by Sam Christer
Thirty miles and forty minutes further on, he struggles through another jam at a toll road rolling out to Savona. He tries to drown out blaring horns by switching on the radio. As he finally picks up speed, he realises his attention has been so focused on looking for the dark-blue cruisers of the Carabinieri or the paler blue and white ones of the Polizia that he has barely noticed the strange mix of urban and agricultural areas flashing past the Bravo’s windows. The thin winter light is already fading as the satnav interrupts his thoughts to announce his estimated arrival time – he’s still more than two hours away from his chosen destination.
The delay might actually be a good thing. With any luck he’ll catch Broussard relaxing safely in his own home. Nic doesn’t have a picture of the scientist, just Erica’s description – tall and thin, elegant with silver-grey hair and an immaculately trimmed grey beard. Easy to spot. There’s a Madame Broussard too – Ursula. Small and round. Dark haired with small hands like a hamster. He thought it funny how Erica described her like that.
Nic faithfully follows the navigation system’s emotionless commands and comes off at the Savona toll exit. He must be about halfway there. The main question playing on his mind is whether he’s ahead of or behind the man who killed Mario Sacconi and his lover – the man he believes also murdered Tamara Jacobs.
And if he is behind him – by how much? Nic glances at the upcoming signs illuminated by the stream of headlights. He’s just entering France. He’ll have the answers to his questions soon enough.
123
DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES
The factory runs only a skeleton staff on a Saturday. Partly because of the recession but mainly because few of the women will work weekends. Times are tough but the lure of being poor in the Californian sunshine beats being a few bucks richer inside a sweatshop any day of the week – especially Saturday.
John James finds himself in his office, unable to concentrate. He’s thinking about Kim Bass. It was a clumsy kill. Maybe even an unnecessary one – a taking of life for the wrong reasons. Normally things are clear. Those needing to be helped to the other side are complete strangers. God guides him to them. Picks them out as surely as lighting a beacon over their heads.
Bass was different. She was known to him. A blatant enemy of the woman he loved. Still loves. He’s tormented by the thought that anger and hatred were why he killed her.
Not God’s will, just payback for all her bullying of Em.
Then there is Em herself. God had brought them together. Shown him that another person could stir him in ways he had never imagined. But had he misunderstood? Were those yearnings good or bad? He had certainly felt different with Em. His emotions were churned up. His affection for her had made him feel different about everything – about life, and even death.
He has begun to question himself. Was it all a test of his faith? Like when Jesus fasted in the desert and Satan tempted him to turn stones into bread? Yes. That’s what Em had been. A test of faith. And he failed. He’d read about how weak men had been diverted from their holy missions by the wiles of women. Now he understands. Satan has been at work.
He puts a hand under his shirt and feels the scabs forming over the last razor cuts. He hasn’t hurt himself enough. Not paid sufficient penance for the pain he caused God. He scratches his nails repeatedly across his stomach until he sees blood on his fingertips. JJ bows his head and prays for forgiveness. Prays not only for the soul of the woman he loved, but also for that of Kim Bass, the woman he never should have killed.
124
FRANCE
A hundred miles along the A10, Nic joins the A8, then takes the exit marked Nice-Nord.
Even in the dark he can see that this is a place he’d like to spend some time. Time getting lost in the little villages spread out across the winding hillside roads. Lingering in a seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean. Time on anything other than chasing a killer.
He’s more tired than he thought. The realisation comes as he takes the boat-like people carrier too quickly into a roundabout and he hears the squeal of rubber when he straightens her up. Not good. Very not good, given the kind of enemy who waits in the dark for him. He sharpens up his act as he loops around again to make the exit into Boulevard Paul Rémond.
The twists and turns come quickly now. Right at Boulevard Comte de Falicon, right at Avenue du Ray, left at Boulevard Cessole, onto Gambetta, left into Rue du Maréchal Joffre, right into Rue de Rivoli and out onto the Promenade des Anglais. The computerised voice announces that in three hundred metres he will arrive at his destination.
Destiny.
He parks a hundred metres from the grand house of Édouard Broussard and turns off the engine. He checks the gun Goria gave him, leaves the vehicle and makes the last part of the journey on foot.
125
BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES
Joe’s Steak and Surf is painted fairground reds and racing greens and looks like a poor man’s Frankie and Benny’s. The place is buzzing because Joe does a three-course meal deal with a glass of wine for $10 a head.
Mitzi and Jenny Harrison sit at a red plastic banquette near the kitchen. Harrison finds her appetite and has a starter of refried potato skins, then an eight-ounce steak, skinny fries and a pile of garden peas as hard as buckshot.
‘You want dessert?’ The question comes from their middle-aged waitress, whose badge declares her to be Suzie. ‘Pecan pie, chocolate brownie or ice cream assortment is included in the set price menu.’
Mitzi fishes a wad of single dollars out of her purse and hunts for some rare fives or tens. ‘We’ll skip it, thanks.’
Suzie’s not used to people passing on free dessert. ‘You sure? I can pack pie for you to go.’
She’s about to say no again, when Jenny jumps in. ‘Okay, we’ll take the pie.’
Suzie cracks a thin smile and disappears.
Mitzi finishes counting out the cash. ‘I saw the pictures of you and Kim on your fridge. Seems you were good friends.’
‘We went to school together. She was like a sister to me. We hung out all the time.’
‘You and her turn tricks together?’
For a second she thinks about lying. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Piss off anyone recently?’
‘A john you mean?’
‘Aha.’
She thinks a minute. ‘Not that I can recall. Most go away more than satisfied.’
‘You seen a lot of guys together over say the past two to three months?’
Now Harrison looks worried.
‘This is between you and me, not the IRS or anyone else. I’m only interested in who Kim was seeing.’
‘There are some regulars.’ She takes a beat but doesn’t have the energy to censor things like she normally does. ‘We got this guy who looks after us too. Sometimes – you know – he expects us both to do him.’
Mitzi gives her a maternal look. ‘Life’s a shit and most times the guys in it are the reasons why. They’re just shit-making machines.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that.’
‘We get to the station house, I need names and numbers – the pimp, the johns, boyfriends, ex-lovers, okay?’
Jenny’s in too deep to do anything other than nod in agreement.
Mitzi holds off the questions as Suzie the waitress returns. ‘Here you go. I put pie and brownie in there. I hope you enjoy.’
‘Sure someone will.’ Mitzi gets to her feet and hands over a white saucer with the money for the meal and a $5 tip. ‘Thanks for looking after us.’
‘My pleasure.’
Harrison stands and takes the dessert box as the waitress drifts away. Her stomach grumbles from the shock of being fed after so long. ‘Hey, will that cop leave my busted front door open when he goes?’
‘No, don’t worry. We’ll get a new lock fitted and you can collect the key when we’re at the station house.’ Mitzi holds the restaurant door for her. ‘Have you been broken into before?’
‘Yeah. Co
uple of times. Most people have. Probably one of the bitches next door.’
They take the short walk up the block to the car. Mitzi zaps the central locking and goes round the driver’s side. ‘You lose anything?’ She gives her a stern look over the roof, . ‘You really lose anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘Don’t think so. Maybe my phone. I’m not sure, though. I got pretty wasted last night and could have left it or dropped it somewhere.’
Mitzi climbs in the car and waits until Harrison’s inside and buckling up. ‘The phone, was it contract or pay-as-you-go?’
‘Contract. I got a deal – cheaper in the end than running burners. It’s due an update. I thought I might get one of those adenoids.’
Mitzi laughs as she starts the engine. ‘Android. You mean android.’ She puts a finger to her face. ‘Adenoids are glands at the back of your nose, near your throat.’
‘Damn!’ Harrison laughs. ‘I’ve been saying adenoid for months.’
126
FRANCE
Two steps from the car, Nic smells salt and hears the roar of the Med churning foamy breakers in the darkness off to his left. The fact that his case started on the dunes of Manhattan Beach and may end on the sandy shores of the Côte d’Azur is not lost on him.
There’s an uncomfortable tension in the air. One he’s not felt since the day he put down the phone in his apartment and realised his wife and child had gone for a walk without him.
Death is in the air.
He’s close to Tamara’s killer. Close to a force that can end an innocent life without remorse.
Édouard Broussard’s 1920s villa is ostentatiously lit by the golden glow of security lights and is clearly visible from the historic Promenade des Anglais. Set back on a rising corner plot behind elegant stone walls, it’s a prime piece of real estate, with long, thin windows and a grand double-staircase of white steps leading to a giant mahogany entrance door.
Nic’s way is blocked by black wrought-iron gates. He presses a button on a brass nameplate and waits.
A French voice – female, refined and mature – crackles out from a recessed speaker. ‘Bonsoir.’ It’s more a question than a greeting. ‘Qui est la?’
‘Hello, I need to speak to Monsieur Broussard.’
She replies in English. ‘Who is there?’
A faint light blinks high above Nic’s head. He sees there’s a video camera linked to the intercom. ‘Ma’am, I’m Nic Karakandez from the Los Angeles Police Department.’ He digs out his shield and holds it up to the lens. ‘This is my identification. I’m happy to give you the phone number of my supervisor at the LAPD.’
The crackle stops and now there is only silence. Nic watches the side street and main road as he waits. Thankfully, there’s no sign he’s been followed. An electronic buzz releases the gates and they swing open. He walks through and hears them stop and then start to shut behind him.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the stone steps, the large entrance door has opened and a tall, distinguished man with silver-grey hair and beard is studying his approach.
He’s sure it’s Édouard Broussard. He allows himself a smile. He’d feared he’d be too late. Convinced himself he’d be walking in to find another butchered body – or two.
‘Monsieur Broussard?’
‘Oui. Bonsoir.’ He deftly pulls the door behind him, anxious his wife doesn’t hear anything she shouldn’t. ‘What is it you want?’
The detective shows his badge again. ‘I really need to come inside and talk to you. I believe your life – and that of your wife – are in danger.’
Broussard looks sceptical.
Nic reads the doubt in his eyes. ‘I’ve just come from Turin. Mario Sacconi has been murdered. I think both you and I know why.’
Fear falls like a shadow on the scientist’s face. He swings his front door open. ‘Please.’
Nic walks past him into a closed lobby floored in thick coir matting. An antique coat stand dominates one corner, like a thin, brown sentry.
Broussard locks and bolts the front door, then leads the way across a gleaming, marble-floored reception lit by a giant teardrop chandelier and lined with large, gold-framed mirrors. He twists the polished brass handle of a glossy white-panelled door and steps into a spacious windowless study. ‘We can talk in here. I use this as my home office, it is secure.’
Nic glances at the oak-clad walls and imagines that behind them there are safes, cupboards and drawers filled with secrets of paternity and criminal defence cases. ‘I’d really like you to ask your wife to join us.’
Broussard frowns. ‘Why?’
The detective pulls open the right side of his jacket and reveals the Beretta. ‘So I can protect you. If Mario’s killer comes here and you’re in separate rooms, at least one of you is going to die.’
127
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
The interview room is a whole lot less friendly than Joe’s Steak and Surf but with a cigarette and a cup of coffee Harrison’s still talking and writing down names of the johns. Truth be known, she quite likes this female cop. She’s not as much of a ball-breaking bitch as most of them are. Probably because she’s murder police and not vice or drugs. ‘That’s about it.’ She pushes the sheet with six names on it across the melamine tabletop to Mitzi.
‘You think any of these would have wanted to hurt Kim?’
Harrison rubs her fingers in her hair like she’s scratching for bugs. Just thinking about Kim lying dead on the floor makes it pound. ‘Marlon maybe.’
‘The pimp?’
She nods and draws hard on the last inch of her cigarette.
‘He beat you both up?’
‘No more than most do.’
‘How bad?’
‘Me? Nothing – a slap here or there when I got mouthy. But one time he let loose and broke two of Kim’s teeth.’
The comment makes Mitzi think of Alfie and maybe for the first time she feels truly glad to be free of him.
‘He paid for the caps, though.’ Harrison smiles. ‘Nice set. Guess he thought he’d lose money if he didn’t. I mean, no one wants to be blown by a vampire, do they?’
Mitzi thinks she’d like to blow Marlon – blow his scumbag head clean off his shoulders with a .45. ‘Pimp aside, what about boyfriends or ex-boyfriends?’ She pushes a clean sheet of paper across the table. ‘Names and addresses of any significant others in the past two years.’
‘Significant?’ Harrison laughs. ‘Kim should have been so lucky. Guys saw her as a dime piece.’
‘Okay to toss from one friend to another.’
‘You got it.’
‘Was there ever anyone who meant anything to her?’
She thinks on it. ‘There was one guy. She hung out with him for about six months, till his wife found out.’
Mitzi taps the paper. ‘Name.’
‘D’rick Watts.’ She starts to write it out. ‘Fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.’
‘Why she like him?’
‘Dunno. He was kind to her. Bought her stuff sometimes. Not many guys do that. Lives over the tile shop at the Pomona Freeway end of East 6th. I can’t remember the name of it. Watch for his old lady, she got a temper.’
‘What about Kim’s family, any beef there?’
‘Like I told the uniform, she got no folks. Never knew her old man and her mom ran out when she was a kid in Vegas. She was brought up in care homes and some fostering.’
The interview room door squeaks open and the big moonface of Deke Matthews rises through the gap. ‘Fallon, step out here a minute.’
Mitzi looks towards Jenny. ‘How could a girl refuse?’
The captain holds the door, then shuts it behind her once Mitzi’s walked through. ‘Have you heard from Karakandez?’
‘Not had the pleasure.’
‘Then you better call the son of a bitch and find out what the hell he’s been playing at.’
‘Captain?’
‘I’ve
just had a call from the Carabinieri in Turin. Nicky boy and a private investigator broke into a house today – one where two adults were subsequently found dead.’
‘Dead?’
He glares at her. ‘You want me to explain dead?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Karakandez then fled, having first interfered with the scene and removed forensic evidence.’
‘This can’t be as it seems, Captain.’
‘You’re right, Detective – it can’t be.’ He looks past her into the interview room. ‘Sort out that low-life in there, get hold of your boy and clear this mess up before I have the Commissioner coming down here with a bat for my balls.’
Matthews storms off. Mitzi takes a beat before re-entering the interview room. She has to force herself to stop thinking about Nic and focus again on the murder. She pins on a smile for Harrison and picks up the questioning. ‘Was Kim working over the last few weeks?’
Harrison gives her a sideward look.
‘Day job – not night work.’
Now she understands. ‘Yeah. We work the same place. Pull in minimum wage at a sweat shop in the fashion district.’
‘Where?’
‘Fahed Fabrics, West Olympic Boulevard. I got her the job.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Sewing. Cutting. Piecing trash together. Mainly bed sheets, curtains, stuff like that.’
LA’s fashion district covers a hundred blocks. Mitzi knows it inside out. Running a home on short purse strings means frequenting reject shops and warehouse sales. ‘A lot of she cats thrown together. I guess that can lead to some fights.’