Private Monaco

Chapter 71

I saw Chevalier and Justine watching us through the observation window, and their eyes stayed on me as I left Mo-bot’s room.

“What did she say?” the inspector asked, after I’d shut the door.

“She wanted me to pass on some messages to her team,” I replied. “And family.”

Chevalier frowned.

“Do you know why they went to the Metropole?” she asked.

I shook my head. I was going to leave it at that, but I was angry at what had happened to my friends and the way we’d been treated since arriving in the city. I stepped closer to Chevalier.

“We found evidence Philippe Duval was working with the men who shot Mo and Sci,” I said. “My government is looking at it right now.”

I caught Justine’s startled expression, and the side-eye from the uniformed cop posted guard.

“What... Philippe?” Chevalier exclaimed in what seemed like genuine disbelief. “What evidence have you?”

“We can’t share it with you just yet,” I told her. “If your Interior Minister was compromised—”

“Former Interior Minister,” she said.

“This was going on while he was in government,” I revealed.

Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she finally said, “So, you don’t think you can trust us.”

“No,” I replied. “Nor the French police. Two cops helped the Automobile Club suspect escape arrest. Justine has the footage.”

Chevalier looked at Justine who nodded.

“Can you send it to me?” she asked.

I nodded, and Justine said, “Yes. I’ll message you a download link.”

“If what you say is true, then these people have infiltrated institutions we should be able to trust,” the inspector remarked.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “If an Interior Minister can be compromised and officers induced to break the law, then you’ll understand why we’re wary of the authorities.”

“My people are—” she began, but I interrupted her.

“Honest? Trustworthy? Can you really vouch for everyone who works for you?” I asked. “We’ll share the evidence when we know it’s safe. In the meantime, you need to reassess the people you trust.”

Valerie Chevalier looked punch drunk but there was nothing more to say. Justine and I left her dealing with the implications of our revelations while we walked to the elevator.

Minutes later, we were outside the hospital amid the sights, sounds and smells of a city heading for new heights of revelry.

“What now?” Justine asked, when we were well clear of the building.

“We go to the Hotel Metropole. Mo-bot thinks Kendrick Stamp is the second assassin. Former Marine scout sniper and FBI special agent,” I said. “So, he has the skills.”

“What if Roman’s people are still there?” Justine asked.

“I hope we run into them,” I replied grimly.

Twenty minutes later, after navigating the crowded streets, we stepped into the grand lobby of the Metropole, which showed no signs of any shooting. The large atrium was packed with new arrivals waiting to check in. Others had spilled out of the bar and were holding drinks, talking and laughing animatedly.

We went directly to the elevators and took one to the fourth floor. We found room 408 and I knocked on the door. I could hear the TV playing inside, but there was no other sound. After a couple beats, I knocked again.

Justine wandered idly along the corridor until something stopped her in her tracks.

“Jack, come and look at this.” She beckoned me over, and as I approached, I realized she was pointing at a bullet hole in the plush wallpaper on the far side of the stairwell door. “Do you think the cops even know about it?”

I shook my head. There would be a slug in that wall, but knowing what I knew about the Dark Fates and Propaganda Tre, I was almost certain it wouldn’t lead to a traceable gun. Still, the police should at least analyze all the available evidence and try to piece together a trail.

“Tell Chevalier about it when you send the footage you took in La Turbie,” I said, and Justine nodded.

I returned to room 408 and knocked for a third time. After another couple beats, I glanced along the corridor and, seeing it was clear, barged the door open with my shoulder.

There was a loud crack as it split from the frame, and another bang as it swung wide and slammed against the stopper.

Justine and I hurried into the room to find the TV on, but the room empty. The closets were devoid of clothes and there was no sign of habitation anywhere.

A twenty-euro bill on the pillow spoke to a decent character, but also suggested Kendrick Stamp had checked out.

I picked up the housephone and made a call.

“Reception,” a man said.

“This is Marc from housekeeping,” I replied. “I just want to confirm Mr. Stamp from room four-oh-eight checked out early.”

There was a brief pause.

“Yes. He settled his bill a couple of hours ago. It’s marked on the turndown rota.”

“I see it now. Thank you.” I hung up and turned to Justine. “He’s skipped. They must have moved him after the shooting.”