picture, then the clues begin to tell you a story, a vivid and violent and fascinating story. That’s what all the great detectives have done. They have closed their eyes and quieted their souls and let the narrative guide them.”
Goddard said nothing. Everything about this man repulsed him. Now he could add delusions of grandeur and a wont for pontification to the list.
The Skeleton was examining one of the tiny video surveillance cameras that Rafeeq Ramsey’s Paris-based security company had installed throughout the house and in the outer hallways six months earlier.
“We have all the surveillance recordings cued up and ready to go,” Goddard said before he was asked. “They’re all digital. They’re all time-stamped. And they captured everything. Ramsey and Marwan Accad talking at some length. Then Ramsey being shot. The death of the bodyguards. Accad taking their weapons. It’s all there. In fact, I just got the ballistics report back. The two bodies we found at the Méridien were killed with one of these weapons, undoubtedly by Accad.”
Lemieux stopped what he was doing and looked up.
Surprised by his interest, Goddard added, “The only problem is that while the surveillance tapes show us what happened, they don’t tell us why . There is no audio. No one but Marwan Accad knows what Monsieur Ramsey said in the final minutes of his life. But as I said on the phone, I’m hoping—as are you, I’m sure—that he can shed some light on this horrible crime.”
“So have you found him yet, Monsieur Goddard?” Lemieux asked.
“No, not yet,” Goddard conceded. “But we have a new lead.”
“Oh?”
“A taxi company just reported one of its cabs missing,” Goddard said. “The driver last reported in right outside the Méridien. Now no one can find him, and he’s not answering his radio. The manager of the Méridien claims to have seen him pull away, heading west, out of the city.”
“Toward France?” Lemieux asked.
“Apparently,” Goddard said. “I’m having my men check traffic cameras to see if we can identify the car and see where it went.”
One of the benefits of living in a high-tech age and in a city-state wealthy enough to afford state-of-the-art law enforcement technology was that surveillance cameras were positioned everywhere throughout Monte Carlo. A person could barely make a move without being photographed. The authorities couldn’t always stop a crime, but they could often reconstruct it and follow those responsible.
“How long ago did the Méridien manager see the taxi leave?” Lemieux asked.
“Over two hours ago,” Goddard said.
“And there’s been no sighting of Accad in the city?”
“No.”
“And no one’s spotted him at the airport in Nice?”
“No.”
“Cannes?”
“No.”
“Hyères?”
“No.”
Lemieux paced the room and then stopped suddenly and whipped around.
“He has to be heading for Marseille,” he said. “Get me the head of airport security—now!”
16
Royal Air Maroc flight 256 hurtled down the runway into the rainy blackness with 140 drowsy passengers on board, and Marwan Accad—aka Jack Cardell—was one of them.
As the jet banked south and began flying across the Mediterranean at twenty-five thousand feet and almost five hundred miles per hour, the flight attendants served some refreshments. When the pilot turned off the interior lights, most of those on board began to drift off to sleep. But try as he might, Marwan could not. The wound in his shoulder was almost unbearable. He was perspiring and felt feverish and nauseated. He asked one of the flight attendants for some pain relievers and washed them down with a Coke. Then he headed to the lavatory to wash his hands and face.
Once inside, he locked the door and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked as terrible as he felt. His face was pale. His eyes were red and watery. And as he peeled off his jean jacket, he found the shoulder of his T-shirt soaked in blood. It
Goddard said nothing. Everything about this man repulsed him. Now he could add delusions of grandeur and a wont for pontification to the list.
The Skeleton was examining one of the tiny video surveillance cameras that Rafeeq Ramsey’s Paris-based security company had installed throughout the house and in the outer hallways six months earlier.
“We have all the surveillance recordings cued up and ready to go,” Goddard said before he was asked. “They’re all digital. They’re all time-stamped. And they captured everything. Ramsey and Marwan Accad talking at some length. Then Ramsey being shot. The death of the bodyguards. Accad taking their weapons. It’s all there. In fact, I just got the ballistics report back. The two bodies we found at the Méridien were killed with one of these weapons, undoubtedly by Accad.”
Lemieux stopped what he was doing and looked up.
Surprised by his interest, Goddard added, “The only problem is that while the surveillance tapes show us what happened, they don’t tell us why . There is no audio. No one but Marwan Accad knows what Monsieur Ramsey said in the final minutes of his life. But as I said on the phone, I’m hoping—as are you, I’m sure—that he can shed some light on this horrible crime.”
“So have you found him yet, Monsieur Goddard?” Lemieux asked.
“No, not yet,” Goddard conceded. “But we have a new lead.”
“Oh?”
“A taxi company just reported one of its cabs missing,” Goddard said. “The driver last reported in right outside the Méridien. Now no one can find him, and he’s not answering his radio. The manager of the Méridien claims to have seen him pull away, heading west, out of the city.”
“Toward France?” Lemieux asked.
“Apparently,” Goddard said. “I’m having my men check traffic cameras to see if we can identify the car and see where it went.”
One of the benefits of living in a high-tech age and in a city-state wealthy enough to afford state-of-the-art law enforcement technology was that surveillance cameras were positioned everywhere throughout Monte Carlo. A person could barely make a move without being photographed. The authorities couldn’t always stop a crime, but they could often reconstruct it and follow those responsible.
“How long ago did the Méridien manager see the taxi leave?” Lemieux asked.
“Over two hours ago,” Goddard said.
“And there’s been no sighting of Accad in the city?”
“No.”
“And no one’s spotted him at the airport in Nice?”
“No.”
“Cannes?”
“No.”
“Hyères?”
“No.”
Lemieux paced the room and then stopped suddenly and whipped around.
“He has to be heading for Marseille,” he said. “Get me the head of airport security—now!”
16
Royal Air Maroc flight 256 hurtled down the runway into the rainy blackness with 140 drowsy passengers on board, and Marwan Accad—aka Jack Cardell—was one of them.
As the jet banked south and began flying across the Mediterranean at twenty-five thousand feet and almost five hundred miles per hour, the flight attendants served some refreshments. When the pilot turned off the interior lights, most of those on board began to drift off to sleep. But try as he might, Marwan could not. The wound in his shoulder was almost unbearable. He was perspiring and felt feverish and nauseated. He asked one of the flight attendants for some pain relievers and washed them down with a Coke. Then he headed to the lavatory to wash his hands and face.
Once inside, he locked the door and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked as terrible as he felt. His face was pale. His eyes were red and watery. And as he peeled off his jean jacket, he found the shoulder of his T-shirt soaked in blood. It
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