There were no last words, nothing to offer a hint of a life lived or advice to those still inhabiting the earthly plane.
Simon placed a bouquet of flowers at its base. He was not a religious man, at least not in the formal sense. He didn’t know what prayer he should say. The monsignor wouldn’t mind. Religion was a matter of the heart, he’d taught Simon. Every man was born with God inside him. It was easy enough to find him. All you had to do was ask.
So Simon thanked God for bringing this man into his life and asked that he bless his soul for all that he had given him.
Then he kneeled and, with his good arm, pulled out the tall, untamed grass around the marker so that others could read the monsignor’s name.
“Did you find him?” Nikki was standing at the end of the row, her arm in a sling.
Simon stood, brushing off his hands. “Yes. Thanks again.”
“Wish it were nicer.”
“It’s fine enough,” said Simon, though of course it wasn’t. “He was a tough guy.”
“Like you.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Nikki smiled. “We’re a pair.”
Already, she was getting the color back in her face. The bullet had been a “through and through.” She’d lost a lot of blood and suffered some fairly significant muscular damage, but that was it. Turned out they didn’t keep people in the hospital any longer in France than they did in the UK.
They walked back to the car, shoulder touching shoulder. Frank Mazot held the door, and Nikki slid gingerly into the back seat. Simon walked to the other side and got in. Mazot guided the car through the cemetery gates. In minutes, they were on the downhill run into Marseille.
Nikki took his hand. “I got a call from Marc Dumont.”
“He’s still talking to you?”
“I’m officially off administrative duty.”
“Good news.” Simon cocked his head. “You know something? You never told me what you did to get suspended.”
“It never came up.”
“Well?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Simon nudged her with his good shoulder.
“Crazy glue,” she said, then explained about her work on the Zenstrom case, nailing the gang of credit card thieves and how her boss took all the credit. “I got tired of him bragging. He always had these chapped lips. I went into his office after work one night, broke into his desk, and replaced his stick of Chap Stick with crazy glue, made it look just the same. He came in the next day, hung over like usual, opened his desk drawer, and that was that. He glued his big mouth shut.”
“Ouch,” said Simon.
Nikki shrugged, suppressing a grin. “Sometimes a girl has to do what she has to do.”
“Guess so.”
“Oh, and about Marc Dumont. He asked me to tell you that the next time you’re in Paris, you should not bother getting in touch.”
Simon laughed. “And Mr. Coluzzi?”
“He arrived in Paris this morning and was taken into custody. They pulled in Giacomo, as well. ‘Jack,’ you remember?”
Simon ran a hand along his stitches. “How could I forget?”
“Jack’s going to testify against him for a reduced sentence. He’s spilling the beans.”
“Give Coluzzi a taste of his own medicine. About time.”
“The prosecutor is asking for twenty years. He’ll be lucky if he gets five. Armed robbery doesn’t count for much these days. Besides, Coluzzi is spinning some story that he was actually working for our intelligence services all along.”
Simon shook his head. With the right lawyer, Coluzzi could probably get someone to believe it, too. Even so, five years was five years. A long time when you were on the starting end of it. If only they’d send him back to Les Baums. He’d have a word with Dumont to that effect. He looked at Nikki. “So you’re staying in?”
“Sure,” she said brightly, and it was clear she’d never considered doing otherwise. “I’ll leave the private sector to you. I like being a cop.”
“You’re a good one.”
Nikki nodded, not quite convinced. “Getting there. And you? Heading back to London soon?”
“There’s a flight at four.”
“Today?”
“Today. Business.”
“Of course,” said Nikki, lowering her eyes. “I mean…sure. Good for you. I understand.”
“Come and visit?”
“Less than three hours by train, right?”
“Blink and you’re there,” said Simon.
Nikki smiled suddenly. “I’ve never been.”
“To London? You’re kidding me.”
She said, “No,” and appeared embarrassed by it. “Give me a tour?”
“I’d like that,” said Simon. He touched her cheek and kissed her.
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.”
The car crested a rise, and the old port came into view, protected by Fort Saint-Jean and Fort Saint-Nicolas. A very large yacht was entering the harbor, navy-blue with a sharp, proud bow, dwarfing the boats around it.
Frank Mazot looked over his shoulder. “Where to?”
“I’m hungry,” said Simon. “You?”
Nikki nodded. “I could eat. But not a ham and cheese sandwich.”
“Who wants ham and cheese?” said Simon. “How ’bout some bouillabaisse. What do you say, Frank?”
“I know just the place.”
Epilogue
London
Three days later
Finished yet?” asked Simon.
Lucy Brown was crouched beside the Dino, blasting a section of the passenger door with her heat gun. She wore her usual ratty gray coverall, her hair tucked inside a baseball cap. “Finished? You’re not serious?”
“Seven days. That’s plenty of time.”
“Says who? The boss now that he’s—” Lucy’s smile disappeared the moment she saw him. She pulled off her safety goggles and rushed toward him. “What happened to you?”
“I swam with some piranhas,” said Simon.
“Did they break your arm?”
“And collarbone.” He didn’t mention the stitches in his side. “But the other guys got worse.”
“Well,” said Lucy, looking aghast. “If that’s what happens when you travel to France, count me out. I’d rather go to Brighton.”
Simon circled the automobile, running a critical hand across the chassis, now and again checking his fingertips for paint speckles. “You did all of this?”
“I did.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “By yourself?”
Lucy placed her hands on her hips. “I did.”
Simon gave the car a final once-over. “Not bad,” he said, as if he only half meant it.
“Not bad?” Lucy put down her heat gun and scraper. “It’s immaculate.”
“That’s one of my words.”
“Well, is it?”
Simon nodded grudgingly. “Getting there.”
Lucy beamed with pride, a victory won. She took off her cap and shook loose her hair, then touched his cast gingerly. “Hurt much?”
“No.”
She ran a hand up his arm toward his shoulder. “And this?”
“Careful,” he said, wincing.
She ran her fingers over his bruised cheek. “Bring me back a present?”
“I might have a snow globe for you.”
“You were in Paris. That’s where all the designers are.”
“Do you think I brought Harry Mason a present?”
“He wouldn’t look as nice in a silk camisole as I would.”
Simon considered this. “You have me there.”
“Besides, I could be more.”
“More than what?”
Lucy smiled, her head tilted toward him. “More than just your favorite mechanic.”
Simon took her hand and guided it to her side. “Who says you’re my favorite?” he said firmly. “Now, give me the heat gun. You missed a spot.”
Lucy crossed her arms furiously. “I did not!”
A commotion in the main shop interrupted them. He heard raised voices. Harry Mason shouted. A toolbox overturned, scattering its contents.
“Riske,” a man called. “Simon Riske!”
The voice was too loud, the words too clearly enunciated, to mistake the accent. Not again, thought Simon.
“Don’t!” said Lucy, grabbing his arm.
“Stay here.” Simon hurried back to the shop floor. There were five large men he didn’t know and one fat man he did.
“You asked me to look you up,” said Boris Blatt. “Here I am.”
One of Blatt’s men held Harry Mason in a headlock with a gun stuck into his side.
“And here I am,” said Simon. “Let Mr. Mason go.”
Blatt barked an order in Russian and the man released Mason.