He hit PLAY. Nikki reached over and paused the recording before it began.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“This is an invasion of Luca Falconi’s privacy. No warrant from a judge. We haven’t even opened up a case against him.”
“He tried to kill me. Isn’t that good enough?”
“No. It’s not,” she said, then after further consideration: “None of this is admissible in a court of law, anyway.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“We’re the good guys, right?”
“Last I looked.”
Nikki shrugged. “Screw him. He doesn’t deserve to have his rights respected.”
Simon hit PLAY.
“Yeah, Luca,” said Tino Coluzzi. “What is it?”
“Something’s up. A guy’s in here asking about you.”
“Recognize him?” asked Coluzzi.
“Never seen him before, but he says he knows you.”
It was Coluzzi after all these years. The smooth, assured voice, the clip to his accent. The words unleashed an avalanche of memories, none good. They listened without comment.
“Know him?” said Tino Coluzzi. “I killed him.”
“Well, whoever this Simon Ledoux is, he’s alive. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Finish it.”
The call ended.
“So this isn’t just about the letter,” said Nikki. “I mean, why you’re here.”
“No. It isn’t.” Simon went back to studying the call log. “Doesn’t look like Falconi placed any other calls.”
“Anyone else call him after the fight?”
“Lots, but I don’t recognize any names. Nothing to Marseille. Hold it.”
“What?”
An interesting number caught his eye. A country code he recognized but could find no reason for it being there: 7 for Russia; 495 for Moscow. “Someone called Moscow at twelve fifteen.”
“From the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Who does the phone belong to?”
“No name. No billing address. All registration information is a blank. All I can say is that Russphon is the service provider.”
Nikki bit her lip. It was odd, if not impossible, for a phone to be issued without some data about its owner. “Who did they call?”
