“Something like that.”
Jojo perked up. “Where you been all these years?”
“Here and there. I’m not in the game anymore.”
Jojo gave him a dubious look. “Then why do you want Tino?”
“He has something that belongs to me.”
“Sounds like him.”
“You know that thing in Paris? That was him.”
“Oh?” Jojo didn’t look surprised. Clearly, he’d considered the possibility himself. “You a cop?”
Simon shook his head. “Coluzzi stole something besides the money that I need to get back.”
“That sonuvabitch. I asked him if he was behind that. That was our M.O. all over again. He said I was crazy.”
“What did he want?”
“Came in here asking if I knew any Russians.”
“Russians? That’s odd. Do you?”
“One. Alexei Ren.”
“And?”
“He wanted my seats to the game so he could meet him.”
“Did he?”
“Don’t know. We didn’t part on the best of terms. We had an argument about some things in the past. That job in Paris wasn’t all that he was bullshitting me about.”
“Your hand?”
Jojo frowned. “He’s always been good with a blade.”
“Know where he is?”
“If he’s not at his place, he’s probably shacked up in that rat hole of his down the coast.”
“You ever been?”
Jojo shook his head. “Luca Falconi helped him build it. He said he liked the place because it was near his favorite bar. That one on the beach. Le Bilboquet.”
Simon remembered the picture of Coluzzi and Falconi in front of the beach bar. He’d left it in his briefcase. “Thanks, Jojo. And by the way, it wasn’t me who ratted out our guys. It was Tino.”
“How do you know?”
“Who’s the one took three bullets that day? Who’s the one got sentenced to six years at Les Baums?”
“Tino went to Perpignan.”
“For two months.”
“So you say.”
Simon smiled to himself. No one liked to admit they’d been betrayed or taken advantage of, for fear it made them look stupid or somehow deserving of it. This went double for crooks. He took out his cellphone and brought up the photos of the documents showing that Coluzzi was a confidential informant for the Marseille police.
“These for real?”
“Do they look real?” Simon took back the phone. “Where’s Tino been living these last few years?”
“Last place he had was over in Aubagne.”
Simon finished his espresso and stood. “Looking good, Jojo.”
“You too, Ledoux. Decide to get back into the game, let me know. Plenty of work.”
“Sure thing, Jojo.”
Simon started for the back door.
“Hey, what about my piece?” called Jojo.
Simon answered without turning. “I’m going to hang on to it for a while. You mind?”
Chapter 60
The door to the interrogation room closed, and Nikki listened as a key turned and the tumbler slammed home. The room was a three-meter-by-three-meter square with a linoleum floor, a table decorated with cigarette burns, and two plastic chairs. This was not voluntary. She was not doing Frank Mazot or any of his colleagues a favor. She was being held against her will. Upon entering, Mazot had politely confiscated her phone and not so politely relieved her of her weapon. The only thing separating her from official status as a prisoner was an arrest report similar to those she’d spent the last hour studying.
She sat down, clasped her hands on the table, and gazed out the windows at the squad room where a dozen cops sat at their desks trying hard not to pay attention to her. Mazot and Duvivier stood near the hall, deep in conversation, venturing a glance in her direction every once in a while. She stayed where she was, smiling vaguely, wondering if Simon was on his way to pick her up.
Her career was officially over. She wouldn’t be fired, at least not right away. Short of committing capital murder or joining the ranks of ISIS, it was nearly impossible to be fired from a government job in France. But there were worse fates. A transfer from anti-gang to traffic enforcement with a demotion and decrease in pay thrown in. Or a move to the drug brigade, her days spent patrolling the grim housing estates on the outskirts of the city, harassing pimps and dealers. Or worst, a two-year suspension to be served in the “crazy room,” where you sat nine hours a day doing nothing but reading the newspaper and watching television.
Any way she looked at it, her fish was fried.
Contemplating her future, Nikki fidgeted in her chair, her nail digging into the palm of her hand. Simon had been right. Neill had been keeping track of them all along. She didn’t know what Neill was playing at, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it. She was on Simon’s side. Her only chance at salvaging her career lay in bringing in Tino Coluzzi along with evidence proving that he was behind the hijacking in Paris. To make that happen, she needed to get out of here.
After a while she stood and walked casually to the door. She knew it was locked, but she tried it all the same. She continued her circuit, aware of the eyes on her. There were several avenues of escape. She could launch a chair through the window, hop the sill into the squad room, and make a run for it. Or she could use one of the chairs to break off the door handle and similarly try her luck dodging through the desks to the hall, then down the stairs. Or…
Nikki cut short her foolish plotting and returned to her seat.
It was over.
Fini.
Strangely, she felt worst for letting down Riske.
Just then, a detective signaled to Frank Mazot, holding up a phone, an old-fashioned landline. Nikki watched as Mazot took the call, his eyes shifting toward her. He put down the phone and came over to the interrogation room.
“Call for you,” he said, poking his head inside the door. “Commissaire Dumont. Warning: he’s pissed.”
Nikki left the interrogation room and picked up the phone. “You found me.”
“I never lost you,” said Simon Riske. “Just nod and say yes, and make sure you wipe any silly look off your face right now.”
“Yes,” said Nikki.
“I called your phone fifteen minutes ago. Some guy answered, wouldn’t give his name. I thought you might be in trouble. Am I right?”
“Yes, Commissaire, you are. Frank Mazot and his friend Colonel Duvivier, formerly of the DGSE, have me under lock and key until their friend arrives. Mr. Neill from the CIA.”
“Neill’s down here already? You’ve got to get out.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” she said. Then quietly, “Hey, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. The information you gave me came in handy. Coluzzi’s in town. I’ve got the address of his place over in Aubagne. There’s more. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“It might be a while.”
“I’m parked out front. I’m in the red car. Can’t miss me.”
“Red, seriously? What kind?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Oh Christ. You didn’t?”
“Can you get out?”
“That’s a tough one.”
“They really got you under lock and key?”
Nikki said yes. Mazot was shooting the breeze with another detective, keeping one eye on her. Across the room, Duvivier guarded the door like a watchdog, arms crossed, staring at her as if she’d murdered his wife and children.
“Where are you? First floor? Squad room?”
“Yep. You know it?”
“Know it? I was practically raised there. Tell me one thing. Is there still a broken window in one corner, just above the water pipes? Big crack going right down the middle shaped like a lightning bolt.”
“It’s been almost twenty years,” said Nikki dismissively, surveying the room all the same. “No way it’s still—”
“Well?”
She’d spotted the window and the lightning-bolt-shaped crack. It wasn’t easy. The glass was so thick with grime no sunlight had penetrated it for…“It’s there.”
“Then we’re safe to assume not much else has changed.”