by Ritter Ames
We hadn't fully toured the bottom floor, but I could tell this was the equivalent of a formal living area. It seemed packed with men—the noise level was atrocious—and the furniture could only be described as askew.
Jack stood in handcuffs, expressionless, and surrounded by men speaking Italian. Some wore uniforms, some dressed in suits, but all were either talking with each other or into cell phones. So many people talking at once, in a language not my own, made it difficult to catch what was being said.
But not impossible. Something about how great a day it was with the apprehension of a famous thief they had been pursuing for months.
Say what?
As I nearly disregarded Jack's warning and stepped into the room in his defense, Tony B sauntered in from the entry. All conversation stopped, and the men came to attention. Even the ones on their cells stopped talking.
The next thing I heard was Tony B speaking Italian and calling Jack a hardened criminal. Hoping he'd be kept locked up until Jack was an old man.
Bastard.
The man who I assumed to be head of the team was part of the carabinieri contingent, or military police, with half the backup his men, and the others uniformed local polizia. How did Tony B get both military and civilian forces to work with him?
The top man nodded. He thanked Tony B for helping in the capture of a man who had eluded authorities for some time. Tony B nodded and stood, waiting with a bored expression. What did the guy want? Flowers?
The head carabinieri quickly gathered everyone together to leave, and two uniforms manhandled Jack in a way I hated to watch. They hustled him out of view and, I assumed, out of the palazzo.
Tony B was left alone in the room. He strode toward a bar in the corner and poured himself a drink. The hood took a long swallow. He contemplated the empty glass for a moment, then slammed the glass against the wall. It shattered, and the shards showered to the floor.
Seconds later, he left the room, clicking off the light as he passed the switch. What sounded like the outer door echoed closed, and I heard a lock set.
The darkness gave me a kind of safety zone to contemplate what I'd just seen. I now understood Jack's warning but not how he knew what was coming. Or why. My brain was too full, and I knew if I didn't move soon, the panic would start. Something I could not risk.
I focused on my breathing. Told myself to consider Jack. He'd said I could put him in jeopardy. Well, I could put both of us in jeopardy if I was discovered, but right now his predicament seemed far worse than mine. Remembering his warning helped me stay in that tight place until a full thirty minutes passed. I opened the door of the crawl space, then crouched a little to get out.
Jack said to have fun and play tourist—I presumed to show I couldn't have been a player in this drama. Just pretend and act carefree. But how? I didn't know what any of this meant, but I knew I wouldn't be able to casually dismiss Jack being dragged away, cuffed by police in a foreign country, and taken to a jail cell in who knew what kind of condition.
I didn't know anyone to call to help Jack.
I took a deep breath. I had to get out of here without being seen, return to the pension, and call Nico. Possibly Max as well. Someone had to figure out what to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I hung up from my third call, frustrated. My little bedroom—so lovely earlier in the day—felt like it was closing in on me with every unsuccessful, long-distance, middle-of-the-freaking-night phone call. Since my return, I'd talked to Nico, Cassie, and yes, even Max. All three said the same thing, "Come home."
No way. I used the anonymous Italian phone to call Jack's cell, but after the umpteenth time hearing his voice mail kick on, I squeezed the phone between my hands and allowed the tears to flow. I'd never felt so powerless in my life. It was a totally foreign and completely miserable feeling.
Then Nico called back. "Tell me what you want for me to do. I will do it."
I hadn't had any options a moment before, so this one threw me off guard a second. But only for a second. "Find Tina Schroeder for me. Find where she's hiding."
"The dead girl?" His voice was incredulous. "I imagine she is in the Miami morgue."
Past time to fill him in on the rest of the previous evening's surprises. After a fast wrap-up, I said, "There's no doubt in my mind Tony B is behind her bogus death and rejuvenation. See if you can get any intel on where the thug would hide her in Florence. I'd say to check her passport too, but I doubt she's traveling under her own name."
"Who do you think really got her throat cut? I am assuming there truly was a body since the news organizations reported on the mugging."
Given the lack of a hue and a cry over Tina's disappearance, I had little doubt. "It had to be her mother, Phyllis, who died in that alley. Tina was the family's meal ticket, and I've been checking my phone for either a memorial service or even an offered reward for information on the murder. Nothing. Not a damned thing associated with Tina's name except the flash reports from the newspaper websites. The dead body had to be Phyllis."
"And you believe Tina can help you find Jack?"
I took a long deep breath before answering. "I believe if I find where she is that she'd better tell me something, or she and her mother may be able to share a grave."
Nico chuckled. "Got it. I will get information to you as soon as possible."
"Thank you."
Even better, I knew since he didn't hedge at all that I could count on something soon. Just one of the things I liked best about Nico. If he couldn't do something, he would say so, but if he expected he could, then you should believe it as well. Still, he didn't end the conversation without a warning.
"From what you said happened at the palazzo, Jack apparently knew something was up. Tomorrow, do exactly what he said. Play tourist, act carefree, and do what you are told for once. We do not need to lose you as well."
Okay, I bristled a little, but then I remembered Jack's hand over my mouth and agreed with Nico. "Yes, I'll ride my Vespa, and I'll be a good girl."
He snorted, then asked, "How do you think he knew what was going down?"
I'd racked my brain over this very question and decided there was only one possibility. "We both felt leery of the place as soon as we got on the roof, but I think if Jack had actually known something was going to happen by then, he would have warned me. I believe he must have set motion detectors when he did the recon of the outside of the building when we first arrived. Maybe with audio capability, so he heard some of the chatter before they stormed the place."
"Notice a receiver in his ear?"
"I didn't think to look. Sloppy, I know. I should have planted my own sensors, anyway. I think I was lulled by the wine and great dinner." And maybe the kiss—but I wasn't going to mention that to Nico.
"Good enough. I will get on this and let you know something as soon as I can."
"Thank you."
When our call disconnected, I scooped up the Fendi and dug around for my cache of business cards. The one for the Miami detective was right behind the one for the CIA guy with the New York accent. I held a card in each hand and contemplated my next move. Miami PD likely had a more vested interest in news about Tina, but the CIA possessed the international reach this problem needed. However, equally important was the fact the CIA guy was already pursuing the human trafficking case, so he would not likely be as tuned in to what was happening in Florence, anyway. Pros and cons weighed, my decision was much easier.
"Roblo." The detective answered on the second ring. Thanks to the magic of time zones, it was barely dark in Florida.
"Detective, this is Laurel Beacham. You interviewed me at the Bricknell condo where a woman identified as Tina Schroeder was killed on Friday morning. Are you still working that case?"
I could hear the suspicion in his voice when he dragged out his, "Yes. Who is this again?"
Briefly, I identified myself and gave him a synopsis on what had happened since he and I met in the lobby of Tina's building. Afte
r I finished, there was silence, then I heard a squeak and assumed he leaned back in his chair. A sigh followed.
"So much for my plans to watch the Dolphins play the Broncos tonight," he said finally.
"That's the beauty of on-demand streaming, Detective. Always ready later when you do have time to watch."
"Yeah, I'll remember that."
"I'm inferring from your tone that this is a new and interesting development?"
"Did you really have any doubt?" He chuckled, the sound warm and deliciously deep. "Nothing like answering the phone just before I'm set to get off duty, only to learn the puzzling murder case we've been pursuing all day has now developed into a fleeing suspect and/or a witness who is actually alive and attending parties in Italy." Then his voice moved a shade sharper in tone. "You guarantee this is her? I mean, we already figured out we had the wrong identification. Our corpse is someone decades older—"
"Likely her mother," I interrupted.
"Hmm. Okay." He stayed silent for a moment, and I waited. If I tried to talk him into anything, I risked any advantage I had in piquing his curiosity. It was his job on the line if I wasn't right, after all. Another minute into the wait and he asked, "Do you have any proof I can take to my superiors?"
I thought of the glass Jack had slipped into his jacket pocket at last night's event and wished once more that I'd tried to stash it in my clutch at the restaurant. "We had fingerprint proof, but it went with my partner."
"The one taken away by the Italian police, who you believe are following the orders of the man responsible for Tina Schroeder's getaway?"
I smiled. "Couldn't have said it better myself. You catch on quick, Roblo. I like that in a detective."
He chuckled again, and I imagined his head shaking as he said, "Let me see what I can do. Is there anything else you think might help me?"
I provided Nico's direct number and explained what I'd tasked him to do since we'd last talked. Then I also gave Roblo the CIA guy's direct line. "He's actually working on a human trafficking job we turned over to him, the FBI, and Interpol. But Jack seemed pretty chummy with the three of them, and you might get some help there too, but it may be extremely limited due to their current workload."
"No doubt. Just who exactly is this Jack Hawkes guy anyway?" he asked.
My mind raced over the possibilities: spy, recovery agent, military intelligence. Or, like I'd heard last night, a thief who'd been highly sought by the Italian police for some time. I could have said any or all of these options. Instead I replied, "When you find out, I'd appreciate if you'd let me know." Then I said good-bye and disconnected from the call.
As the scene shifted to the possibility of action, however, I could only wait until these new feelers found something for me to use. That still left me with an excess of energy in the middle of the night and no way to expend it. Not being able to contact Jack also made me think of the photograph and how I didn't know of a way to reach Margarite.
I was going to tell him about the photo tomorrow. Then I looked at my watch and corrected. Make that today.
The photo was another wild card. Someone had to have added it to my bag while it was getting kicked around the gallery. I hadn't seen Margarite at the event, but a young version of her was obviously the older of the two beautiful ingénues in the shot. If the photo was hers, and she wanted me to have the picture, she could have easily given it to me on the yacht. Was it because the other woman in the scene, my mother, was also topless? Did she think it would offend me? If so, she obviously had never heard about any of my college exploits.
Or was it because of the man? The man who resembled Rollie and who stood talking to the enigmatic Margarite and my mother? A man older than the women yet still close enough to their ages to have had an assignation with either of them. Or not.
Damn! Who knows?
And why was that the first thing that popped into my head?
Rollie. I mentally ran through his error-filled conversational snippets. Had he really made a mistake with the way he used "photograph" for "picture," or was the slip actually his clever foreshadowing of a plan to secret the compact and its contents into my possession?
Was I meant to focus on the photo? Or the brief message on the back?
Maybe Nico could locate a phone connection to the Folly Roost or find its sailing itinerary somewhere. He needed to run an exhaustive check on the yacht anyway, in case it tied in some way with Jack's background.
In contemplating timing again though, the photo had to have occurred during my mother's and father's engagement period. Given Margarite's story on the yacht, I couldn't imagine Grandfather taking such a strong interest in my mother's extracurricular activities otherwise. My darling grandpapa was a bit of a prude about keeping the family name pristine. My father's antics after Grandfather's death would have absolutely killed the dear old man if he hadn't already been deceased. As much as I loved my grandfather, and as much as I knew he adored his daughter-in-law, if the scene in the photo happened while my father and mother were only dating, I knew in my heart Grandfather would have ended the couple's contact. On the other hand, if an engagement was already public, that would be the leverage my wonderfully sneaky grandmother could use to keep my grandfather from any act to rock her son's happiness. I loved both my grandparents and still missed them every day, but they were truly a pair.
No time to get maudlin.
Was the connection to Moran? Was it Margarite? My mother? Or as I'd originally supposed, did my "pass" from Moran stem from debts incurred by my father? Did Grandfather know about the photograph and that Moran—or someone who looked very much like him, a son perhaps?—smiled and spoke to the two women that day on the beach? Was Moran's connection, even if fleeting, Grandfather's true worry about the sojourn the two women took in the sun? It seemed impossible now that Margarite revealed the story only a couple of short nights ago. Would she have slipped it into my purse secretly because she didn't want to explain a Moran connection? Or did she safeguard it to prevent my grandfather's wrath over what impact a topless photo revealed later could do to my mother's very proper family reputation?
My mind backtracked through every moment of the last couple of days and came back time and again to the fact that nothing made enough sense to be conclusive. Yet if I had to make a leap of faith, I would jump toward the idea that Rollie planted the compact. I had no real facts to back up the idea, other than the knowledge he actually was on the spot and Margarite remained unseen if she attended the gallery gala. Yet in the tangled web of my thoughts, Rollie made the most sense.
But that still doesn't answer why.
I realized I would be beyond senseless soon if I went another night without enough sleep. I crawled into bed and fought the covers and my demons the rest of those predawn hours, with terrible dreams of Jack calling for help and Tony B laughing hysterically. Despite my good intentions to rest, I rose early, bathed, and dressed in the same jeans and top I'd worn the day before. It seemed like years ago. My hair went into a tight ponytail, and I was ready.
I grabbed what was left of my euro stash, an emergency credit card—just in case—and stuffed the money and my phone in a back pocket. Nico hadn't sent new reserves as promised. I needed to call later and remind him. No matter. I had to do something fast, or I would go crazy.
My landlady met me downstairs with a key. She was dressed all in black and held a lace scarf in her other hand. Loosely translating her Italian, but mostly following her hand movements, I determined she was going to Mass and lunch somewhere with friends. I took the rounded silver key she pushed at me and nodded understanding. "Grazie."
A nearby bar offered my best source for a quick cup of coffee, and as I walked, I called Jack again. Same answer. Straight to voice mail.
While I drank coffee, I searched my e-mail and found the directions Nico sent for the Vespa place and quickly ran it down. Jack told me to play tourist, and this was the next best thing. If I were questioned later as to why I didn't wonder abou
t my partner's absence, I could point to the rental receipt that showed a lone reservation made by Nico the day prior and claim I'd never intended to see Jack the day after the event.
Papers signed, international driver's license copied, and I was the proud possessor of a tiny blue scooter for the day, with no real idea where I was going. Nevertheless, I felt relieved Nico paid for the entire day's fee. I had options, even if they had little substance at the moment.
A display of baseball-styled caps that carried the rental company's logo stood at the end of the counter. I asked the price, and my attentive clerk, Enzo, flashed a gorgeous smile and said, "Signorina, is yours."
"Mille grazie." I put a hand on his forearm.
His smile broadened when I put on the cap there in the store. He reached up to reset it a little and let his fingers touch my cheek. Bless his heart. He had no idea I was more interested in hiding my face in public than I was in knowing him. I'd have to remind Nico to send Enzo a big tip as compensation.
The bigger problem with wheels but no destination is that it gave me more time to think about what little I knew of Jack and our current predicament. I honestly knew nothing for certain about him. He could be a thief—I'd certainly accused him of being one often enough. But there was more to him, and a lot more to find out before I could decide one way or the other. Unfortunately, the GPS on my phone only gave me a roadmap of the city. Not of Jack's soul.
Florence is approximately forty square miles and divided into five main districts pretty much identified and named by nearby churches. I'd spent quite a bit of time in the city with my grandfather and my father on art trips or short holidays. Flavia and I had also come to Firenze together on a quick backpack tour the summer before I left for Cornell, even though she was already out of university. Our family connections always kept us fairly close, which was one of the reasons we were all together in Florence the night The Portrait of Three disappeared.