“Hey,” she called. “This way.”
“I know a better place.” He continued up the Quai des Orfèvres. After a moment, he heard her footsteps behind him.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said. “That’s all I have for a ‘friend of the PJ.’”
“More than I need.”
Simon turned onto a street lined with cafés and restaurants. Waiters wearing white aprons stood on the sidewalk next to chalkboards advertising daily specials. The Notre-Dame was a few blocks away and its towers loomed over the rooftops.
He cut into an alley and opened the back door of an unmarked building. A spiral staircase led to a coffee bar on the first floor. Locals sat at tables lining the wall. Simon walked to the counter. “One espresso and one…”
“Café crème.” Nikki took a tobacco tin from her pocket and opened it. Inside were rolling papers and a lighter. She began fashioning a cigarette. “I’m impressed,” she said. “You know Julien’s.”
“I was at school here for a year.”
“Sorbonne?”
“Sciences Po. I studied mathematics.”
“That must have been a while ago.”
“Ten years.”
“That’s all?” she asked with sarcasm.
“I started late.”
Nikki flicked her tongue across the paper and sealed the cigarette. Simon plucked it out of her hand. “Hey,” she protested, throwing out a hand to grab the cigarette back.
“Foul habit.”
“You have some nerve!”
He looked at his watch. “Eight more minutes. I think you can wait that long.”
The barman placed the demitasses of espresso and coffee on the counter. Simon sipped his slowly. He was remembering his year at the Sciences Po, the nation’s elite business university. He’d come to earn a master’s in mathematics after finishing his undergraduate degree in London. He’d lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Montmartre and worked nights and weekends doing odd jobs to cover living expenses.
Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.
It had all been part of the monsignor’s plan for him. Yeats by way of a jail yard priest.
“Five minutes, Mr. Riske.”
Simon finished his espresso. “I need everything you have on three people. Paul Modriani, Salvatore Brigantino, and Tino Coluzzi.”
“You’ve narrowed down your list.”
“I hope that helps.”
Nikki set her elbows on the counter. “Modriani ran things five years ago, but he’s retired. He has a restaurant in Lyon, where he spends his time. You can forget him. I haven’t heard anything about Brigantino for years. His son manages a casino in the Bois de Boulogne. Gambling’s not my jurisdiction. I heard Coluzzi’s name a year ago in connection with a theft of a shipment of prescription medication—OxyContin, opioids, something like that. Nothing since. He’s probably back down south. Now it’s your turn.”
“Like I told Commissaire Dumont, I’m looking for something valuable that was stolen from my client.”
“And a little birdie whispered in your ear that it was stolen by one of these men.”
“Exactly.”
“What is it that you’re looking for?”
“A letter.”
“You’re serious? What are you going after next?” she asked with a smirk. “A pen?”
“They didn’t take the pen,” said Simon.
“Very funny,” said Nikki. “If you know so much already, why do you need me?”
“Reliability. Confirmation.”
“You dragged me away from the biggest theft in the last six months to find a letter?” She looked at the ceiling, shaking her head. “I know what you are, coming here in your expensive suit and your expensive shoes, calling in a favor from the commissaire. You’re a fixer. The guy that does somebody else’s dirty work. The commissaire told me about your last job—finding the runaway heiress who’d fallen in love with her coke dealer. Classy. What is it this time? Tracking down an incriminating letter one of your rich friends dashed off to his much younger girlfriend? Well, then. Another worthy cause for the Paris police. At least I don’t have to worry about being shot.”
“Not by the bad guys,” said Simon.
“Tough guy, eh?”
“Not especially.”
Nikki stepped closer, her fingers tracing a path along his lapel. “Must be some letter.”
He took her hand from his jacket and lowered it to her side. “Point me in the right direction. I’ll take it from there.”
Still, Nikki didn’t move. She stared at him, not bothering to disguise her contempt. Simon held her gaze. Her brown eyes had flecks of gold and he caught a hint of expensive perfume. He decided he liked the streak of blue. It was fading and he wondered when she’d put it in and why.
“Time’s up,” she said, before sliding down the counter and collecting her tobacco tin. “I’ll ask around about your friends from down south.”
He threw a ten-euro note on the bar. “Sooner rather than later.”
“I have other cases that take precedent on a letter.”
Simon buttoned his jacket and reached for the door, but she was there before him. She paused, halfway out the door. “Hey, Riske, my cigarette.”
“I gave it back to you.”
“Actually, you didn’t.”
“You sure?”
Nikki fished out the tobacco tin and opened it with a thumb. The cigarette lay inside. “How…?”
“Talk to you tomorrow,” said Simon.
Chapter 15
The lobby of the Hotel George V was an oasis. Marble floors. High ceilings. A large spray of colorful flowers rested on a table placed between the reception desk on one side and the concierge on the other. The door closed behind him and Simon was in another world, a world governed by wealth, elegance, and the scent of blooming florals.
And paid for by Mr. Barnaby Neill and the United States government.
Simon checked in and was shown to his room by an efficient trainee. He tipped her generously, then unpacked, hanging up his suits, placing his shirts in drawers, and arranging his toiletries on a washcloth spread out next to the sink. His orderliness was a mystery. He’d been as messy as any teen. T-shirts belonged on the floor. Shoes were to be left where he’d kicked them off. At no time had he received lectures on cleanliness being next to godliness. His quest for order began the day of his release from prison. He was sure that someone somewhere had an explanation, probably something about a need to control his environment. He didn’t care to hear it.
Maybe he had Tino Coluzzi to thank, thought Simon as he put on a clean shirt and notched his belt. He had a nice idea for a fitting gesture of gratitude. It did not involve a smile, a handshake, or a kind word.
Tino Coluzzi.
Now, there was a name he’d never expected to hear again.
For a moment a rash of near unimaginable anger passed through him.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the name of a man he knew in the city capable of getting him whatever he needed, quickly, discreetly, and without question. He thought of Detective Perez and the pistol she wore on her belt. A SIG Sauer identical to it would do nicely.
As quickly, he put the phone down. Nothing could change the past.
“The best revenge is to be unlike he who performed the injury.”
Another of the monsignor’s rules.
Simon had been hired to retrieve a letter. Nothing more.
As for Coluzzi?
If Simon recalled, his weapon of choice was a stiletto. He’d have the blade in his chest before Simon cleared the pistol from its holster.