by Molly Greene
She tried the knob; the door was unlocked. When she opened it, the hinges creaked like a horror movie soundtrack.
“Hello?” she called. “Sir, are you here?”
No answer. She stuck her head inside and scanned the space. It was a small mudroom that opened directly into the kitchen. Both rooms were empty. Two doors led out, one on either side.
She took a deep breath and stepped in, thinking it might be better to retrieve her bag and pull out her cell and call 911. But what would she tell the dispatcher, that she was breaking into someone’s house and the spooky hinges on the door made the hair on the back of her neck stand up?
Yeah, right.
“Anybody home?” she called again, with the same result. Perhaps the good man was at the local stationhouse right now, telling his story. If so, she’d give a lot to be a fly on the wall to hear what he had to say.
She was lowering the gun when the sound came.
Not a moan, not a sigh. Somewhere in between.
It came from the room on the left.
She adjusted her grip on the stun gun and tiptoed across the tiles, then pushed through a double-hinged door into a dining room. The old man was there, with duct tape across his mouth.
He was bound to a heavy antique chair, the kind with a tall, carved back that weighs a ton. He looked like he was well past his seventy-fifth birthday and had the crow’s feet to prove it. Perspiration dampened his short, salt-and-pepper hair, and his wire-rimmed glasses were steamed up from the deep exhales blasting out his nose. His face was pasty, probably from the stress.
They’d trussed him up still wearing an old-fashioned black suit with a thin string tie. When he saw her, his eyes went wide and he began to shake his head back and forth, like the swinging door she’d just walked through.
Gen switched off the gun, then stuck it in her pocket and hurried over. She figured he was happy to be found and trying to express his eagerness to get loose. But when she heard a creak behind her, she cursed her naiveté.
Too late.
Before she could react or run or even scream, a pair of arms came around her and one huge, hammy hand covered her mouth. Even as she thrashed and tore at her assailant’s fingers, she knew it was as useless as a fly irritating a rhino.
She managed to scratch a trail of bloody scratches on the back of one wrist, and the guy muttered something in Italian. Apparently he’d had enough. He released her waist and rammed his fist into her left eye. The angle was awkward, but the impact still stunned her enough she saw stars. The blow would have knocked her flat if she hadn’t been clenched so tightly in his grasp.
Gen went limp. Awareness fluttered away. The only thought she could muster was an image of a scorpion tattoo, the one that was inked on the inside of the wrist that had struck her. Its stinger was raised, ready to strike.
Then the guy let her go, and she slid to the floor.
After that, it was lights out.
* * *
The ceiling swam into focus first. Gen was on her back, and she stared at the dark oak paneling above for about five beats before she remembered.
A twist of her head told her the man was still there, too, bound to the chair with his face canted forward onto his chest. For a brief, horrible second she thought he was dead. Then she saw his chest expand on an inhale. His breathing was quiet but regular.
He was dozing.
She sat up and retrieved the stun gun from beneath the heavy buffet; it must have flipped out of her pocket when she hit the floor. She felt lucky her head hadn’t struck a corner of the monstrosity on the way down, or she’d probably be dealing with a concussion right now.
But the minute she lurched to her feet, she was sorry. A bomb went off in her skull. She’d moved too fast. Maybe the concussion idea had been dismissed a tad too quickly.
Gen bent over until the throbbing lessened and the stars were gone, then went into the kitchen and took a package of peas from the freezer and pressed it to her eye socket. She was about to have a shiner the size of Rhode Island.
With the bag against her face, she activated the gun and walked through the first floor of the house, moving as quietly as possible. Since she wasn’t tied up, she figured whoever had socked her was gone. But she didn’t want to get caught with her pants down again.
Once a day was enough.
She passed through the living room, study, downstairs bedroom, and guest bath, and looked in assorted closets and behind draperies on the way. Upstairs, she checked two more bedrooms and a bath. It was the second room that interested her most; the door was sticky and she had to shove to get it open. Once inside, she could see it was being used for storage, the kind of typical household overflow everybody dealt with.
An ironing board. Sealed boxes. Scrapbooks filled with pictures. A wooden crate had been shoved into a corner and heaped with old sheets and a goose down comforter, which was not yet required to ward off the chilly, soon-to-come winter nights.
She went back down to the dining room and grasped the man’s arm. He awoke at the touch and raised his head, and instantly the look in his eyes cycled between anxiety and compassion.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Gen guessed at his concern. “I should have known better.” She dropped the peas on a silver serving platter on the nearby sideboard, then picked at the edge of the tape across his mouth. “This will hurt.”
His old-man’s skin was thin, and probably fragile. She didn’t want to damage it so she took her time, picking slowly at the tape. She kept at it until she’d plucked enough away to get a decent grip, then ever so slowly pulled it free.
“I’m sorry,” Gen said.
“I should be saying that to you.”
His voice was deep and very Italian, like he’d just gotten off a flight from Milan. His entire body was trembling and he was short of breath, and he wore a haunted sort of look on his face. Despair, that’s what it was. Like his best friend had abandoned him.
“Like I said, it was stupid of me to assume no one else was here.” Gen kneeled and worked on the tape binding his left wrist to the carved arm of the chair. “Do you have any scissors?”
“Yes, in the kitchen. In the top drawer of the cabinet closest to that door.” He gestured with his head.
Whatever emotion gripped the man, he wasn’t allowing it to get the better of him. He must have had an awful scare and his face was a miserable reflection of it, but his voice was sturdy. Cops could do that, but she hadn’t seen many civilians pull it off.
She got the scissors and came back, then hacked through the bands and moved to the other side and cut those.
“I will do the rest,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “You better put that bag back on your eye. It does not look good.”
Gen sat down and clutched the ice. Her head screamed. She leaned back and took in some air while her companion worked his way free.
“I have a million questions,” she finally said. “But let’s start with names. I’m Gen Delacourt.”
“Vincenzo Vitelli. Thank you for your help.”
“What happened here?”
“It is a long story.”
“Would you mind giving me the short version, Mr. Vitelli?”
“Someone wants something from me.”
At that, Gen rose and went outside and groped beneath the shrub beside the back door until she located her purse. She thanked whatever whim had told her to stash it there. If she hadn’t it would probably be gone, hanging from the arm of the guy who’d punched her.
“Is this what your visitors were after?” The metal inside was heavy as she held out the velvet bag. “Is it yours?”
“It was in my safe keeping.” Vitelli put the bag on the buffet and traced the coin inside with a finger. Interesting, that he didn’t even turn it out to be sure what it was. He knew. “How did you get it?” he asked.
“Someone saw you drop it and wanted me to bring it back to you.”
“Is he all right?”
Ah, so he knew who she was
talking about.
“Yes.” Gen voiced her thoughts. “Did you lose it on purpose?”
His expression clouded, but Vitelli held her gaze. “I am a clumsy and forgetful old man, my daughter.”
She nodded, thinking. She was struck by how much Vitelli reminded her of her own long-missed grand-père. His accent was different and he came from another culture, to be sure. Still, the resemblance was there. But would this man, who was so like her grandfather, lie to her? Sure he would. People told her fibs all the time.
And she’d better not forget it.
“I’m going to call the police.” She pulled out her cell and keyed in Mack’s home phone, then walked into the kitchen for privacy. Mack answered on the third ring.
“Time to bring in the big guns,” she said.
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. But prepare yourself for a major shiner.”
“Oh shoot, Genny. How?”
“The old-fashioned way, a fist connected with my face. I found Mr. Vincenzo Vitelli strapped to a chair and rushed in without looking around. I have to call this in, but I’m going to keep you and your new friend out of it. Who runs cases in North Beach?”
He told her.
“One more thing, Mack. You should probably check into Vitelli when you go back to work. We should both be curious about him and this whole deal.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing so far. He’s pretty shaken up. But whatever he does say, I’m not sure it’s going to be the whole truth and nothing but.”
She went back to the dining room and made a call to report the home invasion, and they sat down to wait.
Vitelli cleared his throat. “Can we keep the coin out of the conversation we are about to have with the authorities?”
Gen frowned. “That kind of blatant omission might just put my license in jeopardy. Why should I, Mr. Vitelli?”
“As a courtesy to me, nothing more. I worry that the wrong people might hear that I have something valuable in my possession.”
“I think the wrong people already heard that.”
He turned up his palms. “I would like to keep this from reaching any more of them.”
“And you think the police will shout it from the rooftops?”
“They would, of course, be interested.”
She watched him for a moment, gauging her options. “All right, but I don’t know why I’m agreeing. So tell me then, why am I here? I have to provide a semi-believable story, they’re going to ask me for a statement.”
“To try to sell me something.”
“That would be easy to prove wrong. They’d just have to do a little research into my background and they’d know I was lying.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
Vitelli’s face darkened for a moment before he recovered. “I see.”
“How about I was trying to track down a long-lost brother and the trail led to you, but you’re not the right Vitelli? I had a case sort of like that last summer.”
He nodded. “Vitelli is a common enough Italian name.”
By the time they’d finished fleshing out the story, a pair of uniforms were at the door. Gen didn’t know them and vice versa. That started out to be a good thing. But when the boys split them up and took their statements separately, her interview went south.
The Asian half of the team was staring at her now, and she could tell his goal was to make detective grade. She wished she could drop Hackett’s name, but she was on her own.
“So, Miss Delacourt,” Officer Lee said. “How was it you just happened to show up and find the victim?”
“I’m doing some leg work for a client,” Gen replied. “Looking for a brother, last name’s the same. I rang the bell, but no one answered. So I went around to the back to leave a note and my card where no one would see it. The mud room door was open. I heard a sound, or thought I did. I didn’t think it was kosher. It could be my job just keeps me on edge, you know? Anyway, I came in and saw Mr. Vitelli taped to the chair. I was walking toward him when a guy grabbed me from behind. Then he hit me. That’s it.”
“Looks like your PI skills could use a little polishing. You’ll be wearing the evidence for a while.”
“Yeah,” Gen said, a little sour at the crack. “My first black eye.”
“It’s a beaut. I need a picture for the file, by the way. Anything about this guy worth mentioning?”
“I never got a look at his face, but he had a tattoo on his wrist, a scorpion. Then he clocked me, and that was it.”
“Tell me again, what was it you were here for?”
Gen paused. “I’m on a case. Missing person.”
“And you’re sure this Vitelli isn’t the right guy.”
“He’s not. We figured that out while we were waiting for you to show.”
“So what’s your client’s name?”
“Look, Officer.” Gen kept her tone respectful but firm. “Do you suspect me of taping an elderly man to a chair, threatening him into silence, then blacking my own eye to muddy the trail?”
Lee offered a lazy smile. “I’ll take that as reluctance to answer the question.”
“I answered, sir. I’m searching for a missing sibling, but Mr. Vitelli isn’t him. This is a dead end. Vitelli will confirm that.”
“How long has your target been gone?”
“A very long time.” Gen stood and gave him back the same slow smile. “If you need more, you’ll have to take me in.”
“Sounds like you’ve been down this road before. But then if you’re really a private dick, you would be familiar.”
Gen winced at the moniker; she hated that. “I’m also an attorney.” Not that active, but still. It should be enough to earn her a little more respect.
“Oh yeah? You got a card?”
She pulled a business card from the side pocket of her purse and handed it over. “Will that do?”
Lee tapped his fingertips on his thigh, then shook his head and waved her away. “Yeah, you better go put a steak on that mouse. If I need to talk to you again, I know where to find you.”
“Thanks.”
She turned toward the kitchen to say good-bye to Vitelli. But before she’d taken five steps another knock sounded on the front door, and Officer Lee went to open it.
An attractive couple stood on the porch.
The man pulled some kind of ID from the inside chest pocket of his suit jacket, then pointed it in Lee’s general direction while he inspected the living room.
“We are Carabinieri,” he said. “We have been notified there may be ancient Italian artifacts in this house that were illegally obtained.” His look was grave. He took his job seriously.
“We are here to take them home.”
Chapter Five
Officer Lee studied the stranger’s credentials, then stepped aside and let them pass. “I’ve heard of your outfit, Luciano,” he said. “You’re the Italian Art Squad, the antiquities cops.”
The man smiled. “That is correct.” His accent was light and barely noticeable, but he was heavy on looks, with high cheekbones and pale skin and thick, dark, wavy hair worn semi-long. His features could have been rendered in marble, they were that classic.
His eyes flicked to Gen, and he nodded.
“Whatever you are, you’ve got no authority here.” Lee snapped the wallet closed and handed it back.
His female counterpart had slipped past Lee and was roaming the room, arms crossed, casually checking out the furniture. She was a duplicate of Luciano, with porcelain skin and piles of nearly black hair that waved to her shoulders, longer than his and much sexier. But while Luciano was a statue come to life, the woman was Sophia Loren in Boy on a Dolphin, large chested and amply hipped but with a waist so small Gen herself could circle it with two hands.
Not that she’d want to.
The woman was in Gen’s peripheral vision when she spoke. “Italy and the U
nited States have a bilateral agreement that guarantees Americans will not be allowed to import illegally excavated material.” Her formal words were delivered without force or accent. She either had a great voice coach, or she’d been in the country a long time.
“This is my partner, Carla Salvatore,” Luciano said. “A merchant in the neighborhood notified us of a transgression.”
So the pawnbroker had made good on his threat. She wondered if he’d also fingered Luca.
Lee’s shrug gave off a dismissive vibe. “I don’t see how that ties in here.”
Luciano slid a hand into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “We have a document that allows us entry, and permission from your superiors.”
Carla added the zinger. “We also have the blessing of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We are going to look around.”
For some reason the FBI mention zeroed Gen’s thoughts in on her ex-Secret Service boyfriend, Ryan Connolly. She’d had trouble dealing with her feelings after they broke up, but she hadn’t thought about Ryan much since the first time Mack Hackett kissed her. Overriding the drama, her mind followed the thread to a visual of Mack’s lips.
Earth to Gen. Shake it off, girl.
Lee studied the search warrant with the same intensity he’d given Luciano’s badge. “I’m going to have to make a call and check on this before you proceed,” he said. “You two sit tight.” He strode out toward his black and white, leaving the front door open behind him.
“Giovanni Luciano.”
Gen eyes swung back to find the Italian cop’s palm extended. “Genevieve Delacourt.” She shook his hand, then turned to Carla and nodded.
“You are French?” he asked.
“My father is. I’m just an ugly American.”
He gave her the once-over, but not in a misogynistic way. It was a cultural thing, she figured. When his gaze returned to her face he said, “Your eye looks dreadful. And the injury looks recent.”
Her hand went to her cheek just as Vitelli pushed through the door from the dining room, trailed by the second officer.