The Witness Page 6

  But Lemieux remained silent. He was counting shell casings. Then he began counting bullet holes. He moved from one to another, noting the rounds embedded in the walls and the bookshelves and those riddled in the desk and chairs and sofas, continually looking back at the building from which they apparently had been fired.

  “No fingerprints on the shells from the other apartment, I’m afraid,” Goddard continued.

  But Lemieux again said nothing. The silence was deafening.

  Goddard studied the man as he slowly circulated the living room. He was almost six feet five inches tall and frightfully thin, and he wore a long black London Fog raincoat that hung on his bony shoulders like some kind of burial shroud. His face was drawn and somewhat gaunt, and though at 62 he was younger than Goddard’s father, he was just as bald, with a small tuft of gray hair poking up over each ear and a narrow, graying mustache under a proud and pointed nose. The one glaring difference between Lemieux and Goddard’s father was that Goddard was pretty sure his father still had a heartbeat.

  But despite the man’s cold demeanor, it was Lemieux’s eyes that bothered Goddard the most. They were small and dark brown, and while they effectively communicated the man’s powerful intellect and his legendary photographic memory, they projected not a hint of warmth or compassion—not even for the murdered victims or their families, much less for any of the men trying their hardest to find the killer or killers and bring them to justice.

  How could such a cold man have such a sterling reputation throughout the whole of Europe? Goddard wondered. Yes, the cases he had solved were still studied by criminologists the world over. But what of the other cases under his authority, the ones that had died slow and painful deaths of starvation and neglect? Didn’t anyone take these into consideration when the great Marcel Lemieux came to mind?

  “I cannot tell you how much I love the look and the feel and the smell of a fresh murder scene,” Lemieux said at last as he worked his way around the room. “It is like a beautiful painting, one by a master like Monet or Manet. It is pointillism, Monsieur Goddard. Up close, no single clue—no single dot or speck of color—seems to make much sense by itself. But when you step back, when you close your eyes and breathe it all in, when you stop to see the bigger 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 had soaked right through the paper towels he’d packed around the wound in the restroom at the Marseille airport when he changed clothes.

  Marwan hung his jacket over the hook on the door, washed his hands with soap and warm water, and then carefully dabbed water on the paper towels on his shoulder until he could peel them off. It was a painful process and took longer than he had expected, and soon a flight attendant was knocking on the door.

  “Sir,” she said, “is everything okay in there?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Marwan replied.

  “Are you sure?” she pressed.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “Please, sir, we will be landing soon. You need to return to your seat and fasten your seat belt.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I will be right there.”

  The last thing Marwan wanted to do was cause a scene or attract attention to himself. As horrible as he felt, he hurried to wash the wound—wincing as he did—and redress it with new, moist paper towels. He splashed some water on his face, dried himself off, along with the sink and small counter, and stuffed all of his used paper towels into the trash. Marwan put his jacket back on, checked himself again to make sure there were no signs of blood on him, and then stepped out of the lavatory.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” the flight attendant asked as he reemerged.

  “A bit of airsickness, I’m afraid,” he said, hoping that would seem normal enough for her to leave him alone.

  “You really don’t look too good,” she said. “Would you like me to have a doctor waiting for you on the ground when we arrive?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said as he began to perspire again. “My girlfriend will take care of me when I get t
here. But that’s very kind. Thank you.”

  She let him go for now. But as Marwan returned to his seat and closed his eyes on the approach into Casablanca, his fears began to rise again. Yes, he was out of Marseille, out of Europe. But he was drawing far too much attention to himself. This woman would remember his face, his eyes, his demeanor. How soon until she was questioned?

  He had the Monaco police hunting him, and very possibly the French and Italian police by now as well, not to mention Claudette Ramsey and her thugs. How close were they to catching him? He had left too many clues in the airport, he knew. Once those were found, they would know he had headed for Morocco. He’d be lucky to live another two days.

  The plane finally landed. After making it through passport control without incident, Marwan rented a car and made his way into Casablanca. A cold November rain was coming down hard, and he could not get the heat or windshield wipers to work properly, making it difficult to read street signs in a city he had been to only a handful of times.

  To make matters worse, his fever was rising. He felt weak and disoriented. Twice he realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel and had to swerve to keep from hitting oncoming traffic. He knew what was happening to him, and there was nothing he could do but press on. He had lost too much blood. His wound was becoming infected. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And his body was in danger of slipping into shock.

  It was almost midnight when he reached the address he had scratched out on a small slip of paper he kept in his wallet. The two-story, whitewashed villa was surrounded by a stone wall with two openings, one for cars and one for people—both protected by heavy iron bars.

  As he pulled himself out of his rental car, Marwan began questioning his decision to not let Kadeen know he was coming. Would his friend even come out and open the gate at this time of night?

  But there was nothing to do about it now. What was done was done. All that mattered was getting through that gate.

  Without bothering to close the car door, he stumbled around the rear of the vehicle but lost his balance and fell to the ground at the base of the wall. Delirious with pain, he shut his eyes tightly and tried in vain to remain conscious.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there when he opened his eyes again. He could feel small, sharp rocks pressing themselves into his cheek, and there was grit on his tongue. Gathering up all his energy, he tried calling out, but his voice just came out a whisper. “Kadeen . . . Kadeen . . .”

  Tilting his head back, he could see a button embedded in the wall above his head. He reached his hand up, but the button was too high.

  Gripping the cool iron of the gate with his one good hand, he strained to pull himself up. Slowly he began to rise, using the strength of his left hand and the leverage of his damaged right shoulder. The pain was beyond anything he had ever felt before.

  He vomited, and the movement caused him to lose precious inches. Pull! Just keep pulling! Finally he was barely within reach of the button. Putting his full weight on his shoulder, he pressed his finger to the white plastic.

  He heard nothing.

  I’m going to die right here. Out in the road like a dog.

  Suddenly the door to the house opened, and Marwan heard a buzzing from inside. He realized he had never taken his finger off of the button.

  “What do you want? Don’t you know it’s midnight?”

  Marwan recognized the voice of his childhood friend. Again he tried calling out his name, but this time nothing came.

  A flashlight clicked on, and through his closed eyes, Marwan could see the glow of it playing across his face.

  “I said, what do you want? If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call . . . Marwan?”

  Marwan could hear the scuff of slippers against stone and the rattle of a key in the gate. “Marwan, is that you?”

  Marwan tried to speak, but no words came. Then his feet refused to support his awkward posture any longer. He slumped to the ground, and everything went black.

  Part Two

  17

  Claudette Ramsey lounged by the pool in her bikini at a large villa in the mountains, sipping piña coladas and soaking in the rays of the sizzling São Paulo sun.

  But even as she acted the part of a woman enjoying her newfound freedom, with a cabana boy rubbing coconut oil on her shoulders and back, her stomach churned while she awaited word of the latest operation. No longer would she have to live with that insufferable tyrant—the Pharaoh, as she liked to call her husband behind his back. By now he was dead. But what of the private investigator? Was he dead too? And even if he was, who else knew what he must know? Who else had he told?

  Her satellite phone rang. She sat up and shooed the cabana boy away. Then, when she was absolutely sure she was alone, she flipped open the phone and asked, “Are you on a secure line?”

  “Of course,” said the voice at the other end. “You think I am a fool?”

  “I cannot afford to take any chances. You know how much is at stake.”

  “You are not the only one taking risks.”

  “Then is it done?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What does that mean?” she demanded.

  “They got your husband. But Marwan Accad got away.”

  “How is that possible? I paid for three teams.”

  “He is very good.”

  “I thought you were better.”

  “We will find him,” the voice assured her. “And we will kill him. But it will take more time and more money.”

  “Absolutely not,” she growled through clenched teeth. “I’m not paying you one cent more. You said you would get them both. That’s what I paid for. The rest is your problem.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs. Ramsey.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she insisted. “You know I hate that name.”

  “Nevertheless,” the voice said, “I know where you are, and I know what you’ve done, and I have all the evidence I need to have you locked up for the rest of your life.”

  “Any evidence that implicates me implicates you as well,” she shot back.

  “Really? Well, we will just see about that, won’t we?”

  Claudette was now up and pacing about the pool, her face flushed with anger. “How dare you threaten me? I’m the one who—”

  “Silence! Do not think you are the first ‘client’ who has ever tried to back out of her obligations in the middle of an operation. We have ways of handling such people, ways I guarantee you never want to experience for yourself.”

  “I’m not trying to back out,” she said. “I just don’t want to pay more than we agreed.”

  “You will pay what it costs, or you will pay with your life. Is that understood?”

  Claudette stopped cold in her tracks. She knew he was serious, and she knew he was capable. She did not want to die. She simply wanted to be free, and rich, like she had always deserved. The collateral-damage death of her stepdaughter, Brigitte, had been unfortunate, but luxury and alcohol were helping to soften that pain. Now she feared she could suffer the same fate.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “How much more will you need to finish the job?”

  18

  The surrealness of seeing his childhood best friend—a friend he hadn’t laid eyes on in almost ten years—collapsed against his front gate quickly gave way to action. Kadeen al-Wadhi reached back into his house and pressed a button on the wall next to the door. A buzzer sounded, and the gate’s lock clicked.

  Because the gate swung outward, Kadeen had to push hard to shift Marwan’s weight in order to give himself enough of an opening to squeeze through. Once outside the gate, he placed a large rock into the gap—a rock he kept there just for that purpose, having locked himself out of his property one too many times. Then he took hold of his friend.

  “Marwan! Marwan, speak to me!”

  Marwan’s head lolled back. There was no response. It was obvious by the numerous small scabs on his friend’s face that
he had recently seen some trouble. But obviously, those tiny cuts were not enough to cause unconsciousness. There had to be something more.

  A dog barking down the street reminded Kadeen of his location. He had to get Marwan off the street and inside.

  “Kadeen, what’s going on?”

  Kadeen turned and saw his wife, Rania, in her yellow robe, standing in the doorway.

  “Quickly—come hold the gate open,” Kadeen said in a strong whisper.

  When he saw her hesitate, he added firmly, “Rania, now!”

  She rushed to the gate and pushed the rock away with her foot. As Kadeen slid Marwan’s arm around his shoulder and hefted up his weight, Rania asked, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Marwan Accad,” he answered as he grunted his way around her. The toes of Marwan’s shoes formed two serpentine tracks in the dirt as Kadeen struggled toward the front door.

  He heard the gate clank closed behind him and felt his burden lighten as Rania placed herself under Marwan’s other shoulder. They worked themselves sideways, then edged their way through the narrow door and into a small living room.

  They dragged Marwan across the floor, knocking a vase off an end table as they passed, and dropped his body onto a couch. Both were panting when they straightened up, but Kadeen’s breath suddenly caught in his throat. The left shoulder of Rania’s robe was stained dark with blood.

  “Habibti, are you . . . ?” Then he realized the source of the blood. “Help me get his coat off.”

  Together, they slid Marwan’s arms out of his jean jacket. Kadeen could see that although Marwan had padded his right shoulder, blood had soaked through and covered the upper quarter of his shirt. He looked up to ask his wife what to do next, but after seeing the blood on herself and on Marwan, her nursing training had already kicked in.

  “Get me some scissors—the ones from the block in the kitchen,” she ordered.

  Kadeen jumped into action, thankful that Rania had taken charge. He felt very comfortable in a lot of areas, but this was not one of them.