“There’s a chance she got a look at me in the bar. We have to assume that Falconi told her I was asking about Coluzzi, too.”
“How long did you speak with him?”
“A couple of minutes. Five tops.”
“She’d have to be awfully perceptive to put two and two together.”
Simon thought back on the past night. While she might not have noticed Falconi speaking with him earlier, she wouldn’t have missed Falconi, Jack, and the other two thugs escorting him outside for their little tête-à-tête. She might even have been standing in the crowd that had witnessed the fight. But that was Simon’s problem. “You’re right about that,” he said.
“Keep at it. Try and be as quiet as possible.”
“Things may get noisier when I hit Marseille.” Simon made it a point not to mention Nikki Perez. Neill had been clear in his instructions not to involve a foreign law enforcement agency. Simon justified asking for Marc Dumont’s help by not having revealed who his employer was or the true reason for his visit. He was certain Neill would object to his enlisting Nikki in his efforts. It was a rule never to disobey a client. He still needed her help, even if not entirely for the right reasons.
“There’s more. I found several phone numbers in Falconi’s apartment. My guess is that they belong to Coluzzi. Falconi was his man in Paris. He’d have to know how to reach his boss. If Coluzzi uses any of the numbers, I want to know what he’s saying and where he is.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“A man like you should need one call to see it done.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Are you saying the NSA doesn’t have the capabilities?”
“I’m saying that the NSA has a backlog of requests a mile high.”
“Then I’m guessing what’s in that envelope isn’t as important as you thought,” said Simon.
“You might want to take that up with the person who dispatched Mr. Falconi.”
“It’s time you told me what I’m going after.”
“You know who’s involved. You’ve seen what they are capable of. I’ll let you use your imagination.”
“Mr. Neill—”
“Mr. Riske.” The voice was curt and commanding. “Listen to me. Once you know it, you can’t un-know it. There are people who wouldn’t be happy that you have that knowledge in your head.”
“Are you one of them?”
“I trust you implicitly or you wouldn’t have been offered the job.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’ll see what I can do about the phone numbers.”
“Thank you.”
“When are you off to Marseille?”
“Nine. Arrive at one.”
“Keep in touch.”
Chapter 40
Nikki lived alone in a fourth-floor duplex on an unloved street a few blocks from the Montparnasse Tower. The apartment was barely three hundred square feet—a bit bigger than two shoe boxes stacked on top of each other, but not much. The bottom floor had a kitchen on one side and a living area on the other. A very steep, very narrow spiral staircase led to her bedroom on the second floor. To make efficient use of the space, she’d built a loft on which she slept. It had taken her a few weeks and several bumps on the head to learn not to sit up in the middle of the night. Below the loft she’d put a desk, a dresser, and a cabinet for her wardrobe. It was all a thirty-year-old detective earning twenty-five hundred euros a month could afford if she wanted to live in Paris, and she was proud of every square inch of it.
Arriving a little after eight, Nikki slammed the door behind her and threw her keys on the kitchen table. The elevator was on the fritz and she was out of breath from running up three flights. She made her daily vow to quit smoking, and to prove it, dashed up the stairs to her bedroom. Panting, she undressed sloppily, leaving her clothes in a pile, and made the five-step journey to turn on the shower. The bathroom was the size of a toilet stall. There was no bathtub, just a shower so confining she had to hold her breath to turn around, and a vanity with a washbasin atop it.
