The Cimetière de Saint-Paul et Saint-Pierre was where the poor, the unwanted, the unloved and unidentified of Marseille were sent to spend eternity, or at least the twenty-five years they were granted until each was dug up, incinerated, and another put in their place. It was the French version of Potter’s Field, and the worse for it. It sat on an untended plot of land a few kilometers outside the city, squeezed between a landfill and a recycling plant.
Rain was coming. He could smell it on the wind. A few drops landed on Simon’s coat as he made his way down row after row, reading the names of those buried here. He found the monsignor’s grave at the far corner of the cemetery, his final resting place marked by a stone cross that had originally been white but after years of neglect had faded to a mottled yellow where the paint had not chipped away altogether.
PAUL DESCHUTES
1931–2004
There were no last words, nothing to offer a hint of a life lived or advice to those still inhabiting the earthly plane.
Simon placed a bouquet of flowers at its base. He was not a religious man, at least not in the formal sense. He didn’t know what prayer he should say. The monsignor wouldn’t mind. Religion was a matter of the heart, he’d taught Simon. Every man was born with God inside him. It was easy enough to find him. All you had to do was ask.
So Simon thanked God for bringing this man into his life and asked that he bless his soul for all that he had given him.
Then he kneeled and, with his good arm, pulled out the tall, untamed grass around the marker so that others could read the monsignor’s name.
“Did you find him?” Nikki was standing at the end of the row, her arm in a sling.
Simon stood, brushing off his hands. “Yes. Thanks again.”
“Wish it were nicer.”
“It’s fine enough,” said Simon, though of course it wasn’t. “He was a tough guy.”
“Like you.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Nikki smiled. “We’re a pair.”
Already, she was getting the color back in her face. The bullet had been a “through and through.” She’d lost a lot of blood and suffered some fairly significant muscular damage, but that was it. Turned out they didn’t keep people in the hospital any longer in France than they did in the UK.
They walked back to the car, shoulder touching shoulder. Frank Mazot held the door, and Nikki slid gingerly into the back seat. Simon walked to the other side and got in. Mazot guided the car through the cemetery gates. In minutes, they were on the downhill run into Marseille.
Nikki took his hand. “I got a call from Marc Dumont.”
“He’s still talking to you?”
“I’m officially off administrative duty.”
“Good news.” Simon cocked his head. “You know something? You never told me what you did to get suspended.”
“It never came up.”
“Well?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Simon nudged her with his good shoulder.
“Crazy glue,” she said, then explained about her work on the Zenstrom case, nailing the gang of credit card thieves and how her boss took all the credit. “I got tired of him bragging. He always had these chapped lips. I went into his office after work one night, broke into his desk, and replaced his stick of Chap Stick with crazy glue, made it look just the same. He came in the next day, hung over like usual, opened his desk drawer, and that was that. He glued his big mouth shut.”
“Ouch,” said Simon.
Nikki shrugged, suppressing a grin. “Sometimes a girl has to do what she has to do.”
“Guess so.”
“Oh, and about Marc Dumont. He asked me to tell you that the next time you’re in Paris, you should not bother getting in touch.”
Simon laughed. “And Mr. Coluzzi?”
“He arrived in Paris this morning and was taken into custody. They pulled in Giacomo, as well. ‘Jack,’ you remember?”
Simon ran a hand along his stitches. “How could I forget?”
“Jack’s going to testify against him for a reduced sentence. He’s spilling the beans.”
“Give Coluzzi a taste of his own medicine. About time.”
“The prosecutor is asking for twenty years. He’ll be lucky if he gets five. Armed robbery doesn’t count for much these days. Besides, Coluzzi is spinning some story that he was actually working for our intelligence services all along.”
Simon shook his head. With the right lawyer, Coluzzi could probably get someone to believe it, too. Even so, five years was five years. A long time when you were on the starting end of it. If only they’d send him back to Les Baums. He’d have a word with Dumont to that effect. He looked at Nikki. “So you’re staying in?”
“Sure,” she said brightly, and it was clear she’d never considered doing otherwise. “I’ll leave the private sector to you. I like being a cop.”
“You’re a good one.”
Nikki nodded, not quite convinced. “Getting there. And you? Heading back to London soon?”
“There’s a flight at four.”
“Today?”
“Today. Business.”
“Of course,” said Nikki, lowering her eyes. “I mean…sure. Good for you. I understand.”
“Come and visit?”
“Less than three hours by train, right?”
“Blink and you’re there,” said Simon.
Nikki smiled suddenly. “I’ve never been.”
“To London? You’re kidding me.”
She said, “No,” and appeared embarrassed by it. “Give me a tour?”
“I’d like that,” said Simon. He touched her cheek and kissed her.
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.”
The car crested a rise, and the old port came into view, protected by Fort Saint-Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas. A very large yacht was entering the harbor, navy-blue with a sharp, proud bow, dwarfing the boats around it.
Frank Mazot looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”
“I’m hungry,” said Simon. “You?”
Nikki nodded. “I could eat. But not a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Who wants ham and cheese?” said Simon. “How ’bout some bouillabaisse. What do you say, Frank?”
“I know just the place.”