To start at the beginning of the story go here.
Rotella nodded again, then did the cop thing and asked the obvious question, “How would we prove this?”
I smiled, feeling the repercussions of my statement before I made it. “I ask her.”
Rotella’s astonishment caused him to fall into French. “Qu’est ce que?”
I nudged the roll of money towards him. “You take the cash, go flash it around town for awhile. Make a show of it. I tell Mitnick you’re in, but you’ve got one concern – you’ve heard a rumor that he’s holding someone against their will. We play the ‘This is a serious offense’ kind of thing and tell him you can’t play ball if it’s true. I tell him you’ve even heard rumors of a raid – which would be seriously embarrassing for Mitnick and put a dent in his social climbing plans.
“So I tell him you want me to meet with this girl, confirm she’s there of her own free will. Once I do that, I say, you can cooperate.”
“And this comes to what end?”
“She probably won’t be able to have an honest conversation, so I slip her a note to speak up if she’s safe. If she doesn’t, then we know she’s being held against her will.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It gives you a reason to raid his house. Even if she’s too afraid to come out, a raid would cause all kinds of problems. Maybe get Mitnick in trouble with his partners.”
“And possibly end my career. Why would I do this?” This sounded like such bureaucratic bullshit I felt the flicker of fire in my chest grow, but I had anticipated that Rotella might not be the naive crusader I hoped for.
I took out an address I had copied from Sophie’s map, and slid it across the table to Rotella. “This is the location to one of Mitnick’s cathouses.” When Rotella didn’t understand I added, “His brothels. There should be enough evidence there for you to corroborate what I’m saying.”
The inspector put a forefinger on the note and slid it closer to himself, flipping it over as if evaluating the latest playing card dealt to him. After thoroughly reading its contents he said nothing, but cocked an eyebrow at me in a very clear, very French way. “And…?”
“I’ve got a map of every illegal brothel in town. You help Uncle Sam out with this and I’ll give it to you. You can bust every operation they’ve got running, maybe expose the entire human trafficking ring.”
“If you have this map, why bother with the girl?”
“She could link Mitnick directly to kidnapping. There’s not going to be anything in those cathouses that’ll do that.”
Rotella read the note again, flicking the edge of the paper with his thumb. “This is Atwell’s plan?”
“Would it make you feel better if it was?”
He stared levelly at me, tugged at his mustache and then came to the conclusion of, “Non.””
“Then we’re good?”
“Non.”
A temporary dip into confusion quickly became rising anger, my feet swelling beneath me as I asked, “What?”
“I must meet this girl, this Nika. I will come with you to Mitnick’s.”
I have to admit that surprised me. I hate being surprised. “Why?”
Rotella leveled his cool stare on me. “Because I do not know you. I do not trust you. And I wish to meet Mitnick for myself.” He disappeared the note into his pocket. “I will visit this house. Mitnick will wish to meet me then.”
That seemed backwards to me and I said so. Rotella only replied, “This is the way it will be. Or it will not be at all.”
I stared hard at him across the tables, reminding myself that I couldn’t intimidate him and that violence wasn’t an option. Rotella sipped his coffee, bathing in my hostility with all the calm of a duck in water.
“OK,” I said, palming the mobile. In some pissant way of reestablishing control I said, “Order some breakfast,” and stood to walk away from the table. I felt Simon sweep in behind me as I moved to the front of the cafe and out the front door.
I slipped around the cafe’s front into a side alley, dialing the mobile’s only number as I did. Its buzzing was quickly answered with the same guttural Russian as before. I didn’t bother with any preamble, just stating, “Tell the boss that the inspector is willing to play ball.”
“What?”
I shook off the American colloquialisms I kept slipping into. “The inspector is willing to cooperate.”
There was the sound of a muffled hand over the phone, covering some conference on the other side, until a quick reply came back with, “Good.”
“He wants to meet.”
“Why?”
“The inspector has some questions. And I’ve had a visit from some Russians. Until I get that settled, I’ll feel a lot safer in the company of a cop.”
Another muffled consultation took place and ended with, “Call you back.” The line went dead.
I stared at the phone as if its screen, like some magic 8-ball, could give me an answer on what to do next. When it provided no useful advice I dialed another number. The phone buzzed until a recording of Max, sounding bored and slightly hung over, spoke in such a heavily accented French that I wasn’t sure it was French. There was a beep, though. “You’d better have the hideout for your princess ready soon. Things are moving fast.” I hung up.
Outside the morning sun was beginning to heat the cobblestones, chasing away the moisture from the night’s rain. Even this far from the ocean, a salty breeze gently rolled down the alley.
I breathed that in, the narrow, bleached walls of the lane reminding me of Capanne, and the golden light reminding me of Sophie. Between the two things, I stamped my feet, trying to get my anger to abate. There was still a lot of work to be done.
In the cafe, Rotella was eating the breakfast he was smart enough to order and speaking ebulliently to Simon. It sounded like they were talking local politics. From the cafe’s entrance, a stranger like myself might think he was happy. As I crossed the distance, though, I saw the gestures of his arms and rapid motions of his head were animated by a nervous energy, like an alcoholic who’s found a group of strangers to drink with. If he was happy, it was a tense happiness, brought on by possibilities and dangers.
I got to the table and opened my mouth, but the mobile buzzed in my pocket. I read the number on its display and then conveyed surprise to Rotella with raised eyebrows. “It’s Mitnick.” I flipped the phone open before he could say anything and spoke a quick, “Yes?”
“You are welcome, with the inspector. Come to the house tonight.”
I put the mobile to my chest and spoke to Rotella like we were old acquaintances making dinner plans with dubious friends. “Tonight?”
Between mouthfuls of delicious galette Rotella responded, “Non. Tomorrow afternoon. During the day.”
I stared at him, briefly impressed with the entitlement that apparently all cops, even French ones, had. I blinked that away and repeated what he said into the mobile.
There was another muted conference on the other end of the line and then a, “Da. We will speak then.” The line went dead.
I the phone down, picking up the coffee. “Tomorrow afternoon it is, then.”
Rotella wiped his mouth, then said, “I will visit the address tonight.”
It was my turn to cock an eyebrow. “Why bother? I just told you we’re meeting with Mitnick.”
“It will demonstrate my seriousness.”
I slowly nodded, uncertain how that was going to play. However, Mitnick had exhibited an ability to deal with bluster and violence, so I was confident things wouldn’t get out of hand. “He’ll be expecting me with you.” Before Rotella could offer his own plan, I said, “I’ll pick you up in a taxi and we can travel together. Where do you want me to find you?”
The inspector shrugged, then asked something loudly in quick French to Simon. Whatever it was, Simon responded in an equally fast fashion and Rotella said to me, “We will meet here.” He checked his wristwatch, a black and utilitarian thing, and added, “At 5:00.”
“OK.” I stood up, by way of announcing my departure said, “Enjoy your breakfast.”
Rotella, predictably ensnared by the wonders of Simon’s breakfast, nodded and held up his coffee cup in a mock toast that he tapped the money roll with. “Do not forget your Euros.”
I waved it off, but Rotella made no move towards it, continuing to eat as if it weren’t there. I couldn’t really blame him for not wanting it, so I took it over to the counter. I set the money and the mobile down, asking Simon if he could hold onto them.
Simon stared at the cash with a restraint I think is singular to French waiters. After that brief pause he shrugged, disappearing both the money and the phone under the counter. Uncertain as to what I had done to earn such loyalty, but grateful for it, I said, “Take as much as you want.”
I walked out before he could protest. With the inspector behind me in the cafe, it left me with a little over 24 hours to plan a kidnapping.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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