The niceties of the justice system in the Principality of Monaco wouldn’t deter Nathan Parker’s thirst for vengeance. He was old enough and determined enough not to give a damn about the possible effects on his career. And if things were the way Cooper said, Parker was powerful enough to protect the men with him, too. If he captured the killer, the press would turn it into the romantic account of a distraught father seeking justice, succeeding where others had failed. He would be turned into a hero and become untouchable. The United States desperately needed heroes just then. The government and public opinion would back him all the way. Principality authorities would gag on it for a while, but then they would have to swallow their pride. Game over.
And then there was Jean-Loup. Another problem.
Frank had to find a way to dissuade Jean-Loup from a decision he couldn’t blame him for. The fame you get from hosting a hit radio show is one thing, but having your name in all the papers because you’re the only person a serial killer will talk to is quite another. It was enough to make anyone run for cover. He had every right to be scared.
And time was running out, ticking away minute by minute, marked by the chronometer that senior Principality officials were holding up to them.
The car slowed down beside a large house built into the hillside. Frank could make out the roof behind a row of cypress trees on the other side of the road. It overlooked all of Monte Carlo. A great view. That was the deejay’s house, for sure. There were a number of cars parked outside and a couple of satellite trucks from the TV stations. A small crowd of reporters and cameramen were laying siege to the house. There was also a police car nearby. The reporters quivered with excitement when they saw the car arrive – even though, as yet, they didn’t know who Frank was or what his role was in the investigation. The policeman in the front passenger seat picked up the mike.
‘Ducros here. We’re coming up.’
The iron gate started to open. As the car slowed down to drive in, the reporters came right up to Frank’s window. Two policemen got out of the parked car to keep them from following inside the gate.
They drove slowly down a paved ramp and found themselves in the driveway in front of the garage. Hulot was already there, waiting. He greeted Frank through the open window.
‘Hi, Frank. Seen the chaos?’
‘Hi, Nicolas. I see it. Typical. It’d be strange if they weren’t here.’ Frank got out of the car and checked out the building. ‘Jean-Loup Verdier must make quite a salary to afford this.’
‘There’s a story to this house,’ Hulot said with a smile. ‘Haven’t you read the papers?’
‘No, that’s something I gladly leave to you.’
‘They’ve all written about it. Jean-Loup inherited this house.’
‘Nice relatives.’
‘It wasn’t a relative. Sounds like a fairytale, but he inherited it from a rich old widow. He saved her dog.’
‘Her dog?’
‘That’s right. In the Place du Casino a few years ago. This lady’s dog escaped and ran into the middle of the street. Jean-Loup jumped out to save it just as it was about to get run over by a car. He was almost killed, too. The woman hugged and kissed him, crying with gratitude, and that was that. A few years later, a notary called him and told him he was a homeowner.’
‘Not bad. I thought that kind of thing only happened in Disney movies. It’s just a rough guess, but this place must be worth a couple of million.’
‘Make it three, with the property values around here,’ said Hulot.
‘Pretty nice. Okay, should we go and do our duty?’
Hulot nodded. ‘He’s over here. Come on.’
They crossed the courtyard and passed some bushes with red flowers on the right of the house. There was a patio beyond and a swimming pool. It wasn’t huge, but no bathtub either.
Jean-Loup and Bikjalo were sitting at a table under a bower covered with vines. The remains of breakfast were still on the table. The manager’s presence was a clear indication of Jean-Loup’s state. So much attentiveness meant that Bikjalo was worried about his golden egg.
‘Hello, Jean-Loup. Mr Bikjalo.’
Bikjalo got up with an expression of relief. Reinforcements had arrived. Jean-Loup seemed embarrassed and couldn’t look them in the eye.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. I was saying to Jean-Loup—’
Frank interrupted brusquely. He wanted to avoid the subject for a while so that Jean-Loup would not feel under pressure. It was a delicate moment and Frank wanted him to feel at ease before he mentioned it.
‘Is that coffee I see?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Only for the household, or may we have some?’
As Hulot and Frank sat down, Jean-Loup went to get two cups from the shelf behind him. The deejay poured coffee as Frank watched him intently. It was obvious that he hadn’t slept. He was under a lot of pressure – Frank could see that. But he must not – he could not – give up. He would need to understand that.
Hulot brought the cup to his lips. ‘Mmm. Good. I wish we had coffee like this at headquarters.’
Jean-Loup smiled listlessly. He avoided looking at them, Frank especially. Bikjalo sat down again, on the chair furthest away. He was showing that he wanted to keep his distance and leave the problem to them. The tension was palpable and Frank knew he had to take the bull by the horns.
‘Okay, what’s the problem, Jean-Loup?’
The deejay finally found the strength to look at him. Frank was surprised that there was no fright in his eyes, as he had expected. There was fatigue, concern and perhaps the worry that he was unable to play a role that was too big for him. But he was not frightened. Jean-Loup looked away and started saying something he’d probably rehearsed many times.
‘The problem is very simple. I can’t take it.’
Frank sat in silence and waited for Jean-Loup to continue. He didn’t want to make him feel he was being interrogated.
‘I wasn’t ready for all this. Each time I hear that voice on the phone, I lose ten years of my life. And the thought that after he talks to me, that man goes . . . and . . .’
He paused as if talking about it were an enormous strain. No man likes to show weakness, and Jean-Loup was no different.
‘. . . does what he does. It’s tearing me apart. And I keep asking myself, why me? Why does he have to make those calls to me? I have no life any more. I’m locked indoors like a criminal. I can’t even go to the window without hearing reporters scream my name. I can’t go outside without being surrounded by people asking me questions. I can’t take it any more.’
‘But Jean-Loup,’ Bikjalo interrupted, putting in his two cents. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. You’re incredibly popular right now. You’re one of the most famous men in Europe. Every TV station wants you. All the papers are talking about you. We’ve even had proposals from movie producers who want to make a film—’
A sharp look from Hulot brought the station manager to a halt. Frank looked at him with utter contempt. Money-hungry prick.
Jean-Loup got up from his chair with an imperious gesture. ‘I want to be appreciated because I talk to people, not because I talk to a killer. And I know reporters. They’ll keep on with the questions I’m asking myself. And if they don’t find an answer, they’ll make up one. I have to drop out now or they’ll destroy me.’
Frank knew the media well enough to agree with him. And he respected Jean-Loup too much to lie to him.
‘Jean-Loup, that’s exactly the way things are. You’re too intelligent for me to try to convince you it’s any different. I know you’re not ready for all this. But who would be? I’ve spent half my life chasing criminals, but I’d have the same concerns and the same reaction if I were in your shoes. But you are our only contact with this man. You can’t give up. Not now.’ Frank anticipated a possible objection and continued: ‘I know this is partly our fault. If we were better at this, it would probably all be over. But that’s just not the way it is. Thi
s maniac is still at large and as long as he’s out there, he has only one aim: to go on killing. And between us we have to stop him.’
‘I don’t know if I can sit there again in front of the mike pretending nothing has happened, waiting for that voice.’
Frank bowed his head. When he raised it, Hulot saw a different light in his eyes.
‘There are things you look for in life. And sometimes there are things that look for you. You don’t choose them and maybe you don’t even want them, but they come and you’re never the same again. At that point, you have two choices. You can run away, try to leave it all behind you, or you can stand and face it. Whatever you choose, you and only you are able to decide whether it’s for better or for worse. There are three people dead now, killed horribly. There’ll be others if you don’t help. If you decide to continue, it might tear you to pieces, but after it’s over you’ll have the time and the strength to put the pieces together again. If you run away, you’ll be torn apart just the same, but the remorse will pursue you for all the time you have left. And every day, the pieces will get smaller and smaller.’
Jean-Loup sat down slowly. Nobody spoke. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Okay, I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘You’ll go on with the show?’
‘Yes.’
Hulot relaxed in his chair. Bikjalo was unable to repress a slight smile of satisfaction. And Frank heard the first tick of a clock that had just started running again.
TWENTY-SIX
Frank walked Hulot back to his car while Jean-Loup and Bikjalo remained sitting by the pool. When they had left, the manager of Radio Monte Carlo, still anxious over what he had almost lost, put his arm around Jean-Loup. He wanted the radio host to feel his presence and he whispered advice like a boxing coach during a losing fight, cajoling him to hold up for just another couple of rounds.
Hulot opened the door of the Peugeot but remained standing outside, staring at the magnificent view below. He had no desire to return to the investigation. He turned to Frank. The American could see in his eyes that he needed a long, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. Without figures in black, without voices whispering I kill . . . in his ear, waking him to a reality worse than his worst nightmares.
‘You were great with that kid . . . with him and with me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know I’m leaning on you a lot in this investigation. Don’t think I don’t realize it. I asked for your help and acted like I was helping you out; when I was really the one who needed the help.’
‘That’s not true, Nicolas. Not exactly true. Maybe this guy’s psychosis is contagious and we’re going crazy, too. But if that’s what we have to do to catch him, then we’ve got to keep going till it’s over.’
‘There’s just one danger in what you said.’ Hulot got into the car.
‘What’s that?’
‘Once you accept madness, you can’t get rid of it. You said so yourself, remember, Frank? We’re little dinosaurs, nothing but dinosaurs . . .’
He started the engine. The automatic gate opened for Hulot to pass through. Frank stood and watched the car drive up the ramp. He saw the brake lights go on as Nicolas turned into the street and then drove away.
Throughout his conversation with Hulot, the cops who’d brought him to Jean-Loup’s house had stood off to one side, talking to each other by their car. Frank got in the back seat and the cop in the front turned to look at him inquisitively. ‘Parc Saint-Roman. There’s no hurry,’ said Frank, after thinking a moment. He needed to be alone and collect his thoughts. General Parker and his plans had not been forgotten, just put aside. He needed to know more about him and Ryan Mosse before he could decide what to do. He hoped Cooper had already sent the information he needed.
The car pulled out. Up the hill, through the gate, down the street. More winding through the throngs of reporters waiting in ambush. Frank looked them over carefully. They seemed to him to shake themselves like dogs when another dog passes. The same guy with red hair who’d stuck his head into the inspector’s car the other day was there. As Frank passed, a reporter standing next to a Mazda convertible exchanged glances with him, thoughtful.
Frank knew they’d soon be chasing him once they found out who he was and what he was doing there. There was no doubt that they would soon figure out his role in this business. They all had contacts in the police department – what their articles called a ‘reliable source’. The reporters paraded in front of the car as the vanguard of a world that wanted to know the truth. And the best journalist among them was not the one who found it out. It was the one who sold the best story.
As the car went down the hill, a woman and a young boy ran out from an unpaved road just a few hundred yards from where the reporters were stalking the house. Frank noticed them because she was holding the boy’s hand and seemed frightened. She stopped at the junction and looked around like someone who didn’t know where she was or where she was going. As the car passed them, Frank felt certain that she was running away. She looked just over thirty and was wearing a pair of blue sweatpants and a shiny dark-blue shirt that perfectly set off her magnificent blonde shoulder-length hair. The fabric and the hair seemed to be competing for the reflection of the May sun. She was tall and fit; her movements graceful in spite of her haste. The boy was perhaps about ten years old but seemed tall for his age. He was wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt. He looked up with big, bewildered blue eyes at the woman holding his hand.
As he turned his head and leaned against the car window to keep them in view, Frank saw Captain Ryan Mosse, US Army, run up and stop the woman and the boy by stepping in front of them. He grabbed their arms and forced them to follow him back down the unpaved side road. Frank turned and placed a hand on the driver’s shoulder.
‘Stop.’
‘What?’
‘Stop here a second, please.’
The driver touched the brake and the car rolled gently to the side of the road. The two cops looked at him. The one in the passenger seat shrugged, as if to say, ‘Americans . . .’
Frank got out and crossed the street. He walked down the unpaved road that led to a house with a gate, set back from the houses either side. The three were just ahead of him. A strong man pushing a woman and a boy.
‘Part of your investigation, Captain Mosse?’
The man stopped at the sound of Frank’s voice, and forced the woman and the boy to stop, too. He turned and saw Frank, but his face showed no surprise.
‘Ah, here he is, our FBI special agent. What’s this, Boy Scout, your good deed for the day? If you stand in the Place du Casino and wait awhile, you might find a little old lady to help cross the street . . .’
Frank went over to the group. The woman looked at him with a mixture of hope and curiosity. Her eyes were beautiful.
The boy wrenched himself free.
‘You’re hurting me, Ryan.’
‘Get in the house, Stuart. And stay there.’
Mosse let go. Stuart turned to the woman who nodded at him. ‘Go on, Stuart.’
The boy took two steps back and went on looking at them. Then he turned and ran to the green gate.
‘You too, Helena. Go in the house and stay there.’
Mosse twisted the woman’s arm. Frank saw his muscles tighten under his shirt. The woman was still staring at Frank, but Mosse made her turn to face him instead.
‘Look at me. Do you understand, Helena?’
The woman whimpered in pain and nodded. As she left, Helena shot a last, desperate glance at Frank before turning and following the boy. The gate opened, then closed behind them, like the gates of a prison.
The two men faced each other. Frank could tell he was of the same school of thought as Parker. You were either a friend or an enemy. Anyone who didn’t follow them and love them had to accept the consequences.
A brief gust of wind rustled through bushes at the side of the road. Then everything was still again. Fra
nk felt the blood pulsing in his temples.
‘You’re great with women and kids. But that doesn’t seem like much for someone who came here with higher goals. Am I wrong, Captain Mosse?’
Frank smiled. He got the same smile in return. A smile of contempt.
‘You do pretty well yourself with women and children, don’t you, Frank? Oh, I’m sorry, Frank’s too familiar for you. What is it you want to be called? That’s right . . . Mr Ottobre.’
As Mosse paused to admire his own words, he stepped slightly to one side, shifting his weight like someone expecting to be attacked at any moment. ‘That’s right, Mr Ottobre. You apparently think that women are a good excuse for shirking, don’t you? Nothing doing for Mr Ottobre. Can’t expect anything from him. Closed for mourning. Maybe your wife . . .’
Frank lunged at him in spite of himself, so fast that the other man didn’t see him coming, even though he was expecting it. The blow hit him in the face and knocked him to the ground. Mosse was flat on his back, a trickle of blood coming from the side of his mouth. Otherwise, Frank’s blow had had no effect on him. He smiled again and there was a light of triumph in his eyes.
‘I’m just sorry you won’t have much time to regret what you just did.’
He arched his back and was on his feet. Almost simultaneously, he kicked his left leg. Frank deflected the kick with his forearm and slightly lost his balance. He realized his mistake immediately. Mosse was a tough opponent and had kicked only to throw him off. The soldier slipped to the ground and with his right leg swept Frank off his feet. As he fell to the pavement, Frank managed to turn to the side, easing his fall with his shoulder. There was a time when he would not have been caught off guard.
Mosse was behind him in a flash. He immobilized Frank’s legs with his own and grabbed his neck with his right arm. A military knife suddenly glimmered in his left hand and now it was pointed at Frank’s throat. The two of them were locked together in a grim embrace. The captain’s eyes were shining, excited by the brawl. Frank realized that he liked it, that fighting was his reason for living. He was one of those people who believed that an enemy was worth his weight in gold.