Chapter 63

 

William Caplin considered himself a good cop, one of the best at his job, honest to the core. He told himself this each of the past three mornings after sleepless nights peppered with nightmares about his role in the museum robbery cover-up. He’d arrived in Nice on a late flight, immediately gone to a low-price hole in the wall hotel because it was the only thing available, and thought nothing in the world would wake him.

So, why am I standing here at four in the morning? He stared into the mirror above the rickety washstand in his room, hating the dark bags below his eyes, the droop of the jowls he’d never much noticed before this month.

It’s an attack of conscience, his better half replied. You’ve never done anything like this in your life.

But you’re in it now. Your retirement fund is gone if you don’t do something to get it back.

The thing about justifying bad behavior was that after awhile the arguments in favor began to nag at him, began to sound weak, like the whiny words from those crooks he’d prided himself on putting away. Those guys always had a million excuses—they had their reasons, they needed the money, their victims could afford the losses, it was nothing to them, mama always needed an operation. Something. Something decent human beings didn’t do. Something a good cop would never do.

He should go to the local department head, meet the Interpol men, tell them everything he knew and let Frank Morrell suffer the consequences.

Retirement fund.

Justice.

Do the right thing.

Do the profitable thing.

Then there was the Fitzpatrick woman—what had she been doing in Zurich? At the police station. It couldn’t be coincidence she was there at the same time as Frank Morrell. Did the foolish woman think she could actually catch the con man herself? And now that an international police force knew about her stolen necklace, what chance did Caplin have of getting to Morrell first?

He drew back his fist, wanted to punch the mirror. A stupid move, a thing one of those two-bit punks he’d sent to prison would do. Injuring himself and waking the rest of the hotel wouldn’t be smart, no matter his emotional state. He dumped two aspirin into his palm from the bottle in his ditty bag, swallowing them with a swig of bottled water. The toilet was down the hall and he made it there and back without making much noise.

He flopped back on his bed, cursing the sagging mattress and lumpy pillow. What the hell was he doing in Europe anyway?

When dim light began to show through the thin curtain at his window, he got up and dressed. Surely a beachside resort town would be stirring at this hour. Coffee might help put his dilemma into perspective.