The Killer

SIXTY-TWO

Paris, France

Thursday

21:20 CET

Just to make Alvarez’s day more frustrating it was raining. Hard. He didn’t carry an umbrella, never had, never would, and he walked quickly with his wide shoulders hunched up around his neck. Rain pelted the top of his head and ran down his face and neck and soaked his coat and shirt. He’d only been out of the cab for three minutes, but already he was wetter than a coed on spring break. The rain suited his mood though. The investigation was quickly running out of momentum. With Hoyt dead and the only solid lead gone with him, Alvarez was virtually stalled. Ozols’s killer and the location of the missiles were getting further and further away.

It took him another minute of getting drenched before he spotted the right café on a street that seemed to have dozens and hurried inside. The interior was small with a low ceiling and every table was taken. Alvarez swiped some of the rain from his hair and face and looked around the room. He saw Lefèvre sitting on his own and reading a newspaper. The short, meticulously groomed French lieutenant looked exactly the same as when Alvarez had first encountered him a week and a half ago outside the killer’s hotel. His manner seemed different now though; then he had been all arrogance and superiority. Now he just looked like a regular guy. He hadn’t seen Alvarez enter and only looked up as Alvarez was pulling out a chair opposite him.

“I’m glad you didn’t stand me up,” Alvarez said as he took his seat. “Because after getting this wet I would have had to hunt you down.”

Lefèvre closed his newspaper. “Drink?”

“Yeah. Coffee, please.”

The Frenchman called over a waitress and ordered two coffees and a pain au chocolat for himself. Alvarez smiled. Cops were the same the world over. They all ate their national donuts. Alvarez took off his saturated coat and hung it over the back of his chair.

“You wanted to see me?”

Lefèvre nodded. “That’s right. Thank you for coming.”

“No problem.”

“I believe we can help each other.”

“I tried to tell you that over a week ago.”

Lefèvre shrugged. “And I should have listened. But I had a hotel full of dead bodies to deal with. Please accept my apology for any rudeness on my part.”

“Accepted.”

“I’ll keep this short.”

Alvarez wiped some rain from his head. “Suits me.”

“Andris Ozols,” Lefèvre began, “was a retired officer of the Russian and Soviet navies. Correct?”

Alvarez didn’t respond.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” the French lieutenant said with a half smile. “I know this is true, and I’m quite sure you do too. Anyway, we both know that he was murdered last week by a professional killer. A killer who was himself targeted only two hours later at his hotel, where he shot a large number of people. This as-yet unnamed killer then returned to Paris a few days ago. He was recognized and followed but escaped arrest, and in the process killed several police officers. Before his escape he met with an American woman.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Alvarez asked.

Lefèvre leaned back. “Because you can do more with it than I can.”

“Why do you say that?”

“John Kennard,” Lefèvre said.

Hearing the name made Alvarez picture the guy in his head. Dead. Stabbed to death and lying on a shitty bathroom floor. “What about him?”

“He worked with you, yes?”

“Listen, I’m not here to answer your questions, okay?”

Lefèvre nodded. “That’s up to you. I’m telling you what I know, and I’m asking for nothing in return. But I hope when I have finished you will be more forthcoming with me.”

The waitress returned with their order. Alvarez took a sip of coffee. “Go on.”

“A day after Kennard was murdered, a homeless man, well known to my people, tried to use his credit card to buy alcohol. He was picked up by an officer and questioned. On his person, among other things, was a cellular phone that had belonged to your colleague. After extensive interrogation the man claimed to have retrieved the items from a trash can after seeing another man discard them. I believe him. He has no history of violence, and there was no knife on him nor any blood on his clothes, clothes he neither washes nor takes off.”

Lefèvre continued, “The man who threw the phone and credit card away is described as wearing a suit and speaking with an English accent. As you might expect this did not sound like a typical Parisian mugger to me. There was clearly more to the murder than anyone first thought. As part of the investigation Kennard’s most recent calls were all checked. They were to friends, family members, colleagues, and so on-nothing suspicious except a single French number that called Kennard’s phone twice after he had been killed.”

Alvarez did his best not to react to what he was hearing.

“That number corresponds to an apartment in Marseilles where we found sophisticated communications equipment. My equivalent in Marseilles found this residence abandoned. Fingerprints were taken there that match those found in an apartment here in Paris. The same apartment where Ozols’s killer escaped with that American woman.”

Alvarez was stunned. He put his coffee down.

Lefèvre continued, “As you can see, there is some connection between your colleague, this American woman, and the man who murdered Andris Ozols. I don’t know what this connection is, and I’m taking a big risk in telling you all this information. For all I know you’re involved, too.”

“I can assure you that is definitely not the case.”

Lefèvre nodded as if he didn’t need to be convinced. “I’m a police officer. It’s my job to bring criminals to justice. But I know how the intelligence business works. I know there are things I will never be told, things that I need to be told, and without all the evidence, How can I solve anything?”

Lefèvre took a brown leather briefcase from the floor and removed a file.

“What’s that?” Alvarez asked, looking at the file.

“For you,” Lefèvre explained, “everything we have so far. All the evidence.”

Alvarez picked up the file. He asked a simple question. “Why?”

“Because you can do more with it than I can. I would prefer one of us to succeed than us both to fail. Justice matters more to me than credit. People are dead. They deserve to be avenged. For this, I am deferring to you. All I ask in return,” Lefèvre said, “is that you tell me, off the record, when you are successful.”

It was a small price to pay. “I will,” Alvarez said and meant it.

Lefèvre gestured to the file. “Inside you’ll find the fingerprints of the American woman. I suggest you start by finding out who she really is.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

Lefèvre smiled. “You don’t have to.”