The Take(67)

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.”

“Give me the number. I’ll see if I can get a fix on it.”

Valentina read off the number.

“That’s a start. How quickly can you get down there?”

“Trains run every hour.”

“Call me when you know. Get some sleep on the ride. You’ve been going at it a long time. Hopefully, I’ll have something on his whereabouts by the time you arrive.”

“Another thing: I saw the man who’s looking for Coluzzi.”

“Riske? We drew a blank on that name. You’re certain?”

“Try ‘Simon Ledoux.’ Apparently he worked with Coluzzi years ago.”

“First he’s an investigator for a British firm. Now he’s a criminal. You’re certain it’s the same man?”

“Absolutely. He was at the hotel yesterday.”

“If you see him again, you know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you?” asked Borodin. “How are you holding up?”

“I am fine.”

“You’re certain?”

Valentina took a last look at Falconi and closed the bedroom door. “Positive.”





Chapter 37



Simon stood at the entry of 41 Rue Charlot, reading the directory of tenants. “Falconi, L.” was third from the bottom, a buzzer next to it. “He’s not hiding.”

“Go ahead,” said Nikki. “Ring it.”

Simon pressed the button. He looked at Nikki as he waited for Falconi to ask who was there. No one answered. He pressed the button again. “Must be out for an early walk.”

“Or maybe a workout at his gym,” said Nikki. “He looked like a CrossFitter.” She stepped back and gazed up at the building. “Did the StingRay tell you what floor he’s on, too?”

“One through six. Can’t be too hard to find.” He looked through the glass door at a dark, deserted lobby. Either he could wait for someone to leave the building or he could take matters into his own hands. He eyed the lock, an old Kwikset. “Come here,” he said, motioning her closer.

Nikki stepped nearer.

“Closer. Like you’re giving me a hug.”

Nikki held her ground. “What for?”

“Please,” he said as politely as possible.

Nikki approached so that she was brushing against his chest. He pulled her closer still, and for a moment, they were face-to-face. Content that no passersby could see what he was up to, he removed his pick kit from his pocket, selecting a slim rake and one slightly fatter. He slid both into the lock, sawing back and forth until the tumblers released. “Open it,” he said.

Nikki pushed down on the handle and the door opened inward. “First illegal eavesdropping, now breaking and entering. I can’t wait to see what laws we’ll break by lunchtime.”

“After you,” said Simon, slipping his kit back into his pocket.

Falconi lived in a modern apartment building, which in Paris meant it had been built sometime after the Second World War. There was a small elevator with a door that opened outward and a stone stairway that wound around a central court. Two apartments shared each floor. Nameplates beside the doors indicated the occupants. They found the one with Falconi’s name on the top floor.