“Not necessarily.”
“There’s been a murder. We’re calling in a homicide.”
“Not a good idea.”
“I already told you, Riske, I’m not a bad cop. I bend the rules. I don’t break them.”
“Think it through, Nikki. You’ll have to explain why we’re here and how we got in. You can forget about nailing Coluzzi. Once your superiors learn you were acting on information you got from a StingRay—my StingRay—you can forget about ever getting off administrative duty.”
“Don’t tell me how to handle my career. I don’t need an ex-con passing himself off as a gentleman to give me advice.”
“It’s nothing you don’t already know. I’m just laying it out for you.”
“I suppose I should thank you. Do you want me to curtsy, too?”
“Just help me find Coluzzi. He’s your ‘Get Out of Jail’ card.”
Nikki stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, Simon heard the front door open. “Shut the door on your way out,” she called. “And lock it.”
The building’s surveillance and security apparatus was located in a cramped suite of rooms on the ground floor. Again, the lock proved no obstacle. A black-and-white multiplex broadcast feeds from two cameras. One showed the lobby. The other was trained on a rear entrance in the alley behind the building. The recording system was at least twenty years old, with video from each stored on a rewritable CD.
Simon rewound the machine recording images from the lobby until the time stamp read 12:30. A fast play mode allowed him to speed up images.
“Stop,” said Nikki. “There he is.”
It was not easy to miss Falconi entering the building at 1:15.
Simon hit PLAY, and they viewed Falconi and his female companion enter the lobby and cross to the elevator. The camera was situated high in a corner and did not offer a clear frontal view of either. But it was enough.
“That’s her,” he said.
Nikki looked more closely at the monitor. “The picture is a mess. Can we clean it up?”
“Not here.” Simon froze the picture as Falconi and the woman entered the elevator. For an instant, the woman’s face could be seen in a mirror at the back of the elevator. Simon snapped a photo of the monitor with his phone. “We got her.”
“Not much help.”
“Not now, maybe. With Photoshop we can enhance it enough to get a better idea of what she looks like.”
“And then?”
“For a start, we’ll know who else is looking for Tino Coluzzi. I don’t want that woman sneaking up on me.”
“What time did she leave?”
Simon forwarded the playback to 5:30, when the elevator door opened and a short man in a driving cap and heavy coat emerged, walked briskly—head down—across the lobby, and left the building. “Look at the rolled up cuffs,” said Simon. “She’s wearing Falconi’s clothes.”
“Where do you think she’s going?”
“If we know Coluzzi’s in Marseille, so does she.”
Simon returned the recording equipment to its preset values and announced that he was finished. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nikki left the room. He turned off the lights behind her, casually slipping the CD with the woman’s image, as well as his and Nikki’s, into his pocket.
As they walked to her motorcycle, he checked the schedule for the next TGV to Marseille. “Think we can make the nine sixteen?”
“We?”
