconi’s door was guarded with a double bolt up top and a standard single below.
“Be careful,” he said. “Last time I did this it didn’t turn out so good.”
Simon needed ten seconds to get the single bolt and twice as long for the double. He stepped back as Nikki opened the door and entered the apartment, pistol at the ready.
“Mr. Falconi,” she called. “Luca Falconi. Police. Come out with your hands above your head.”
There was no response.
“Mr. Falconi,” she repeated. “Are you all right?”
Simon entered the apartment and closed the door behind them. He stood in a bright modern alcove, travertine floors, lacquered entry table, a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. To the right was a tastefully decorated living area. There was a corridor to the left. Simon could see two doors and at the end, the kitchen. All the lights were on.
“Stay here,” said Nikki.
Simon watched as she checked the first room, then the second. She reappeared a moment later, her gun hanging at her side. “In here,” she said, much too quietly.
When he entered the room, Nikki was standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at Falconi’s lifeless body. His torso was a latticework of gashes, blood running in great daubs across his pale flesh onto the bed and floor.
“I’ve never seen that,” she said with disgust.
“You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” she retorted. And as if to prove it, she stepped closer to the body and bent nearer still to study the wounds. “It took a while,” she said. “Some of the wounds had begun to coagulate before he died.”
“He was a tough guy.”
“Or your Russian friend enjoyed it.”
Simon averted his eyes from the mess on the bed and began searching the room, opening drawers, looking in the closet. He caught Nikki staring at him. “I’m looking for his phone,” he said.
A pile of Falconi’s clothing was folded neatly on the dresser. Simon rummaged through the pockets, finding a few breath mints, a lottery scratch off, and a cigar. “Well?” Nikki asked.
“No luck.”
She left the bedroom and he followed her to the front door. They made a tour of the apartment, both commenting that there was no sign of a struggle. In the living room, they found the stereo on, a vintage turntable still spinning. “Claude François,” said Nikki, reading the record label. “Know him?”
“My stepfather loved him. I preferred Pearl Jam.”
There was a small office off the living room. Simon sat at the desk and looked through the drawers. It was apparent Falconi ran his business from here. A bound notebook held names and numbers that indicated a betting enterprise. Next, Simon turned to an agenda but was disappointed to find few notations, certainly nothing to do with Tino Coluzzi. He yanked the top drawer all the way out and dug through a hodgepodge of pens and rubber bands and boxes of staples and business cards. At the rear was an envelope from a photo developer dated March 2012. Inside were pictures from a trip Falconi had taken in the South of France. “Nikki,” he called. “Come here.”
She entered the office.
“Here’s our guy,” he said, holding up a photograph.
The picture showed two smiling men raising bottles of beer as if offering a toast and standing in front of a beach bar, the ocean visible in the background. “Falconi and Coluzzi. It was taken a few years back.”
Nikki studied the photograph. “So that’s your buddy?”
“That’s him, all right.”
Coluzzi had lost some hair and put on a few pounds but otherwise looked as Simon remembered him. The smirking mouth, the shifty gaze. He was a man who followed no code, obeyed no rules, and demonstrated loyalty only to himself. In short, a scoundrel.
“Any idea where the picture was taken?” Nikki asked.
“Les Calanques. The bar looks familiar.”
Les Calanques was an area along the coast east of Marseille composed of numerous narrow inlets with craggy vertical walls rising a thousand feet or more out of the sea.
“Your old stomping ground.”
“Something like that.”
Simon put the picture in his pocket. As he rose, he eyed a blank notepad with a pencil lying next to it. He picked up the notepad and turned it this way and that, studying the surface.
“What is it?” asked Nikki.
“Just checking something.” Simon ripped off the top sheet and set it on the desk, then activated his cellphone’s light and directed it at a low angle toward the paper.
“See anything?”
“Not sure,” said Simon, but in fact he’d spotted several indentations made by a pen and a firm hand. Opening the top drawer, he found a pencil, and placing his index finger above the lead, brushed it vigorously across the page. A number appeared. Then another. Soon the page was colored over in lead…except for six phone numbers all beginning with the Paris city code. Above them, clearest of all, were the initials “T.C.”
“Nice,” said Nikki, looking over his shoulder.
Simon picked up the sheet. “The first number is the one Falconi called from Le Galleon Rouge.”
“To Coluzzi?”
Simon nodded. “I’m guessing the other numbers are his, too.”
“Burners he can use and throw away. We can’t get taps on them without a warrant.”
“You can’t, maybe. I’m going to give them to my friend, Mr. Neill. If he wants that letter, he’ll pass them along to his pals at the National Security Agency. They’ll do whatever they do, and when Coluzzi uses these numbers, we’ll be listening in.”
“Didn’t you say Neill didn’t want to be involved?”
“I said he didn’t want to be seen to be involved,” said Simon. “You can’t see who’s listening in on your calls.”
“Are you done here?”
“Think so.”
“Okay, then. Follow me.” In the kitchen, Nikki pointed to two snifters in the sink. She picked one up. “Still warm. Whoever did this cleaned up after himself.”
“Not him. Her.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t see Falconi asking a buddy to come over at one in the morning to listen to old disco music and have a drink.”
“Maybe he’s gay.”
“Doubtful. Besides, I think I saw her at the bar last night.”
Simon related his suspicions about the attractive blond woman he’d seen seated next to Falconi at Le Galleon Rouge. At the time, he’d thought her out of place, not only for the establishment but for chumming up with Falconi.
“She’s the one who called Moscow?” asked Nikki.
“That’s my guess.”
“There’s a camera on the front door downstairs.”
“I noticed.”
“We’ll need to contact the building manager.”
“Not necessarily.”
“There’s been a murder. We’re calling in a homicide.”
“Not a good idea.”
“I already told you, Riske, I’m not a bad cop. I bend the rules. I don’t break them.”
“Think it through, Nikki. You’ll have to explain why we’re here and how we got in. You can forget about nailing Coluzzi. Once your superiors learn you were acting on information you got from a StingRay—my StingRay—you can forget about ever getting off administrative duty.”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my career. I don’t need an ex-con passing himself off as a gentleman to give me advice.”
“It’s nothing you don’t already know. I’m just laying it out for you.”
“I suppose I should thank you. Do you want me to curtsy, too?”
“Just help me find Coluzzi. He’s your ‘Get Out of Jail’ card.”
Nikki stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, Simon heard the front door open. “Shut the door on your way out,” she called. “And lock it.”
The building’s surveillance and security apparatus was located in a cramped suite of rooms on the ground floor. Again, the lock proved no obstacle. A black-and-white multiplex broadcast feeds from two cameras. One showed the lobby. The other was trained on a rear entrance in the alley behind the building. The recording system was at least twenty years old, with video from each stored on a rewritable CD.
Simon rewound the machine recording images from the lobby until the time stamp read 12:30. A fast play mode allowed him to speed up images.
“Stop,” said Nikki. “There he is.”
It was not easy to miss Falconi entering the building at 1:15.
Simon hit PLAY, and they viewed Falconi and his female companion enter the lobby and cross to the elevator. The camera was situated high in a corner and did not offer a clear frontal view of either. But it was enough.
“That’s her,” he said.
Nikki looked more closely at the monitor. “The picture is a mess. Can we clean it up?”
“Not here.” Simon froze the picture as Falconi and the woman entered the elevator. For an instant, the woman’s face could be seen in a mirror at the back of the elevator. Simon snapped a photo of the monitor with his phone. “We got her.”
“Not much help.”
“Not now, maybe. With Photoshop we can enhance it enough to get a better idea of what she looks like.”
“And then?”
“For a start, we’ll know who else is looking for Tino Coluzzi. I don’t want that woman sneaking up on me.”
“What time did she leave?”
Simon forwarded the playback to 5:30, when the elevator door opened and a short man in a driving cap and heavy coat emerged, walked briskly—head down—across the lobby, and left the building. “Look at the rolled up cuffs,” said Simon. “She’s wearing Falconi’s clothes.”
“Where do you think she’s going?”
“If we know Coluzzi’s in Marseille, so does she.”
Simon returned the recording equipment to its preset values and announced that he was finished. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nikki left the room. He turned off the lights behind her, casually slipping the CD with the woman’s image, as well as his and Nikki’s, into his pocket.
As they walked to her motorcycle, he checked the schedule for the next TGV to Marseille. “Think we can make the nine sixteen?”
“We?”
“You want to miss out on all the fun?”
“I’m on duty at eight.”
“Call in sick.”
“Out of the question.”
“I thought you wanted to get him.”
“I wouldn’t have come this far if I didn’t. Marseille is another département. An entirely different jurisdiction.”
“A crime’s a crime no matter where it’s committed.”
Nikki gave him a tired look. “This isn’t bending the rules, it’s nuking them. I like my job. I’m not going to throw it away for you.”
“They can’t fire you if you bring in Coluzzi.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Riske. If you need some help from the police in Marseille, ask your friend, the commissaire. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend someone.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what I should have done all along. I’m going to call in the homicide, tell the lieutenant everything I know about who killed Falconi, and pass along the information that Tino Coluzzi was responsible for the robbery. I’m sorry if that puts a crimp in your plan to retrieve this all-important letter.”
“I understand,” said Simon.
“No, you don’t, but that’s the way it is.” Nikki walked to her motorcycle and climbed on.
“You’re sure?”
“My shift started five minutes ago. I’m late. Bon voyage.”
Simon stepped back as Nikki fired up her bike and disappeared into morning traffic.