Vika left a twenty-euro note on the table and fled the café. She knew what must be done. She’d spent the last ten years saving the family, defending it against all comers, prevailing over indomitable odds. This was different, however. Her foe was not the law, not some obscure codicil from a dusty legal tome or a technicality in the tax codes. It was a person.
“Please, darling. I thought he was my friend, but now I’m worried. He scares me.”
One last crusade, then. Le Juste could go to hell. It would be up to Vika to find out exactly what had happened to her mother and how it came to be that she was driving on the Grande Corniche at midnight.
First things first.
Where was the ring?
Chapter 20
Vika left the café and headed toward Boulevard Albert 1er and the hotel. It was just after ten. An offshore breeze made the sun more bearable. Everyone was dressed in shorts and colorful attire. Music playing from loudspeakers along the port drifted through the narrow streets. For all intents and purposes, summer was still in full swing.
She hadn’t expected it to be so warm, not ten days into October. Fall was well advanced at home. The forest around her estate burned fiery shades of persimmon and rust. The next storm would dash the last stubborn leaves from the trees. Vika wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and looked up the incline toward the opera house. Her mother had lived on the other side of the hill, halfway down the Plage du Larvotto. Vika dug in her purse for the keys, only to drop them back inside. The apartment couldn’t answer her questions. She knew one person who could.
Vika found a piece of shade beneath the awning of a small gelateria. A stream of cold air escaped the door, along with the enticing scents of chocolate and fragolini. She consulted her phone and noted that Elena had still not returned her calls. Elena Mancini, her mother’s helper, was sixty-something, a squat, earthy Sicilian, more peasant than not, though Vika knew that was a horrible thing to say.
For the past ten years, Elena had spent nearly every day with Vika’s mother. She was not just her helper, but her companion, maid, and, most important, her confidante. As such, she was forbidden from being anything more than polite to Vika. Battle lines between mother and daughter had been drawn long ago. Like her Sicilian ancestors, Elena was loyal to a fault.
Vika phoned her again. Again, the call rolled to voice mail. She frowned. Apparently, omertà was not reserved for the mafia alone. Vika brought up her list of contacts. She had two addresses for Elena. One for her apartment in the city, the second for her home in the hills above Ventimiglia, an hour’s drive across the Italian border. Vika mapped the apartment’s location and saw that it was on the outskirts of the city, a twenty-five-minute walk uphill. Everything in Monaco was either up the hill or down the hill. So be it, then. Pulling the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she set off up the hill.
She left the commercial district, mostly office buildings housing notaries, attorneys, and accountants, with the occasional pharmacy or hair salon. After a quarter of an hour, she could see the botanical garden to her left—even further up the hill. Elena’s apartment was to the right. Vika needed a moment before continuing. The short trek made clear that she was not in the shape she’d thought. Vika was a great planner of exercise and a terrible practitioner. Every week, she’d map out a vigorous schedule of Pilates and spin and cardio classes and reserve two mornings for a brisk hour’s walk through the forest. Rarely did she honor even one of those commitments.
Gathering her breath, she observed a man walking up the sidewalk a half block behind her. He was slim and dark-haired and pale. It was his legs Vika noticed. He was wearing shorts and his knees and calves were as white as ivory. She’d seen him earlier, across the street from the gelateria. He stared right back and his cold gaze sent a shiver up her spine.
Dismissing him, Vika continued to her destination. Elena’s apartment was a six-story slab of concrete with shaded terraces and window boxes brimming with colorful flowers. The lobby door stood open. She found Elena’s name on the directory—MANCINI 6F—and pushed her buzzer. Vika lowered her ear closer to the intercom. No one responded.
The elevator brought her to the sixth floor. In a measure to keep the building cool, the lights were kept off. A corridor extended to her left, tapering into darkness. She slowed at each doorway to read the name below the doorbell. Of course there were no numbers on the doors. Vika found Elena’s apartment at the end of the hall, needing her phone’s flashlight to read the nameplate.
She thumbed the doorbell. A buzzer sounded. When no one answered, she knocked and put her ear to the door. Silence. Then a faint meow. She tried the handle. Locked. “Elena,” she said. “It’s me. Victoria.”
“She’s not there.”
Vika spun, gasping. An older, portly man stood directly behind her. He was dressed in work pants and a stained white T-shirt stretched tightly over an enormous belly. A heavy set of keys hung from his belt. The building superintendent.
“Have you seen her?” Vika asked after a moment.
“Who are you?”
“A friend. Elena worked for my mother.”
The man considered this. He had terrible bags under his eyes and a two-day stubble. “Go,” he said.
“I only want to know if you’ve seen Elena.”
“I told you. She’s not there. Tell your friends.”
“Excuse me?”
“I only open the door for family. They weren’t family. Neither are you.”
“Someone else was here looking for Elena?”
“Go,” he said again.
“It’s important that I—”
“Now,” the man said forcefully, his voice echoing down the hall.
Vika slid around his large form. “Of course,” she said.
Outside the building, she saw the pale, dark-haired man still standing at the corner. Hands in his pockets, he leaned against the bus shelter. He made no disguise of the fact that he was watching her.
Vika hugged her bag to her side and hurried down the hill.
Chapter 21
Simon sped east along the Grande Corniche, approaching the ancient Roman town of La Turbie. A map spread on the passenger seat showed the time trial route. He glanced at it, then returned his attention to the road, its curves and straightaways, where it widened and where it narrowed, calculating where he might gain time and where he must avoid losing it. He thought of Dov Dragan, his towering arrogance and false sincerity. He decided it would feel good to beat him. Very good.
High on the mountain, Simon enjoyed a view far down the Ligurian coast toward Menton and Ventimiglia and, with the air this clear, across the Bay of Roquebrune to San Remo. To his right, below a vertical precipice diving hundreds of feet, his gaze fell upon the Rock, the elevated peninsula of golden granite jutting from the western border of Monaco that was home to the royal palace and a small army of government buildings.
In a world of elastic borders, warring monarchs, and oft-changing governments, Monaco had been ruled by one family for seven hundred years, the Grimaldis of Genoa. Over that time, the principality’s allegiances had shifted from Italy to Sardinia to France (which currently guaranteed the territory’s sovereignty, in exchange for a lemminglike adherence to its foreign policy). The territory’s size had something to do with its independence. It was a postage stamp with no natural resources, no strategic values, not much of anything to entice an invader to expend precious blood or treasure. Monaco was neither thorn nor rose.
Everything changed with the building of the casino in 1863. It was the era of the grand tour, the Baedeker guide, and the world’s first travel agent, Thomas Cook. A stop in Monaco, situated on a scenic spit of coastline between Nice and Capri, two perennial destinations, became de rigueur. Overnight, the principality had a personality where before it had none.
Since then, Monaco had known only growth and prosperity, its coronation as capital of the jet set occurring when the American actress Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier in 1956.
Not long afterward, in 1969, the prince abolished income taxes. Monaco’s status as a favored home for movie stars, professional athletes, and the obscenely wealthy was forever cemented into place.
Ahead, the road narrowed and curved sharply to the left. Simon downshifted into second gear, using the engine to slow. He did not see the blue station wagon until he was nearly upon it, and he didn’t decide to stop and check if it was the same station wagon that had parked behind him the night before at the Hôtel de Paris until he’d gone a good way past.
Simon yanked the car to the dirt berm on his side of the road and killed the engine. He got out and approached the car. German plates. KO for Cologne. It was the same car, all right, but he saw no sign of Vika Brandt.
The front door was ajar. He looked in all directions, but she was nowhere to be found. He noted that a section of the guardrail had recently been replaced and walked over to inspect it. He saw her standing ten meters down the hillside. There was no path. It was a treacherous descent over exposed rock and loose terrain. A few steps below her, the escarpment fell away altogether. Should she slip, she would fall to her death.
A large tourist coach rumbled past behind Simon, distracting him. When he looked back down the hillside, he saw that Vika was bent at the waist examining an object, much as an archaeologist studies an artifact. He called her name but his voice was drowned out by the noise of passing traffic.
Simon climbed over the rail and made his way down the slope. He used his hands to aid his stability; even so, his feet slipped and he loosened a spray of rocks. The woman didn’t seem to notice. He sideslipped the last distance, pleased to have reached a narrow plateau of sorts.
“Stay away!” Without warning, the woman spun. She held a pistol in her hand, a compact semiautomatic.
Simon raised his hands, palms outward. “You’re pointing a gun at me.”
“Keep away, I said.”
Simon backed up a step, checking over his shoulder to make sure he had one more, just in case.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was driving the course for the time trial,” he said, gesturing toward the road. “I recognized your station wagon. I thought you might need help.”
“I don’t.”
“I can see that.”
“Were you following me last night, too?”
“‘Too’? I was out walking. I’m happy we ran into each other. Then, I mean. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Vika lowered the pistol, shoulders relaxing. “They make me carry this. It’s not even loaded.”
“In which case, I feel safer,” said Simon. “And you can put it away.”
The pistol disappeared into a purse at her side. She brushed past him, her eyes on the incline. Simon offered her a hand. She ignored it and scrambled up the slope. He followed, slipping only once. She was nimbler, and at least he had a nice view. By the time he regained the road, he had plenty of questions, starting with what she was doing risking her life on a steep mountainside. He knew better than to ask.
“You weren’t frightened,” she said, brushing the dust off her hands.
“Excuse me?”
She continued to the car and tossed her purse and whatever else besides the pistol she’d put inside it onto the front seat. She was dressed in light-colored pants and a blue linen shirt, her tan moccasins unsuitable for exploring anything more treacherous than a department store escalator. Turning back toward Simon, she removed her sunglasses. “I pointed a gun at you and you didn’t bat an eye.”
“What did you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know. Just something more. Show a little surprise. Fear, even. Weren’t you?”
“Scared or surprised?”
“Mr. Riske.”
“I was certainly surprised.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Simon looked at her and nodded. She considered this. Up close, her gaze was so direct it was unsettling. “What do you do, Mr. Riske, for a living?”
He seemed to be getting asked the same question a lot these days. “I own an automobile restoration business in London. On the side, I solve problems.”
“Are you sure it isn’t the other way around?”
If there was a right answer, Simon didn’t know it. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“That’s my business.”
“If you’d like to keep looking, I’m happy to help.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
A sparkle in the sky caught Simon’s eye. He walked a few feet from the car, shielding his eyes as he looked upward. There it was again. Only then did he hear the high-pitched whir of an engine. Then he saw it. A drone—a small one, white, four propellers, nearly invisible against the blue sky—hovering a hundred feet above their heads.
“What is it?” she asked.
Simon pointed in the direction of the drone. “There.”
Vika looked to the sky, squinting. “I don’t see anything.”
“Look.”
Vika raised her hands to her eyes to block out the sun.
Behind them, a car rounded the curve, its engine screaming. Too loud. Louder than any other car that had passed. At once, Simon spun. A sedan. Silver. Traveling at high speed. The car crossed the center line, going far too wide, seemingly out of control. The sun reflected off the windscreen so that Simon could not see the driver. Instead of correcting, the car continued straight at them. At Vika. The tires howled as the driver veered onto the hardscrabble berm. Simon ran at Vika, grabbing her in his arms and throwing them both onto the ground. A shower of gravel and dirt. The deafening growl of the engine. A terrific screech as the tires regained the asphalt, and the car was gone.
Simon lay still, aware that he was lying on top of the woman, too stunned to do anything about it. “You okay?”
Vika nodded. “Was that an accident?” she asked.
Simon looked over his shoulder and gazed into the sky. The drone was gone. “Possibly.”
“Only possibly?”
He rolled off the woman. Getting to his feet, he offered her a hand. This time she accepted it. She stood and brushed herself off. Her shirt was torn. Through the flap of fabric, he could see a trace of blood, an abrasion on her shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” said Vika, eyeing the wound.
“You’re sure?”
“Considering the alternative.” She angled her head. “Only possibly? Really?”
Simon’s silence was the best answer he could give. The real answer was, “No. Not possibly. Certainly.” He had no doubt that the driver had been aiming for Vika. He thought it wiser not to sound the alarm until he knew more about her.
They stood for a moment, not speaking, each’s eyes on the other. Something had changed between them. A bond existed where none was before.
“Mr. Riske,” she said, “exactly what kind of problems do you solve?”
“Difficult ones.”
Vika Brandt drew a breath and spent a moment arranging her hair. The color had returned to her face. She drew her shoulders back and a sense of purpose took hold of her.
An army of one, Simon thought.
“Shall we have lunch?” she said. “I know a place in Èze.”
“Would you like me to drive?”
Her hands were rock steady as she took the keys from her purse. “Follow me.”
Chapter 22
The restaurant was in an old stone home with a shaded garden. They sat at a table beneath a centuries-old oak whose leaves showed the first hint of gold. Their feet brushed a carpet of white gravel. Tête de Chien, the enormous outcropping of stone that kept vigil over Monaco, loomed in the distance. They’d both ordered the salade Niçoise. Neither had managed a bite. No wine for either of them. Just mineral water. Between sips, Vika related the reason for her visit, beginning with details of her mother’s accident and her suspicions about it, moving on to her visit to the police that morning (“Damn the juge d’instruction!”), and finally, and wit
h reluctance, concluding with the voice mail her mother had left before her death.
“The thing is I didn’t believe her,” explained Vika Brandt. “It wasn’t the first time she’d called in one of her states.”
“‘States’?”
“Drunk. Wildly drunk. Blackout drunk. It didn’t matter. She said the same things sober. She thought people were always looking at her strangely, talking behind her back. Men ogled her. Women said nasty things about her. The help made obscene remarks. She was very imaginative.”
“She was ill, then.”
“Who knows? Alcoholism, paranoia, delusions of grandeur—it all runs in the family. They used to call people like her ‘quirky.’ She refused to go to the doctor. For anything. A few years ago, she fell and broke her arm. A hairline fracture. She wouldn’t allow Elena to take her to the emergency room until it swelled up like a balloon three days later.”
“Elena?”
“Her helper. Elena Mancini. She’s been with my mother for years.”
“How often did she stop in?”
“Almost every day. She took my mother to church and to lunch, did her shopping, and helped around the place.” Vika leaned forward. “Is it true what Le Juste said about not being able to check the security cameras without a warrant?”
“Officially, yes,” said Simon. “In reality, no. No way. Apartment managers like to keep on good terms with the police. Given the circumstances, I can’t see how they’d refuse a request. Not when it had to do with one of their tenants.”
“Then why was Le Juste being so difficult?”
“It seems he had his mind made up. I can’t see it.” Simon enumerated what he considered the critical facts. Medical evidence of a detached retina, a witness to testify that her mother hadn’t driven for years, and finally a message in which her mother expressed concern for her safety.
“There’s no witness. Not yet. I haven’t spoken to Elena. She hasn’t replied to my calls.”
“Is that normal?”
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