Chapter 90

 

Bill Caplin smiled as the train pulled away. “Right where I want you, jerk face.”

He tapped a contact name on his phone. “The five-twelve train from Nice to Cannes,” he said to the gendarme at the other end.

He fumbled to upload the photo he’d taken of Frank before his quarry noticed him, knowing the French police were at the ready to capture the American who’d eluded them at the raid on the LeBlanc mansion in the early hours of the morning. A passing teen smiled at the old man’s dilemma and pointed to the correct icon—the photo was on its way.

No doubt Frank Morrell had left enough of his fingerprints and DNA around the house—a few stray hairs in the bathroom, a used toothbrush, prints on a drinking glass. Too bad there was no one to testify that he wasn’t really a member of the gang.

Caplin had heard French prisons were unbearable. Dark, dank stone cells a man couldn’t stand up in, where they threw you in naked with a bucket for your waste and twice-a-day bread and water to eat. Old Frankie would be begging for extradition to the United States within a day or two.

And if he somehow didn’t get convicted by association with the Golden Tigers, Caplin had an extradition order ready and waiting; it could be filed on a moment’s notice.

Too bad for Frankie Morrell.

He sighed deeply. Too bad for me, too. With the case in the hands of international police, Caplin knew he and Todd Wainwright would never receive their shares from the Philpont robbery. His vision of the boat in Mexico dimmed.

Just as well, he thought. The shadow of the stolen money would hang over him, and he couldn’t imagine living out his retirement years looking over his shoulder.