Back in the living room, he asked, “Was it like this when you visited before?”
“Elena picked up after her, but Mama could let things slide. Growing up, things could get rather sordid.”
Simon picked up the stem of a broken glass. “This kind of sordid?”
Vika said yes and Simon continued his tour of the room, kneeling to look under the furniture, lifting sofa cushions and pillows, peering behind armoires and dressers. Vika followed at his shoulder and he sensed that she was nervous, overly protective. Instead of wanting him to discover a clue as to what had gone on there, she was afraid. Afraid of him finding the wrong thing.
She needn’t have worried. Besides a pack of cigarettes, a few coins, and a TV remote control, he turned up nothing of interest. When he’d finished looking, the two were standing at the end of the hallway. The door to the bedroom was open. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Of course,” she said, with false conviction. She led the way, stopping at the entry. The room was as they’d left it. The only sign of the altercation was the splintered dresser drawer lying on the bedspread. In contrast to the rest of the apartment, the bedroom was neat and tidy, a triangular vacuum pattern still partially visible on the carpet.
“Did Elena stick to cleaning bedrooms?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I think your mother was harmed here.”
Vika stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. She wasn’t accustomed to others doing her work for her, or for that matter to answering pointed questions and taking instruction from others.
Her eyes took in the room. She felt no fear of entering, no post-traumatic anything. It might come later, but she doubted it. Her entire life had been rife with drama. She’d learned at an early age to build walls, inside and out. It was another woman who’d been attacked. A woman she knew well, but had little feeling for.
She watched Simon move around the room, his concentration absolute. She wasn’t sure why the prospect of his finding the ring frightened her. Maybe it was the fact that she thought of him as “Simon” a day after meeting him, or that he already knew much too much about her. She reminded herself that this man had saved her life and that hours earlier she had made love to him and given herself to him as she rarely had anyone, including her husband. Maybe that was why she harbored a growing antipathy toward him. He was an outsider. A stranger. At best an interloper. At worst a palace thief. It wasn’t the ring he was after. It was something else. Something that Vika had never let anyone have entirely. Her heart.
It was jarring how memory can paint over a place, thought Simon. The bedroom was bright and sunny and smelled of pine-scented floor cleaner. Yet he couldn’t take a step without a shadow darkening the room, without hearing Vika’s desperate whimpering and reliving the shock of coming upon her.
“If they cleaned up, it’s because they left behind a mess,” he said. “Not just something broken, but something on the carpet or the floor.”
“Blood?”
“For example.”
He lowered himself to all fours, running his hands through the carpet. Something pricked his finger. It was a sliver of glass, hardly thicker than a hair. He came across a spot still damp at its base. He brushed the fibers back and forth. Was it darker than the rest? He peeked beneath the chairs, the dressers, the bed. He found nothing. Not even a dust ball.
Simon rose, looked at Vika, then entered the bathroom. It was the size of a locker room, with travertine floors and Wenge wood cabinets and brushed-stone counters with polished silver fixtures. He walked the perimeter, acutely sensitive to the pine-scented cleaner. Whatever had happened, it had happened here. A dozen white towels were rolled up like scrolls and stacked in an open-faced cabinet. He sorted through them and found red specks on one that he surmised had been placed at the bottom on purpose.
The contents of the drawers were neatly arranged. Too neatly, he thought, as if readied for a photo shoot for OCD Monthly. They’d been looking for something. That explained the living room, as well.
“Is anything missing?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Isn’t that why you opened the safe?”
“I was checking on Mama’s things. When I saw the living room, I thought there might have been a robbery.”
“And?”
“No,” she said. “Not that I noticed.”
In the top drawer beneath the sink, he found several rings laid out in a row. He picked up a diamond solitaire. Three carats at least. Brilliant clarity. D or E, and he was ready to wager nearly flawless. VVS or VVS1. Value: two hundred thousand dollars at a minimum. Simon knew his precious stones. “It wasn’t a robbery.”
Vika said nothing.
Simon replaced the ring and shut the drawer. He opened the shower stall, glass on two sides, a rugged stone basin with a tile mosaic inlaid. A medieval shield with three roses in a yellow stripe running diagonally across it, and a knight’s helmet resting atop it. Across the bottom were the numbers “1016.”
“The family crest,” Vika said.
“A thousand years old,” said Simon.
“Just.”
His eye went to the ceiling and he saw it. There in the corner, next to a can light, was a skein of blood, long and unruly. He sniffed the pine cleaner, the ammonia hidden within making his eyes water. There had been more blood. Oh yes. Much more. They had killed her here, then taken her to the garage through the servants’ entrance. The car accident was an improvisation—the only way to hide her true cause of death.
Simon was forming a mental picture of what had happened. There was no forced entry. Stefanie Brandenburg had let her killer in or accompanied him from another location. They’d met at the Italian restaurant. He brought her the grappa because she liked Italian food. Drinks were poured. The grappa for him, Polish vodka for her. It wasn’t his first time here. Maybe he’d seen the Bang and Olufsen turntable and had promised to bring his favorite “oldies.” Hence the record album. They were the same age, or close.
He’d come for a reason. The same reason he’d gone to the restaurant to meet her. The same reason he’d been asking questions about the family—questions that had frightened Vika’s mother.
He wanted something. Something more valuable than a diamond ring worth a few hundred thousand dollars.
Vika knew what it was.
“You’re sure everything was in the safe?” Simon asked.
“Yes.”
“And no one has tampered with it?”
She shook her head. “I’d know.”
He stared at her from beneath his furrowed brow. There was nothing subtle about it. He doubted her veracity. She added nothing. After a moment, he nodded, not pressing her, but far from certain she was telling the truth. He left the bathroom without mentioning the blood on the ceiling.
The sun was reaching its high point, flashing atop the bay. Simon opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside to be met by a breeze. Yachts of all shapes and sizes cut through the water. Farther out, a French warship was moored, gray and hulking, a cruiser or destroyer, looking out of place among the festive boaters.
Vika joined him, gazing at the sea. The wind played with her hair and Simon liked that she didn’t bother trying to keep it in place. “I know it’s a bit awkward,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Between us.”
“Is it?” said Vika. “I’m sorry if I seem distant. It’s better that we concentrate on why we’re here.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said, knowing she was doing exactly that. “You were wonderful. It was wonderful, but…”
“Don’t read too much into this, Vika. We’re both adults. I think we have more important matters in front of us.”
She nodded, too enthusiastically, in Simon’s opinion. The smile that accompanied it screamed relief and salvation. One more suitor disposed of. At least things were settled between them.
/> “Did we learn anything?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“Would you care to tell me?”
Simon turned to her. If he wanted to, he could put his hands on her waist and draw her to him. He could tell her how he felt. He could say he was in love with her, already, right now. He saw nothing in her eyes that indicated she might reciprocate the feeling.
“I’d like to go to the garage,” he said.
“What for?”
Simon left the balcony, closing the door after she’d followed. On the way to the foyer, he spotted a framed photograph on the top shelf of a glass and chrome armoire. A boy. Thin and pale, wearing a rugby jersey, with Vika’s straight nose, a thatch of curly blond hair, and blue eyes that looked right through you. “Fritz?”
Vika smiled adoringly and picked up the photograph. “Well, that’s what we call him. His full name is Robert Frederick Maximillian. He’s away at school in Switzerland.” She returned the photograph to its place. “His friends call him Robby.”
Only half of the spaces in the garage were taken. Stefanie Brandenburg’s parking spot was ten paces from the elevator, befitting her age, title, and pocketbook, though probably not in that order. There was an oil stain from a leaky carburetor. And another stain a few feet away that was nearly as dark, but not oil.
The overhead lights were weak and fluttered as if they might go out at any moment. Simon activated his phone’s flashlight and moved it in an arc. Something sparkled, there against the wall. Gold. He picked it up.
“Look familiar?” he said, handing the cuff link to Vika. White enamel with a sword and shield and strange runes. This one was in perfect condition. “Now we know for certain,” he said. “Whoever it was that visited your mother the other night, he killed her.”
Chapter 35
There was no need for Commissaire Le Juste’s warrant or Simon’s expertise with a lockpick. A princess’s request sufficed.
With alacrity, the apartment manager led Vika and Simon to his office and into an adjacent room filled floor to ceiling with television monitors displaying live feeds from the building’s thirty-one security cameras.
It was almost too easy, thought Simon.
“Please understand,” the apartment manager explained, and the other shoe dropped. “If I could fulfill your request, I would. Alas, our system was subjected to some kind of attack just three days ago. Somehow our recordings…our entire hard drive…were destroyed. ‘Wiped clean’ are the words our security expert used. We are at a loss. One day all was working properly. The next, we were unable to record a thing. Kaput!”
“You’re certain?” Vika shared Simon’s disappointment. “You have nothing from Sunday night?”
“Nothing. Rien. But rest assured, Madame la Princesse, the system is once again functioning perfectly. It was a one-time problem. Never again.”
Vika thanked the multilingual manager graciously and he responded with something between a bow, a curtsy, and the Hitler gruss. A man to satisfy every client. Simon gave him a hard look to let him know he wasn’t entirely satisfied with his explanation, but there was nothing to be done.
“Bad luck,” said Vika when they were on the street.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” The destruction of the hard disc added a level of sophistication to the crime that he would be wise to respect. It wasn’t difficult to wipe a drive. All you needed was an industrial magnet and access to the machines. It was the fact that they’d thought ahead. Stefanie Brandenburg’s murder was premeditated.
“How could they do such a thing?” asked Vika.
By now Simon was only half listening. “Come on,” he said, standing on the curb, scanning traffic. When she hesitated, he took her hand and crossed the street with her in tow. He opened the door to the Pharmacie Mougins directly facing the Château Perigord. She entered, confused, looking to Simon for an explanation. At the counter, he asked the pharmacist if he could speak to the manager. An attractive middle-aged woman wearing a crisp white coat, glasses tucked into her hair, emerged from the storage area. “How may I be of assistance?”
Simon walked to the far side of the counter and slipped a folded thousand-euro note across the surface. The woman’s brown eyes took in the bill and jumped angrily to Simon, who explained that he had not come for a “special” prescription. He offered a story about a stolen car and a wayward son and inquired if by any chance the pharmacy kept a camera trained on the front door. He knew the answer. He’d spotted it from across the street and believed there was a good chance it captured traffic moving in both directions along the Boulevard d’Italie. “I must find my boy,” he said, with emotion.
The banknote disappeared into the woman’s coat pocket.
She lifted the barrier, and a minute later, Simon and Vika found themselves wedged in a supply closet working the controls of a four-camera multiplex and recording system. The top right screen broadcast the sidewalk and front door in full-color high-def. Cars driving past in both directions were visible and Simon noted that he could make out their license plates.
It was a new setup, no more than a year old. Simon plugged in a date and time (up to ninety-six hours earlier). He started the recorded images at eleven p.m. the night Vika’s mother was murdered. In low light, the picture quality was fuzzed and shallow. They were looking for a Rolls-Royce Phantom IV and they found it at 11:46:15 as it left the driveway of the Château Perigord, turned left onto the Boulevard d’Italie, and drove past the pharmacy.
“That’s her car,” Vika said.
Simon froze the picture when the car was closest to the camera. Two men occupied the front seats. It was too dark to see their faces clearly, though he could make out the driver’s profile, his dark hairline forming the point of a widow’s peak. His passenger wore a driving cap and sunglasses. The boss, thought Simon. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. It was hard work lifting a body. Easy to lose a cuff link.
Simon used his phone to take a picture of the screen. There was a chance his friends at Interpol could clean it up, run it through their facial-recognition software, and get a read. He wasn’t optimistic.
He let the recording continue and his eyes went to a car following the Rolls-Royce. It was moving slowly, as if it had just pulled away from the curb. It was easier to see the men inside—pale, dark hair—but what interested him more was the car itself, a late-model Mercedes-Benz sedan, and, more precisely, its license plates. They were not Monaco plates, or plates from France, Italy, Germany, or any country belonging to the European Union. Plates issued by the EU sported a navy stripe emblazoned with a wreath of stars running down the left-hand side. These plates had no stars and no stripe, just numbers and letters. Simon froze the picture. All markings were plain to read.
656 SR 877
A tinge of unease ran down Simon’s spine. He was right that the license plate had not been issued by the European Union. It came from a country he was beginning to get to know all too well and dislike even more.
SR stood for Serbia.
Chapter 36
Patience was a luxury Simon Riske could no longer afford. Driving Vika’s station wagon east along the A8 into Italy, he kept his speed twenty kilometers above the limit and his eyes on the rearview mirror. He saw no unwelcome company, with Serbian plates or without. It was not often that events left him confused. Rarer still, utterly at a loss. Yet despite his most strenuous efforts, he could identify no ties between his discovery that a gang of Serbian criminals was robbing the Casino de Monte-Carlo of hundreds of millions of euros and probable Serbian involvement in the death of Princess Stefanie von Tiefen und Tassis. The only link between the two was Simon himself. It was maddening.
Rule number one: There is no such thing as coincidence.
Simon looked at Vika, more curious than ever to know what it was she was hiding from him. She was not a thief. He’d wager his life on that. She certainly wasn’t Serbian. Yet more and more, he sensed an aura of distrust coming from her, a desire to distan
ce herself from him.
Wait, he told himself. Concentrate on one matter at a time. If there was something there, it would make itself known.
Simon gripped the steering wheel harder.
Patience was a luxury he could no longer afford.
The city of Ventimiglia hugged the slopes of the Bay of Genoa, twenty kilometers east of the French border. Originally the site of a Roman garrison, it couldn’t be more different from Monaco. There were no fancy apartment buildings, no five-star hotels, no casinos, and no port packed to the gills with luxury motor yachts three times the size of a Roman trireme. To look at, Ventimiglia hadn’t changed from the turn of the century—the nineteenth century. It was a stalwart bastion of earth tones climbing the hillside, sand and olive and rust, nothing taller than three stories, all faded from decades beneath the Mediterranean sun, and crowned by the spire of Santa Maria del Popolo.
Simon steered the car off the highway and along an ever-narrowing series of roads snaking through the hills behind the city. He had his own private history with Ventimiglia, one he’d never share with a princess. It was here that he’d lost his virginity to a buxom, raven-haired beauty named Giulietta. He was sixteen, though it was not a case of teen romance. He was not her Romeo, or anything like her first love. Giulietta was a thirtysomething-year-old prostitute who worked at Mama Lina’s, the most notorious house of ill repute on the Ligurian coast. A gift from Simon’s criminal brethren on the occasion of his stealing his first car.
“Been here before?” Vika asked.
“Once,” he said, looking at her. “School trip.”
“Those were fun.”
“Some more than others.”
“I know so very little about you,” she said. “Are you American or French or something else entirely?”
“My father was American. My parents divorced when I was small. I lived with him in England until he died. I was still a kid and went to live with my mother in Marseille.”
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