Chapter 74

 

The safe house was dark when Bill Caplin approached. He’d parked his rental car down the block, both because of the need for stealth and because parking spots on these narrow streets were hard to come by. The French officer who’d questioned him outside the Nice Acropolis seemed reluctant to become involved with an American cop tracking an American suspect.

“Ze judges are, how do you say, hesitating to issue warrants for such cases,” he’d said when Caplin told him about the safe house and the deal that apparently went down there this afternoon. “We can file the paperwork. It will take some time for approval.”

Fine, thought Caplin, I’m not waiting for the thieves to get completely away with the necklace while you dick around with paperwork. So what if he broke into their house and had a look around? What would they do, report him?

One thing his police training had taught—how to search a place thoroughly. He first used the simplest ploy, walked up to the front door and knocked. Listened for the slightest hint of a sound or light from within. A second knock was met with complete silence as well. He walked around to the back, keeping an eye on neighboring houses which seemed in the midst of standard evening routines—people at dining tables, others with television sets on.

Caplin kept to the shadows, blending in with surrounding shrubbery until he came to a back door that faced a small garden full of weeds with one struggling palm tree that would have been beautiful with only a little care. The place had the air of a rental or temporary owner; clearly, no one cared about maintaining the small stone structure or its grounds.

He stood at the dark back door listening to the surrounding sounds. It had four glass panes above a solid panel at the bottom. Some kind of curtain covered the glass. A window faced the yard and he stretched to peer into a small kitchen, but there wasn’t sufficient light to tell what lay beyond. Beside the sink sat a whiskey bottle—he assumed whiskey—he couldn’t read the label. A moment later he heard a large vehicle coming up the street, most likely a bus.

At the exact second it passed the house, Caplin used the heel of his shoe to break the glass in the back door. No one reacted; he’d barely heard the sound of it himself. He stepped back into his shoe, reached inside and twisted the doorknob. He was in.

It took less than two minutes using his pocket flashlight to get the layout of the small house. Living room with a dining L, small galley kitchen, one bedroom, one bath. Furnishings looked like rentals, not the kind of stuff a person bought for himself. One picture of the bargain store variety in the living room. No TV, no personal effects. Yeah, Morrell had been right. This was temporary digs for somebody.

He thought back to the conversation with Morrell, the scraps of information the con man shared. Some kind of estate, a mausoleum—clearly not in this neighborhood. He began his systematic search with the bedroom, the most common place people hid valuables. Nothing taped beneath the dresser drawers, nothing between mattress and box springs on the double bed, nothing in any of the garment pockets or in the shoes. The wardrobe was something of a joke; the few masculine garments were the sort one packed for a quick trip, not a man’s entire wardrobe.

He moved through bathroom and living room to the kitchen, searching quickly and quietly along the way. In the freezer compartment of the fridge, a small packet of cash was wrapped in foil and labeled “Poulet” which Caplin thought meant chicken. Rather an old ploy if these guys were pros. Someone would be back, but this was another reason he believed the safe house was used sparingly and very short-term. He picked up the telephone receiver and found it dead. No surprise—everyone used cell phones these days. The telephone directory next to it was dated 2010, so someone had subscribed to a land line here a few years ago. He carried the directory with him.

One last glance back toward the dining table, where empty glasses smelling of alcohol made rings on the cheap wood surface. Five chairs sat at odd angles, as if the occupants had risen and left quickly. The meeting Morrell mentioned? Most likely.

A small white square on the floor caught his attention and he aimed the light in that direction. A graphic design and some printed words covered it. He walked over and picked it up. A matchbook. How many years since he’d seen one of these? The logo was of a palm tree and the words said Restaurant Jardin Palm.

“No idea you would come in handy so quickly,” he muttered to the telephone directory, setting it on the table and opening it.

The Palm Garden Restaurant had an ad in the business pages stating its premier location near the Palais de Forestiere. Something to do with a palace and a forest, he thought, although he had no idea for sure. But it was a lead. And a lead could always be followed. He took the matchbook and the directory with him and locked the back door when he left.