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man, but not a standout, not the model or movie-star type. He had light olive skin, jet-black hair that was closely cropped, and in this photo at least, he was clean shaven. No mustache. No beard. No sideburns. No hint of stubble. He had a small nose and a strong chin and appeared to be in excellent physical condition, but as far as Goddard could tell, he had no other distinguishing features. No scars. No blemishes. Nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd. The perfect bodyguard.
    What really struck Goddard were Accad’s eyes. They were large and brown and warmer somehow than he had expected. To Goddard they communicated a sharp, ambitious mind but also a sense of decency, a sense of honor. And there was something else. Goddard could not put his finger on it just now, but there was something in those eyes that intrigued him, that made him curious. A hint of sadness, perhaps?
    “Get this to all our men in the field,” Goddard ordered. “And get it out to the TV stations, saying he’s wanted for questioning.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And issue a reward.”
    “How much?” DuVall asked.
    “How much is left in the account?”
    “A hundred, I think.”
    “Fine, use it all,” Goddard said. “A hundred thousand euros for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for this hideous crime. And make sure you get everything we have to Interpol. See what they can send you on this Marwan Accad.”
    “Right away, sir.”
    “And expand the search grid,” Goddard added, his worries growing.
    “You don’t think Accad is in Monte Carlo any longer?”
    “I don’t know,” Goddard conceded. “Put fax bulletins out to the airports in Cannes, Marseille, and Hyères, as well as to Albenga and Genoa in Italy.”
    “That far?” DuVall asked.
    Goddard nodded. “We can’t take any chances, Colette. We have no idea who the killer is. Or killers, for all we know. We don’t know whom to look for. The only real lead we have at the moment is Accad. He’s probably still here, but we certainly don’t know that for sure.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Contact the train stations and ferry services in the smaller towns as well. And check back with me every thirty minutes. I want constant updates.”
    “And the other thing?” DuVall asked. “Have you called him yet?”
    Goddard said nothing. He just shook his head.
    “Don’t you really have to?” DuVall pressed gingerly.
    Goddard sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
    “Would you like me to take care of it for you?”
    Goddard wished. But as the chief of detectives, the task—however distasteful—fell to him, and he couldn’t postpone it any longer.
    “No,” he said at last. “I’ll do it. Just get him on the phone. Tell him it’s urgent. Then bring the phone to me.”
    “Right away, sir,” DuVall said.
    Goddard retired to a small office off the master bedroom, where another of his detectives showed him the surveillance videos. He was struck by the worry in Ramsey’s eyes throughout the conversation, and by how relaxed Accad looked.
    “Wait, stop the tape,” Goddard said abruptly, leaning forward in his chair. “Right—there. Okay, play that part again.”
    Accad was handing Ramsey an envelope. The expression on Ramsey’s face was first one of shock and then—what was that next? Anger? Indignation?
    “What is that?” Goddard asked the detective. “What did he just take out of the envelope?”
    “I can’t tell,” the detective said. “The angle is partially blocked by Monsieur Accad.”
    “Do you have another angle?” Goddard asked.
    “No, sir, I’m afraid this is all we have.”
    “Is that a photo of some kind?”
    “It might be.”
    “Can you zoom in on it, clarify it a bit?”
    “Not here, sir,” the detective said. “But I might be able to enhance it digitally back at headquarters.”
    “Do it,” Goddard ordered. “And get back to me as soon as you have something.”

12
    The simple fact was that he couldn’t stand