Simon leaned closer to Nikki as they stood in line. “What do you want? Coffee? A croissant?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Nothing to eat? We didn’t hang around to get our room service.” He studied the menu posted on the wall. “I’m thinking a ham and cheese baguette and a Coke.”
“You’re a real gourmet.”
“I haven’t eaten much since leaving the emergency room. I don’t care what I have as long as it’s filling.”
“Thank you, but I’ll wait for a bouillabaisse in the Vieux-Port. Cheese toast. A glass of wine.”
“What happened to Paris’s toughest cop?”
“I’m tough, not a cretin. I’ve waited this long. It might as well be something good.”
“You may be waiting a lot longer. We’re hitting the ground running. You haven’t forgotten that we’re not the only ones looking for Coluzzi.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Nikki. “Any ideas where he’s at?”
“A few. We need to poke around here and there, ask some questions.”
“That didn’t turn out so good the last time.”
“I’ll be more careful. Besides, I have you to look after me.”
“So I’m your bodyguard now, is that it?”
“You’re one for one so far. That’s a pretty good track record in my book.”
“I’m here for my own reasons. Remember that.”
“I noticed you’re not wearing your gun.”
“I’m off duty. Don’t worry. It’s in my bag.”
“Good to know.”
“A table’s opening up. I’m going to grab us a place.”
“Sure you don’t want anything?”
“Fine,” said Nikki, giving up. “Get me whatever you’re having. I’ll put my lunch plans on hold.”
She left the line and took a seat at the vacant table. She looked at Riske. He was dressed once again in business mode. Blazer, white shirt, tan trousers. The vulnerability she’d glimpsed the night before, sitting outside the urgent care clinic, was gone, all intimations of mortality along with it. He’d pushed his brush with death out of his mind. Not once had he mentioned Falconi either. It wasn’t an act. He’d seen a lot in his life, certainly more than she. The difference, of course, was that he’d lived it firsthand, while more often than not she was a witness after the fact.
Her phone rang. She checked the screen and answered at once. “Hello, Commissaire?”
“Hello, Nikki. How are things going? Did Riske find his man?”
“Not yet, but I think he’s on the right track.”
“Good. I hope he didn’t put you out too much.”
“He can be demanding, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“All the same, I owe you one. How are things over there? I heard it was a nasty one.”
“Pardon me?”
“Delacroix. I heard it was messy.”
“Delacroix…from the hotel?”
“Who else?” There was a pause, and Nikki realized she’d blundered. “Aren’t you at the crime scene?” continued Dumont. “I know the lieutenant had you on administrative detention, but given the circumstances, I thought he might need you. Word was you had Delacroix pegged as an accomplice.”
“Actually, I’m feeling sick. I took the day.”
“Delacroix’s dead. He was found in his apartment an hour ago, killed execution style.”
“I see,” said Nikki. It was the Russian. Evidently, the PJ wasn’t the only one to mark Delacroix as a suspect. She signaled Riske to come join her. “When?”
“Last night sometime. When he didn’t show up for work, his colleagues sent someone to his place.”
“Any leads?”
“None, but you might want to call the lieutenant.”
Nikki waved again, but Riske was looking at the dining attendant. “Thank you, Commissaire.”
“Nikki?”
“Yes?”
“Riske is staying at the hotel where Delacroix worked, isn’t he?”
Nikki began to answer when she saw a blond woman enter the car and advance along the corridor. Something about her manner captured her attention. There was a tautness to her body, a purpose that seemed out of place. She studied the face. It was her.
“Behind you!” Nikki shouted.
Simon heard Nikki’s voice, met her eyes, saw the fear in them, the desperation. He spun to his left, his gaze fixed on the woman approaching, passing the queue of customers. He knew her at once, not only because he recognized her from Le Galleon Rouge. He could feel the tension emanating from her, her commitment, her blind will, and though she had yet to look at him, he was certain that he was her target.
All this he processed in less than a second.
In that time, she began her attack. He saw the right arm rise from her leg, a slim, black instrument clutched in her hand. He caught the sparkle of gold as she lunged at him. It was a fountain pen, yet she held it as if it were a weapon.
He stepped back, hugging the wall, and with his left hand arrested her forward motion, fingers curling around her wrist, crushing it. The woman grunted and leaned into him, the hand defying his grip, rising toward his chest, her eyes fixed on him.
Next to him, a man cried out in alarm, shrinking from the attack.
Simon turned his shoulder into her and, with his weight behind him, thrust her hand against the wall. She responded with a knee to the groin, missing its mark by an inch. He buckled at the waist and lost his grip on her hand. He felt no real pain, no fear. He was aware only of the fierce pumping of his heart and the adrenaline raging through his veins. In the same motion, he drove a fist into her solar plexus, feeling cartilage give but little more. The woman recoiled, eyes watering, but otherwise was unbowed.
Simon pushed himself off the wall and stood taller. The two faced each other at a distance of prizefighters. The passengers had scattered any way they could. He heard Nikki’s voice behind him, telling him to run, but he had never run from a fight in his life. He was the fool who ran toward it. Somewhere buried in his psyche he knew he was merely answering the voice that had been calling to him with increasing frequency, telling him that this was his real self. That he couldn’t hide any longer and that everything he’d become was a lie.
That he belonged on the wrong side of right.
In that instant all caution left him.
The woman lunged at him, her motion a blur. He darted to the side, angling his body, catching the outstretched arm and turning the wrist inward, his free hand locking her elbow. The woman struck him in the face repeatedly, knuckles curled, battering his cheek. He maintained his grip, holding her other hand high, then raised his leg and drove his heel into her kneecap, holding nothing back, collapsing the knee on itself, shearing the ligaments, dislocating the joint.
She screamed and fell to the floor, helpless.
Simon stood above her. “What’s in the letter?” he asked.
The woman pushed herself away, eyes blinking, breath firing in ragged bursts. The door behind her opened. A security officer burst into the carriage, weapon drawn. She looked over her shoulder at him, then back at Simon.
“Tell me,” he said.
The woman’s eyes went to her hand, to the fountain pen clutched there.
“Don’t!”
The woman plunged the pen into her neck, then dropped it onto the floor.
Nikki approached, bending down to see if she could help.
“It’s too late,” said Simon, pulling her away.
The Russian woman’s back arched. Her eyes widened, and widened more. Her mouth opened in a paroxysm of terror. Spittle flowed freely down her chin. A horrible cry came from deep inside her.
And then all life fled.
Her body went limp and she collapsed, dead.