The guard whisked him away. Today he was on the Corsican’s payroll.
Minutes later, Simon stood before Bonfanti. He was given a hit of hashish and a thimbleful of cognac. He was informed that killing the Egyptian satisfied but half of his obligation. The murder of Al-Faris took care of the monetary debt. If Simon had not killed him, Bonfanti would have been required to pay another of his soldiers to do the job. That sum, in Bonfanti’s mind, covered what was due his deceased son had there actually been money in the hold of the Garda armored truck. What remained of his obligation, said Bonfanti, was payment-in-kind for his son’s death. Bonfanti was alone in the world. Simon must also be alone. He would be placed in solitary confinement in a dank subterranean cell known to all as “the hole.” For how long was Bonfanti’s choice.
A day.
A month.
A year.
There was, however, another alternative.
Should Simon tell him who betrayed the crew to the police he would not have to endure “the hole.” Not for a minute. One name and Simon’s debt would be discharged in full. Even more, he could move to the fourth floor to occupy a private room near Bonfanti’s for the duration of his sentence. He would enjoy permanent protection while on the yard. It was his choice.
“And so,” Bonfanti asked, “who betrayed you?”
Simon did not answer. He’d promised himself he would not say. He would keep the name for himself. Revenge would be his and his alone.
“He’s mine,” said Simon, with the vehemence of a wronged man.
The taxi driver looked over his shoulder, startled. “What is it, sir? You are all right?”
Simon shook himself from his haunted reverie. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine.”
The taxi drew to a halt in front of the hotel. “We have arrived. You are at your destination.”
“Yes,” said Simon, still shaky, fighting off the memories. “Thank you.”
But inside him another voice answered. No, it said. Not yet, I haven’t. There’s someplace I still need to go. Someone I need to find.
Chapter 18
Nikki Perez entered headquarters and took the elevator to her office on the second floor. The lieutenant was loitering in the corridor. Before she could turn around, he spotted her.
“Perez, come here,” he shouted, wagging a finger in her direction. “You finish taking statements from the drivers?”
“Three to go.”
The lieutenant was short and chunky and wore white short-sleeved dress shirts all year round. No one called him by his name. “Clock’s running. Get to it.”
“We’re thirteen for thirteen,” said Nikki. “No one’s offered anything useful. Twelve men with machine guns. All wearing black utilities. Combat boots. Faces covered. Plates off the cars. No one said a word except the leader and he spoke only to the prince.”
“And so?”
“It’s like listening to a broken record. I’d be better off spending my time working the streets, talking to my sources, the staff at the hotel. The bad guys had to have had a lookout there.”
“Since when do you dole out assignments?”
“Just an idea, sir.”
“Like the one that got you on administrative duty for ninety days?”
“Better than that.”
“So you say.” The lieutenant stepped close enough that his gut rubbed against her. “I want all the reports on my desk by noon. Including the last three.”
Nikki turned to leave. “Prick,” she said under her breath.
“What was that?” The lieutenant was in her face, eyes bulging.
“By noon. Yes, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
Nikki continued to her desk. Ten years on the job and still the same nonsense. She’d joined the police a month after passing the “bac”—or baccalaureate—the nationwide examination that determined eligibility for entry into France’s elite universities. With a score in the top two percent, she’d had her choice of the litter: the école Normale Supérieure, ParisTech, Sciences Po, or the Sorbonne. France was very much a hierarchical society. Graduation from any of these universities would have guaranteed her a place in the nation’s ruling classes. But Nikki had never had an interest in joining the technocrats who governed the country from their stately offices on the Boulevard Haussmann, or the corporate warriors with their perfect hair and perfect suits charging across the esplanade of La Défense.
For as long as Nikki could remember, she’d wanted to be a cop. Maybe it was all the Clint Eastwood movies her father used to watch. Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, The Gauntlet. Or maybe it was because she’d always loved guns. Or maybe it was because she enjoyed breaking rules and being naughty just a little too much, and she knew that being a cop was her best shot at keeping that part of her in check. She’d stopped explaining her career choices long ago. It came down to this: She liked carrying a gun and a badge. She liked the feeling she got when she solved a crime. And she liked thinking of herself as someone who gave back more than she took. At the end of the day, she wanted to make a difference.
She sat and perused the statements she’d taken the day before. A stack of pages as thick as a phone book and as much help. Thirty-six hours after the crime, the task force had yet to come up with a single clue. She dropped her head to the desk. So far she’d served ten out of her ninety days on desk duty. She wouldn’t make it through eighty more.
Her latest infraction took as its root an unwillingness to either “obey” or “respect” a statute in the police handbook regarding who was to receive official recognition for making an arrest. Or to put it in language anyone could understand: who got the collar for nabbing a perp.
The perp in question was Elias Zenstrom, an Estonian computer wiz who ran a phony credit card operation in the north of the city. Zenstrom and his gang would buy credit cards from Gypsy pickpockets, copy the data from the magnetic strips, and fabricate duplicates, which they would then sell or use themselves. Nikki had been assigned the case by her superior, a man whose name she refused to utter ever again.
For nine months she gathered evidence, interviewed dozens of victims, filed hundreds of requests for phone taps, spent countless nights in surveillance vans, and when the day came, she broke down the bad guy’s door and, at risk of grave bodily harm, entered into an exchange of gunfire. Zenstrom was captured, as was his superior, who’d been visiting at the time. The gang was disbanded. Case closed.
Except for one thing.
Nikki made an error in her final report. When prompted to fill in the name of the officer in charge of the case, she typed her own: Nicolette Perez. Despite all her dogged work, she had not been—according to the police handbook—the officer in charge. The credit for the arrest of Zenstrom and his gang went to her superior, who had done precisely nothing other than assign her the case. And it was her superior who received a promotion. Nikki received a bottle of cheap champagne and, from her superior, a pinch on the ass and a drunken invitation to spend the night.
She was not pleased.
So she’d done what she’d done to earn her third ninety-day suspension.
Next time she nailed a perp she was going to make damn well sure she got the credit.
The phone rang. It was the reception informing her that one of the chauffeurs had arrived. “Send him up.”
She leaned back in her chair, hands clasping her head. There was a disgruntled smile on her face. She was thinking about Simon Riske. She couldn’t keep from wondering how he’d managed to slip the cigarette back into the tin. She’d kept the box closed during their conversation and was certain she’d seen him put the cigarette into his jacket pocket.
Then there was the scar on his forehead. Car accident, she decided, though she was sure any trained surgeon would have done a neater job stitching it. She’d been mistaken in her assessment of the man. He was hardly as polished a customer as he wanted people to think.