But like a long-recovering alcoholic who one evening smells his favorite whiskey and asks “Why not?,” Simon had quashed any misguided notions about his past or what might be gained from returning to it. Seeing the Château d’If sparkling beneath the midday sun and the twin forts guarding the entry to the old port, he felt solid and at ease, satisfied of what he’d made of himself and eager to continue in the same vein. He’d left Marseille as a prisoner and returned a free man.
The American author was wrong. The past might not be dead. But it was definitely past.
A modern commercial development had sprung up adjacent to the new port. There were boutiques and wine merchants and a slew of small restaurants with tables and chairs set out front. A parking space opened and he grabbed it.
“Hey,” said Nikki. “Why are we stopping?”
Simon pointed to a chalkboard advertising the day’s specials. “Bouillabaisse, fifteen euros.”
“We have time?”
Simon opened the door. “Eat quickly.”
Back in the car, Nikki said, “So where do we start?”
“City of a million. Should be easy.” Simon eased into traffic, driving through the tunnel that ran beneath the port, then up the hill into the center of the city. “How are your contacts at Marseille PD? Any old pals that owe you a favor?”
“One or two.”
“Anyone you can trust?”
“One,” said Nikki. “Maybe.”
“I need anything you can find on Coluzzi. If there’s a piece of paper with his name on it, I want to see it.”
The headquarters of the Marseille police department was located in a block of white concrete across the street from the Cathédrale la Major. Simon pulled to the curb a block away. Nikki jumped out and ran to a nearby kiosk. She returned five minutes later carrying two cellphones in their packaging. After activating both, Simon called her phone so that both had the other’s number.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“The old neighborhood.”
Nikki looked both ways, then slipped him her pistol. “Just in case they don’t like you any better than Falconi and his friends.”
He looked at it, immediately thinking of where to stash it. “No,” he said, catching himself falling into old habits. “I don’t work that way.”
“Sure?”
“I’ll try and be more careful this time.”
“Do that.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Depends on how much I’m going to find.”
“If you don’t find a lot, you’re not looking hard enough.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Someone high up recommended Coluzzi to Neill. We’re talking cooperation between intelligence agencies at an international level. They didn’t pick Coluzzi’s name out of a hat.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s been doing this for a while.”
“You think he started with you?”
“September 1999. Look me up while you’re at it.”
