The general spun around and walked off without looking back. Mosse came over to Frank. His face glowed with the sadistic pleasure of striking a man when he is down.
‘He’s right, Mr FBI agent. You’re finished.’
‘That’s something, at least. You, on the other hand, never even got started.’ Frank took a step back, waiting for his reaction. When Mosse tried to make his move, he found the Glock pointed at him. ‘Come on, give me an excuse. Anything at all. The old man has his back covered, but you are neither as useful nor as dangerous as you think.’
‘You’ll end up in my hands sooner or later, Frank Ottobre.’
‘We’re all in the hands of God, Mosse.’ Frank spread out his arms to illustrate the possibility. ‘And that’s not you. Now run after your master and get out of here.’
He stood still in the hallway until Mosse and Barker were gone. Then he put his gun back in the holster and leaned against the wall, slowly slipping down until he was sitting on the cold marble floor. He realized that he was shaking.
Somewhere out there was a dangerous killer, ready to strike. The man had already killed several people including his best friend, Nicolas Hulot. Only a few days before, Frank would have given the rest of his life just to write that killer’s name on a piece of paper.
Now he could think of nothing but Helena Parker, and he didn’t know what to do.
FORTY-NINE
Laurent Bedon left the Café de Paris, caressing the wad of €500 notes in the inside pocket of his jacket. He thought about his incredible luck that night. He had pulled off what every roulette player only dreams of doing. Chevals and en plein on 23 red, three times in a row, with the top bet, the onlookers delirious and the croupier devastated at a practically unheard-of stroke of luck.
He had gone to the cashier and started pulling an endless amount of coloured chips from his pockets, as if his jacket belonged to Harry Houdini. The clerk had not reacted to the size of the win, but he had had to ask the other clerk for more cash because there wasn’t enough in his drawer to cover the amount.
As he retrieved his canvas bag from the cloakroom, Laurent had thought about how, when luck finally decides to play your side, her ability to give poverty a slap in the face is almost embarrassing. He’d gone into the Café de Paris just to pass the time, and in half an hour he had recovered everything he’d lost in the past four years.
He glanced at his watch. Perfect timing. He stood on the pavement for a moment, looking out on the square in front of him. To his left, all the lights of the Casino Municipale were sparkling. Next to the entrance, a BMW 750 was parked at an angle, skilfully lit with spotlights. It was the prize for a game of chemin de fer to be held later that night.
In front of him, the Hôtel de Paris looked like a natural outgrowth of the casino, as if one could not exist without the other. Laurent imagined all the people inside. The maids, the porters and the concierges. The guests who were full of self-importance and stinking rich.
As far as he was concerned, things were finally starting to fall into place. Since the beginning of his collaboration with that American, the wind seemed to have changed direction. He realized full well that Ryan Mosse was dangerous. That was clear from the way he had dealt with Valentin. But he was also extremely generous and, as long as that was the case, nothing else seemed very important. When you got right down to it, what had he asked him to do? Just to pass on what he learned about the No One investigation from the police who were waiting at the radio station for the killer to call. A small task that had given him enough money to plug several holes in the leaky boat of his finances.
He had been deeply disappointed when Mosse was arrested as a suspect in the murder of Roby Stricker. Not that he cared much about either of them. The American was clearly a psychopath and, quite frankly, he belonged right where they had put him, in a maximum security prison in the Rocca. As for Stricker, that playboy wasn’t worth shit; his only value in life was the bimbos on his arm. Nobody would miss him, probably not even his own father. May the little prick rest in peace, amen, was Laurent Bedon’s perfunctory prayer in memory of Roby Stricker.
Laurent’s only regret at the news of Mosse’s arrest had been the loss of his own golden egg. Concern over losing his sponsor, as he called him, had overcome his fear of being accused of spying. The guy didn’t seem the type who would talk easily. The cops would have to work very hard if they wanted to get anything out of him. Mosse was tough, even more so with the backing of General Parker, the father of the murdered girl. Parker was big time, and probably held Mosse’s purse strings, to Laurent’s great benefit.
In any case, he had welcomed the news of Mosse’s release from jail with a sigh of relief and a surge of renewed hope. That hope had turned into genuine triumph when he had received a second e-mail from his rich uncle asking to set up a meeting. He hadn’t asked himself what they could want of him, now that they knew who the killer was. The only thing he cared about was renewing the flow of cash into his pockets.
He could still see Maurice’s suspicious eyes peering at him when he had finally paid back his debt. He had looked down at the money on the desk in the back office of the Burlesque, his sleazy Nice nightclub full of cheap whores, as though it were counterfeit. If Maurice had asked him where the money had come from, Laurent wouldn’t have said a word.
He had left with a scornful air, passing Valentin with his still-bandaged nose, a reminder of his meeting with Captain Ryan Mosse. Their suspicion that he was now under the protection of someone even more dangerous than they were had totally destroyed their condescending attitude towards him.
Monsieur Bedon has paid up. Monsieur Bedon is free. Monsieur Bedon would like you to go fuck yourselves. Monsieur Bedon is out of this shithole.
Laurent adjusted the bag he was carrying on his shoulder and left, crossing the square diagonally, heading straight for the gardens in front of the casino. There were lots of people around. Aside from the season and the usual tourists, the serial killer story had attracted an incredible number of curiosity seekers, in addition to all the journalists. It was back to the buzzing activity of better times, even though, by a strange twist of fate, all that resurgence of life was caused by the close proximity of death. People spoke of nothing else. In the papers, on the radio, on TV, and at home in their own living rooms.
Suddenly, Laurent could see Jean-Loup Verdier before his eyes. Cynical as he was, he could not help shuddering. The idea that he had worked side by side with someone capable of doing what he had done churned Laurent’s stomach. How many people had he killed? Eight, if he wasn’t mistaken. No, nine, counting that Inspector Hulot. Shit. A real slaughter, by a handsome boy with green eyes, a deep voice and a reticent air. A guy who seemed more likely to be chased by a flock of eager women than by Europe’s entire police force.
And he was the one who had started Jean-Loup on his career, who had brought him to the station, only to see himself gradually replaced by the young man’s talent and charisma as a deejay. Now all that was changing, too.
Bikjalo, who was apparently completely shattered by the news of Jean-Loup, had been pushed aside by the station owner. Now all he did was smoke one Russian cigarette after another, and anything he said was just more smoke. The station owner had asked Laurent if he felt up to hosting Voices himself. The events had not lessened the public’s interest in the programme and there was a chance that ratings might shoot up even more with the gruesome fascination created by the violent crime.
Okay, dickheads, where’s your Jean-Loup now?
Laurent had also sold an exclusive interview for a shitload of money to a weekly, and the magazine’s publishers had offered him a sizeable advance for an ‘instant book’ titled My Life with No One. Then there was the unexpected win at Café de Paris, just now, and the night wasn’t even over.
The fact that Jean-Loup was still at large did not bother him in the least. Jean-Loup was no longer a problem. As the police said, it was just a matter of time. Where could a
man hide whose pictures were all over the media and in the hands of every police officer from here to Helsinki? Jean-Loup Verdier’s sun had set for ever. Now it was the time for the rise of Laurent Bedon.
To his great surprise, he discovered that he didn’t give a damn about Barbara. Let her stay with her cop, her watchdog. Laurent realized that his stubbornness over the girl had only been caused by the bad times he had been going through. He had seen her as a symbol of his failure, the worst of the refusals he was getting from everyone at the time. Now he was sitting on a small throne and was finally able to make choices. The only thing he wanted, if he could want anything more from her, was to have her come to him with her tail between her legs and admit that leaving him had been a huge mistake. He would have liked to hear her humiliated voice begging him to forgive her and take her back. Just for the chance to tell her the truth. That he no longer needed her.
He sat down on a bench on the right side of the park, the area with the most shadows. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned back to watch the world go by, for once without the feeling that he didn’t belong. Soon after, a man slipped out of the shadows and sat down next to him. Laurent turned to look at him. He was not afraid of his lifeless eyes, as dead as those of a stuffed animal. All the man meant to him was more money.
‘Hello, Laurent,’ the man said in English.
Laurent bowed his head slightly and responded in the same language. ‘Hello to you, too. I’m glad to see you out and about again, Captain Mosse.’
The other man ignored his greeting and immediately got down to the reason he was there.
‘Do you have what I asked for?’
Laurent took the canvas bag from his shoulder and put it on the bench.
‘Here you are. It isn’t everything, obviously. I just casually picked up some material. If you had told me what this was for, I could have—’
Ryan Mosse interrupted him with a gesture. He ignored the implied question and thrust a cheap briefcase at Laurent. ‘Here. This is what we agreed on.’
Laurent grabbed the briefcase and put it on his knees. He clicked open the locks and raised the lid. It was full of row upon row of wads of cash. To Laurent, even in the shadows of the park were brighter than all the lights of the casino. ‘Fine.’
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’ asked Mosse with some sarcasm.
‘You have no way of checking the material that I brought you. It would be tacky for me not to trust you as well.’
Captain Ryan Mosse stood up. The exchange was over. The pleasure of each other’s company was certainly not enough to prolong the encounter, for either of them.
‘Goodbye, Mr Bedon.’
‘Goodbye, Captain Mosse,’ Laurent said, still seated on the bench. He waved. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you.’
He sat watching the American’s athletic figure walk away with his purposeful, military step that civilian clothes did nothing to hide. He remained on the bench until Mosse disappeared from view. He was in an excellent mood. The evening had been a great success. First the win at the casino and then the briefcase . . . As the saying goes, money makes more money.
And that’s the way things would continue, he was sure of it. Give it time, he said to himself. Give it time. There was an old adage that even a stopped watch is right twice a day. His watch hadn’t stopped, after all.
Laurent got up from the bench and picked up the briefcase, much lighter than the bag he had given Mosse. He stopped to think for a minute. Enough of Café de Paris for one night. He could not ask for too much luck in one day. He had got a lift to the Place du Casino from Jacques, the sound technician. Now he could take a cab or walk down to the harbour, have a few drinks at Stars’N’Bars, pick up his brand-new car from the lot near the radio station, and go back to Nice. The car wasn’t the Porsche he wanted, but it was only a matter of time. For now, it was enough not to have to take the bus to work from his new pad near Place Pellegrini in the Acropolis district. A small place, but elegant and freshly decorated. The twists of fate. It was right near his old place, the one that had been taken over by Maurice, may he rot in hell.
He looked at the time. It was still early and the night was young. Laurent Bedon walked unhurriedly towards the Hôtel de Paris, full of optimism. For the rest of the evening he would just do whatever he felt like.
FIFTY
Rémy Bretécher put on his helmet and raised the stand of his motorcycle with his foot. Even on the downhill slope, he had no problem holding the Aprilia Pegaso. As excited as he was, he could have propped up his bike with one leg. He’d parked in the Place du Casino, in the area reserved for motorbikes right in front of the Metropole hotel. Through his raised visor, he kept his man in sight as he crossed the garden and walked towards the fountain. Shadowing people was nothing new for Rémy. He usually worked at the Casino of Menton or in Nice, or else in other smaller gambling joints along the coast. Sometimes he even got to Cannes. Monte Carlo was considered off-limits for this type of activity. Too dangerous, too small, too many cops around. There was an insanely large number of plainclothesmen mixed in with the normal clientele of the casinos and Rémy knew it.
That evening, he had simply been a tourist, nosing around to see what people were saying in the Principality about the serial killer. He had gone into the Café de Paris almost by accident and it was only from force of habit that he had noticed the guy with the callow face and the swaggering air who had won three en plein in a row, enough luck to win the national lottery.
Cautiously, he had followed him to the cashier and had seen the amount of dough he had stuffed in his jacket pocket. That had immediately transformed his little vacation into a night of work. Actually, Rémy was a mechanic in a garage just outside Nice that specialized in personalized motorcycles. He was so good with bikes that Monsieur Catrambone, his boss, turned a blind eye on his past. What he was doing now had some years ago earned him a couple of stints in a young offenders’ institution. Those were youthful mistakes caused by lack of experience and a hot temper. Fortunately, he had kept out of jail since then. So far. Nowadays, bag snatching was only a misdemeanour and Rémy was smart enough not to use weapons in his ‘contracts’, as he called them. All told, it was worth the effort. You just needed a little savvy, and a second salary never hurt anyone.
Every once in a while, when he felt that the time was right, he went wandering around the casinos, eyeing solitary players who won large amounts. He would trail them and then follow them on his bike. If they left by car it was a little more complicated. He’d have to follow them home and if they had a garage, there was nothing doing. He’d watch them disappear through the gate or down the ramp with the brake lights on, knowing the evening was a goner. But if they parked in the street, it was a done deal. He’d go over to them while they were standing at the door of their building looking for their keys. It would all happen in a flash. He’d approach them with his helmet on, one hand in his jacket, and he’d tell them to hand over the money. His hand in his pocket could be a simple bluff or it could really mean he had a gun. The sums at stake were not large enough for them to risk their lives, and they’d hand it over double quick. Then, a fast getaway on his bike and it would all be over. All he had to do later on was count the winnings of what he liked to call his ‘cashpoint’ operation.
If his ‘customer’ left the casino on foot, he’d just have to find the right moment – a street without much traffic, no cops in sight and dim lighting if possible – and then do the same routine. It was often a lot faster that way.
Since he dealt with people who went to casinos, Rémy often wondered if what he did was a sort of vice, a gambling addiction, with all that that entails. He had finally reached the conclusion that he could consider himself a sort of healer for those who were addicted: living proof that gambling is the work of the Devil. In other words, he had absolved himself. It had never occurred to him that he was just a petty criminal.
He turned on the ignition and the Aprilia started up obediently
, with a soft, powerful hum. He hoped his man wasn’t headed for the taxi stand next to the Hôtel de Paris. In one way, that could simplify things, since a man in a cab doesn’t pull into a garage. It might also mean that the evening was not yet over. Gamblers with winnings often blew their money right away in one of the many nightclubs in Nice. Legalized brothels, really. They’d buy drinks for everyone in sight and end up giving some hooker enough money to feed a family of four for a week in exchange for a blowjob in a private room. Rémy would be bitterly disappointed if the fruit of his labour ended up down some whore’s throat.
He raised his foot from the pedal, shifted into first and reached his man as he was crossing the square near the central flower bed. He stopped and put down the stand, getting off his bike as if he had to check on something hanging in the pannier on the back. He saw with relief that the man continued walking past the only waiting cab. If he went down to Sainte-Dévote, it would be an incredible stroke of luck. There were few pedestrians around there and Rémy would be able to take the road to Nice and disappear down one of the three corniches.
Rémy was particularly excited about this sudden, unexpected little job. From the Café de Paris, he had followed his victim on foot through the gardens. The man had headed close to where Rémy’s motorcycle was parked. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea to do the job right then and there, then he just could have jumped on his bike and vanished.
He had seen the man sit down on the bench. Rémy had walked on by without letting himself be noticed once he’d seen the other man sitting next to him. Something strange was going on. The man with the deathly pale face that he had been following had handed the other man a bag slung over his shoulder and had been given a briefcase in exchange.
The thing stank of money – or sweet perfume, depending on how you looked at it. There was a not too remote possibility that the briefcase contained something valuable. The contents of the briefcase, along with the money the man had just won at the Café de Paris, might make that evening a top winner in Rémy’s own personal trophy cabinet.