“See anything?”
“Not sure,” said Simon, but in fact he’d spotted several indentations made by a pen and a firm hand. Opening the top drawer, he found a pencil, and placing his index finger above the lead, brushed it vigorously across the page. A number appeared. Then another. Soon the page was colored over in lead…except for six phone numbers all beginning with the Paris city code. Above them, clearest of all, were the initials “T.C.”
“Nice,” said Nikki, looking over his shoulder.
Simon picked up the sheet. “The first number is the one Falconi called from Le Galleon Rouge.”
“To Coluzzi?”
Simon nodded. “I’m guessing the other numbers are his, too.”
“Burners he can use and throw away. We can’t get taps on them without a warrant.”
“You can’t, maybe. I’m going to give them to my friend, Mr. Neill. If he wants that letter, he’ll pass them along to his pals at the National Security Agency. They’ll do whatever they do, and when Coluzzi uses these numbers, we’ll be listening in.”
“Didn’t you say Neill didn’t want to be involved?”
“I said he didn’t want to be seen to be involved,” said Simon. “You can’t see who’s listening in on your calls.”
“Are you done here?”
“Think so.”
“Okay, then. Follow me.” In the kitchen, Nikki pointed to two snifters in the sink. She picked one up. “Still warm. Whoever did this cleaned up after himself.”
“Not him. Her.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t see Falconi asking a buddy to come over at one in the morning to listen to old disco music and have a drink.”
“Maybe he’s gay.”
“Doubtful. Besides, I think I saw her at the bar last night.”
Simon related his suspicions about the attractive blond woman he’d seen seated next to Falconi at Le Galleon Rouge. At the time, he’d thought her out of place, not only for the establishment but for chumming up with Falconi.
“She’s the one who called Moscow?” asked Nikki.
“That’s my guess.”
“There’s a camera on the front door downstairs.”
“I noticed.”
“We’ll need to contact the building manager.”
“Not necessarily.”
“There’s been a murder. We’re calling in a homicide.”
“Not a good idea.”
“I already told you, Riske, I’m not a bad cop. I bend the rules. I don’t break them.”
“Think it through, Nikki. You’ll have to explain why we’re here and how we got in. You can forget about nailing Coluzzi. Once your superiors learn you were acting on information you got from a StingRay—my StingRay—you can forget about ever getting off administrative duty.”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my career. I don’t need an ex-con passing himself off as a gentleman to give me advice.”
“It’s nothing you don’t already know. I’m just laying it out for you.”
“I suppose I should thank you. Do you want me to curtsy, too?”
“Just help me find Coluzzi. He’s your ‘Get Out of Jail’ card.”
Nikki stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, Simon heard the front door open. “Shut the door on your way out,” she called. “And lock it.”
The building’s surveillance and security apparatus was located in a cramped suite of rooms on the ground floor. Again, the lock proved no obstacle. A black-and-white multiplex broadcast feeds from two cameras. One showed the lobby. The other was trained on a rear entrance in the alley behind the building. The recording system was at least twenty years old, with video from each stored on a rewritable CD.
Simon rewound the machine recording images from the lobby until the time stamp read 12:30. A fast play mode allowed him to speed up images.
“Stop,” said Nikki. “There he is.”
It was not easy to miss Falconi entering the building at 1:15.
Simon hit PLAY, and they viewed Falconi and his female companion enter the lobby and cross to the elevator. The camera was situated high in a corner and did not offer a clear frontal view of either. But it was enough.
“That’s her,” he said.
Nikki looked more closely at the monitor. “The picture is a mess. Can we clean it up?”
“Not here.” Simon froze the picture as Falconi and the woman entered the elevator. For an instant, the woman’s face could be seen in a mirror at the back of the elevator. Simon snapped a photo of the monitor with his phone. “We got her.”
“Not much help.”
“Not now, maybe. With Photoshop we can enhance it enough to get a better idea of what she looks like.”
“And then?”
“For a start, we’ll know who else is looking for Tino Coluzzi. I don’t want that woman sneaking up on me.”
“What time did she leave?”
Simon forwarded the playback to 5:30, when the elevator door opened and a short man in a driving cap and heavy coat emerged, walked briskly—head down—across the lobby, and left the building. “Look at the rolled up cuffs,” said Simon. “She’s wearing Falconi’s clothes.”
“Where do you think she’s going?”
“If we know Coluzzi’s in Marseille, so does she.”
Simon returned the recording equipment to its preset values and announced that he was finished. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nikki left the room. He turned off the lights behind her, casually slipping the CD with the woman’s image, as well as his and Nikki’s, into his pocket.
As they walked to her motorcycle, he checked the schedule for the next TGV to Marseille. “Think we can make the nine sixteen?”
“We?”
“You want to miss out on all the fun?”
“I’m on duty at eight.”
“Call in sick.”
“Out of the question.”
“I thought you wanted to get him.”
“I wouldn’t have come this far if I didn’t. Marseille is another département. An entirely different jurisdiction.”
“A crime’s a crime no matter where it’s committed.”
Nikki gave him a tired look. “This isn’t bending the rules, it’s nuking them. I like my job. I’m not going to throw it away for you.”
“They can’t fire you if you bring in Coluzzi.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Riske. If you need some help from the police in Marseille, ask your friend, the commissaire. I’m sure he’ll be able to recommend someone.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what I should have done all along. I’m going to call in the homicide, tell the lieutenant everything I know about who killed Falconi, and pass along the information that Tino Coluzzi was responsible for the robbery. I’m sorry if that puts a crimp in your plan to retrieve this all-important letter.”
“I understand,” said Simon.
“No, you don’t, but that’s the way it is.” Nikki walked to her motorcycle and climbed on.
“You’re sure?”
“My shift started five minutes ago. I’m late. Bon voyage.”
Simon stepped back as Nikki fired up her bike and disappeared into morning traffic.
Chapter 38
Valentina was not at Orly Airport. Nor was she aboard one of her country’s aircraft en route to Marseille. Though she could not know it, Vassily Borodin, despite a budget of over ten billion dollars and a multitude of resources at his disposal, was unable to provide one of the SVR’s jets to transport her to Marseille. Chartering a plane meant paperwork, and paperwork required opening a case file, and a case file required providing the name of a case officer. As Valentina’s work for Borodin was a private matter, and she had not yet been officially reassigned to his complement of covert operatives, her activities were strictly off the record.
There was no case. Thus, there could be no jet.