“I watched you go in at ten thirty. You came out with your buddies after midnight.”
“You were there at ten thirty?”
“Surprised you didn’t spot me?” she asked with more than a hint of pride.
“Embarrassed. I try to keep a sharp eye.”
Simon turned back to the laptop. According to the StingRay, six calls had been placed between midnight and three from within twenty meters of the bar. Nikki pulled up a chair in order to look. A list of phone numbers belonging to callers along with the handset owners’ names filled one box. The same information for the numbers they called filled an adjacent box.
Simon scrolled down the first list. “Got it,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Twelve sixteen. Outgoing call from a handset registered to Luca J. Falconi to an unregistered phone lasting two minutes.”
“You think it’s Coluzzi?”
“I don’t think he was calling his mother.” Simon plugged the GPS coordinates of the recipient’s phone into Google Maps. A circle the size of a pencil eraser appeared near the city of Marseille. “Darn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Whoever Falconi was calling was using a burner.”
“How can you tell?”
“The handset only gives its location to within ten kilometers. Typical of cheap throwaways. The better the chip, the more accurate it is. Even so, that’s him. That’s Coluzzi.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s where we grew up,” said Simon. “He’s gone home to hide out.”
“Can we listen to the call?”
“Depends. If you don’t set it to pick up a specific number, the StingRay only records three calls at a time. Falconi’s was the fifth call it picked up. If it was still recording the others, we’re out of luck.”
Nikki scooted closer to the desk, closer to Simon, her eyes glued to the computer.
He double-clicked on Falconi’s number. All information pertaining to his handset appeared: date of manufacture and last software update, along with his name, home address, credit card number, and more.
“Well?” she asked.
Simon pointed to an icon of a musical quarter note in the final column next to Falconi’s number. The note meant the call had been recorded. “We got him.”
He hit PLAY. Nikki reached over and paused the recording before it began.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“This is an invasion of Luca Falconi’s privacy. No warrant from a judge. We haven’t even opened up a case against him.”
“He tried to kill me. Isn’t that good enough?”
“No. It’s not,” she said, then after further consideration: “None of this is admissible in a court of law, anyway.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“We’re the good guys, right?”
“Last I looked.”
Nikki shrugged. “Screw him. He doesn’t deserve to have his rights respected.”
Simon hit PLAY.
“Yeah, Luca,” said Tino Coluzzi. “What is it?”
“Something’s up. A guy’s in here asking about you.”
“Recognize him?” asked Coluzzi.
“Never seen him before, but he says he knows you.”
It was Coluzzi after all these years. The smooth, assured voice, the clip to his accent. The words unleashed an avalanche of memories, none good. They listened without comment.
“Know him?” said Tino Coluzzi. “I killed him.”
“Well, whoever this Simon Ledoux is, he’s alive. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Finish it.”
The call ended.
“So this isn’t just about the letter,” said Nikki. “I mean, why you’re here.”
“No. It isn’t.” Simon went back to studying the call log. “Doesn’t look like Falconi placed any other calls.”
“Anyone else call him after the fight?”
“Lots, but I don’t recognize any names. Nothing to Marseille. Hold it.”
“What?”
An interesting number caught his eye. A country code he recognized but could find no reason for it being there: 7 for Russia; 495 for Moscow. “Someone called Moscow at twelve fifteen.”
“From the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Who does the phone belong to?”
“No name. No billing address. All registration information is a blank. All I can say is that Russphon is the service provider.”
Nikki bit her lip. It was odd, if not impossible, for a phone to be issued without some data about its owner. “Who did they call?”
Simon double-clicked on the number. “Nothing there either. All we know is that both phones come from Moscow.” He checked the respondent’s GPS on Google Maps. The coordinates corresponded to a place in the southwestern suburbs of the Russian capital. “Some place called Yasenevo.”
“Can we listen?”
Simon spotted the quarter note, indicating that a recording of the call had been made. “StingRay nabbed that one, too.” He hit PLAY. A high-pitched screeching tone shot from the computer. He stopped the recording.
“What was that?” asked Nikki.
“The phone is encrypted. Whoever it belongs to made sure no one could listen in.”
“Is that uncommon?”
“Depends on who the phone belongs to.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not uncommon if you’re a spy.”
“Is that who else wants the letter?”
Simon recalled telling Neill his belief that the other side—regardless of who they were—would be coming for the letter, too. He input the Russian caller’s number into StingRay, requesting a log of calls the phone had made in the last twenty-four hours. He was not prepared for what appeared next.
“Whoever called Moscow from Le Galleon Rouge placed another call to the same number ten minutes ago.” His eyes danced across the screen. “Oh no,” he said.
“What is it?”
Simon pointed to the column indicating the location of the caller. “This call was made from Luca Falconi’s home.”
Chapter 36
Valentina Asanova greeted the dawn in an anxious frame of mind. Standing naked in Luca Falconi’s kitchen, she stared out the window over a sea of mansard rooftops, drinking the espresso of which he was so proud. Though the beverage had long since grown cold, she couldn’t deny its sharp, zesty flavor. He was right. He did make a mean espresso.
Falconi would not be joining her. He was no longer in any condition to drink an espresso with her or anyone else.
Valentina finished the coffee, then washed the cup with soap and hot water, using a dish towel to ensure no fingerprints were left behind. Afterward, she spent a quarter hour passing through the apartment, wiping down any surface she might have touched. She paid particular care to the bedroom. Finally, she gathered Falconi’s clothing, folded it neatly, and set it on top of his dresser.
Finished, she observed the mutilated body. There were cuts on his belly and his feet, and one finger was missing. Falconi had talked freely and volubly. He admitted to his roles in the robbery and to having recruited the gang on behalf of Tino Coluzzi, who he named as its ringleader. He was less forthcoming about Coluzzi’s present location.
Death when it came was painless, relatively speaking. She’d nicked his carotid artery and watched him bleed out, studying his eyes as pain was replaced by fear, then acceptance, and, finally, nothing at all.
She returned to Falconi’s bedroom and rummaged in his closet for suitable clothing. She’d done her best to shield her face from the security camera when she’d entered the building. She had no intention of giving the authorities anything more than necessary. She came away with a loose-fitting leather jacket, a driving cap, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Hardly ideal but they would do in a pinch. Trousers were a problem, given Falconi’s girth. She settled on a pair of corduroys only ten sizes too large, rolled up the cuffs, then made a new notch in one of Falconi’s belts, to keep them from falling to the floor.
Before dressing, she placed a call to Vassily Borodin.
“Coluzzi’s in Marseille,” she said. “Holed up at a place called Le Coual.”
“What’s that?”
“A rat hole he built for himself outside the city. Even his closest friends don’t know its exact location.”
“You’re sure.”
She looked at Falconi’s body. “Positive.”
“Do you have a phone number? Anything we can track?”
“Falconi may have called him last night, but I’m not sure.”