by Ritter Ames
Eleven
We were in Rome. The Eternal City. A place to visit Renaissance masterpieces like the Sistine Chapel and ancient wonders like the beautifully columned Pantheon designed to shout a tribute to every god. Or wander off to discover a lovely little café with the greatest pasta primavera and maybe discover an off-the-beaten-path fresco. Possibly even run across a shop with a wicked little dress to distract an adversary and let me use my legs to the most advantage. An endless variety of unique venues calling constantly to visitors. I loved Rome. Loved the Vatican. Loved the pickpockets. Loved everything that made this ancient city as relevant today as it was two millennia ago.
I could whine about the expectation of spending the day at a Roma police station, or vent frustration over the baggage handlers who held my luggage hostage in their collateral bargaining. These were small irritations, and bigger issues had to hold our attention. We had to keep one step ahead. To do so, we needed to use every resource available. Our best hope of finding the next clue had died with Tony B, those answers safely hidden in his memory. The forgery factory in Florence and all we’d subsequently found proved we needed to keep moving forward. The pieces of intel pointed to something bigger than a simple museum theft.
If the police investigating the thug’s murder could help, it was in our best interests to do what we could to aid in their mission.
Tony B also made The Portrait of Three disappear exactly as he’d threatened he would. I wasn’t sure if he’d given the grouping away like he said in Florence, or if it was somewhere he’d controlled—like my gut told me. He’d threatened to destroy the paintings if I reported them, and he was probably enough of a bully to try something that despicable, but I had to believe he sold them instead. Thieves simply did not purposefully destroy masterpieces. It was like building a bonfire with thousand-dollar bills. Regardless, this was one more secret out of my reach as well, and something else Jack and I needed to discuss when every moment of our time and attention wasn’t tied up thwarting this illusive heist plan.
Jack took a jagged curve and brought me out of my reverie. Our car was the rental he used to pick me up the previous evening. A speedy little blue Fiat. It had to be fast to keep from being hit by the other vehicles on the road. While he drove, I gave him details about the mysterious jewelry box and photo I received the evening before. Part of the telling was to get his take on things, but a big part was to keep my mind off the fact every other driver in Italy seemed intent on killing us. Jack, of course, acted unconcerned, but I thought it was false bravado—each time I scrambled to find something to hang on to.
“Do you have pictures?” he asked, when another gasp made me stop speaking.
“On my phone.”
“Why do you think it was sent to you now? After thinking about what you said on our call last night, I agree it was Rollie. Though I still question your grand plan to break into the Mayfair address.”
I ignored the dig and answered his question, “Yes, Rollie’s my first pick, but I’m not sure why I received the package or the timing of the gift. Unless it wasn’t him…Maybe someone sent it to warn me.”
“How do you mean?”
“Each picture has shown my mother with the same man. A man I recognized as looking like Rollie.” I felt a lump forming in my throat, but I pressed on. “It’s someone who knows about my mother’s link with Moran’s family. Someone who had the case…and…”
I couldn’t say it. Being fairly certain my beautiful mother had too-close ties to someone related to Moran was overwhelming enough. A tear made its way down my cheek, and I hurriedly brushed it away before he noticed.
“I need to know, Jack. I need to know what kind of connection she had with Moran and his family. The photo looks damning, but I can’t—”
He took a hand from the steering wheel to clasp mine. “Are you afraid your mother’s fatal car accident was really murder?”
The lump in my throat doubled in size, and I nodded. I was glad I didn’t have to meet his gaze.
“Do you have anyone to ask?” he said softly.
I had no idea if he asked to make me angry enough to talk, but if he did the words worked. Another car nearly sideswiping us added to my fury. I pulled my hand loose and pushed his toward the wheel again. “No, and you already know that, Mr. Dossier Man. My mother and father are dead, two paternal grandparents deceased, two maternal grandparents lost in Alzheimer’s. Both my parents only children—like me.”
Jack chuckled. “Mr. Dossier Man?”
“I was being nice. You don’t want to hear what I was actually thinking.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
Honestly, the man was a genius. The short exchange was enough to shatter all the tension locking down my brain and tongue. “The only relations I have are distant ones, and if I asked anyone about this I’d have to explain why I wanted to know. Until I have more information, I could unavoidably stain my mother’s memory. I can’t get additional info without telling people my suspicions.”
“Or they could assume you’re thinking your father killed her.”
I stared out the windshield, ignoring the frantic lane changes in front of us. His words stopped my thoughts. Why hadn’t I considered it already? “You’re exactly right. I’m obviously blocking on this. I was thinking she may have been killed by the man in the photo. She apparently had ties to the family, after all. Though that brings up another puzzling issue. When Simon escaped, he told us Moran gave orders to protect me. Is Moran keeping me from being killed based on a connection to my mother, or does he want to question me on what I know?”
His hand rested on the stick shift. I placed a hand over his and turned to say, “I need to know if my mother’s fatal car crash was truly an accident, or if my father was responsible for her death as a result of her relationship with this other man. Or if something else about her ties to Moran’s family created a reason for her to die. Jack, I need your help. I know we’re busy at the moment, but I believe this might be important.”
We stopped for a traffic light. He turned his hand to clasp my fingers. “I believe that’s an understatement. As you’ve already surmised, it begins to answer the question we’ve been asking for months about why Moran never had you killed when he had the chance.”
“Yeah, I figured my father had the underground connections. I never figured on it being my mother.”
“We don’t know anything for sure, but it makes for a very intriguing twist,” he said, squinting at the traffic before us. I wondered exactly what he was thinking.
“So you’ll do some digging?”
The light turned. He kept his gaze straight ahead, but I could see him make the same half-smile he always did when he apologized for pissing me off. “At this point I would have regardless, but it makes it much easier when you’re onboard with the idea.”
“Something new and different.”
He laughed at my quip, but sobered when I added, “You’ll be careful. Right? This is my mother, after all.”
“Absolutely. Trust me on this, Laurel. I’ll do everything I can to guard your mother’s reputation. However—”
He cursed as another car zipped in ahead of us and nearly sheared off our front end. After both our pulse rates returned to something closer to normal, he continued, “My bigger purpose is to protect you, and stop the art heist. I’ll move as carefully as I can, but if it comes to a choice, I’m going to take whatever route I determine necessary to get us the information we need to stop a crime and keep you safe. I won’t do anything to shine a bad light on your mother without reason, but you have to understand the priorities. Email me any pictures you have of the items, and I probably need to see everything when we get back to London.”
As I nodded, the lump returned in my throat. But I knew I had to speak.
“Okay, I will.” I took a deep breath. “I trust you
, Jack. I trust you.”
Twelve
Rome police headquarters was as noisy and busy as any I’d seen in countless major cities in the world. While precinct houses aren’t my favorite hangout, I admit to touring my fair share for business reasons. But I worked hard to make sure none of my pro bono “reclamation” work placed me behind bars in any of them.
The man charged with finding Tony B’s killer was a compact dark-haired detective named Micelli. I was happy to learn he spoke excellent English. My Italian remained better suited to restaurants and parties than police stations. Micelli led us back to a small conference room.
“This seemed best to talk,” Detective Micelli said, holding open the door and motioning for us to enter. It could have easily been an interrogation room except for the large smiling man sitting at the table.
“Roberto Nichetti is an artist,” Micelli said, waving a hand toward the big man. “Roberto, Signorina Laurel Beacham…and Jack Hawkes you know.”
Of course.
“Jack makes friends everywhere.” I smiled to soften the jab, but I wondered what else he hadn’t told me.
“Roberto and I go way back.” Jack cocked a dark eyebrow at me, then grinned at Roberto. There was definitely a story there.
Micelli held out a chair for me before sitting on the other side of the wooden table with Roberto. Jack partnered up on my side.
Roberto opened a file and flipped out two sketches. They were colored pencil drawings. One of the drawings showed the Amazon full-faced. The other was in profile. Most police renderings I saw were variations on the Identikit-produced type. Both of Roberto’s were excellent.
“These are very good,” I said, pulling the sketches closer.
The Amazon’s chin and jawline looked sharper than I remembered. “Her lower face wasn’t this chiseled when I saw her. She may have been working out, to change her facial appearance.” I wiggled a finger around the chin on both drawings. “This might be softened somewhat.”
“Hawkes brought Roberto in,” Micelli said, smiling. “He said this result would be better. Getting a drawing with color by his artist.”
I looked to the side and nodded to Jack. “Good call. These look much more like her than I expected.”
They truly did. The guard at the hospital apparently took pains to memorize characteristics when he checked her fake ID. There was more life to these pictures and a tinge of her hard edge which hadn’t come through in the Scotland Yard image produced months ago.
“The security camera catching her leave showed she never removed her gloves,” Jack said. “No chance anywhere of fingerprints.”
“We have men watching all earlier videos,” Micelli said. “We are to see if we can learn how she arrived and when.”
I didn’t hold out much hope this practice would lead to anything. From the frown on the detective’s face, he likely agreed with me.
“Anything look different to you besides the jawline?” Jack asked. “Or is there anything to change?”
Roberto had given her hair an almost flat auburn. “The hair wasn’t one solid color when I saw her. It was streaked with salon highlights to make it almost a fiery red. Not a cheap dye job either, I might add.”
The artist went into a canvas bag at his feet and pulled out a big handful of pencils. He picked out several warm and gold tones and held them out to me. I chose a couple of orange shades, a jonquil yellow and a shimmery golden. With a nod, he quickly updated the hair and flipped the pictures back around for my opinion.
“Much better. You do need to check with the guard from yesterday. She may have changed her hair color after I saw her.”
Micelli waved a hand. “Non, non. This is why you must come to see. Women spot these kinds of things. Little thing, but can help.”
In a final touch, the artist had added the eyeglasses she’d tried to hide behind when I saw her in September. To the side was a note I knew said something about glasses in Italian, but I wasn’t sure what. “This note.” I pointed to it. “What does it say?”
“Officers are going to businesses selling this frame, hoping to locate information on the woman through her…” Micelli searched for his words. “Her eyesight script…prescription. The guard recognized the frames. His sister wears the designer.”
I shook my head. “It’s probably a waste of time. She wore these same frames when I saw her several months ago but the glass was clear. No need for a prescription.”
Micelli let off a quiet string of curses, excusing himself to make a phone call. As soon as the door closed, Jack asked Roberto if he knew il Carver.
“He is…how you say? Poof.” Roberto’s hands mimicked the kind of surprise gesture a magician used in a disappearing act.
“You mean gone?” I asked.
“Sì. Gone.”
Roberto’s supply of English seemed to be exhausted at this point, and he began speaking quickly in Italian. Jack switched languages, and their exchange became fast and quite animated.
I didn’t know if Micelli knew about Jack’s fluency, and I doubted either of the men wanted the detective to know about their current conversation. It had a kind of “let’s keep this between us” air to it. To avoid being simply a decorative fixture in the room, I tuned out the talking and kept an eye on the narrow window in the door. I tapped Jack’s arm when I saw Micelli returning.
“He’s coming.”
Jack said something quickly and Roberto nodded. I didn’t know exactly what was said, but picked up enough to know they planned to meet later.
Everything wrapped up pretty quickly from there. Micelli thanked us for coming and offered to show us out, but asked the artist to stay behind. Jack and Roberto exchanged a look, and the detective interpreted it as concern.
“Is nothing. Don’t worry,” Micelli said. “We want to give time for changes. For when scans are made, make sure all come out dark enough.”
“It’s fine,” Jack said quickly. “We had talked about lunch. We’ll get together some other time before Laurel and I leave Rome.”
Roberto followed Jack’s cue and said, “Sì, is buono.”
“Call me when you’re free,” Jack told him.
“Oh, here.” Micelli passed each of us a business card. “If you think of anything later, call my cellphone.”
I keyed the number into my phone. We said goodbye, then retraced our steps back through the building.
On the street I glanced around, as was becoming my new habit. Rome has a lot of people on its sidewalks in a typical day, but I didn’t see an Amazon anywhere. I wondered how many people were in her contingent. At least her and one other. Someone else was driving the getaway car at the hospital and the second vehicle last night.
“Did the Amazon escape last night in the same car as you saw on the hospital security footage?” I asked Jack.
He shook his head. “Last night was a sports car. Probably stolen.”
We neared our Fiat, and I brought up the other video. “Are you not going to share the attempted kidnapping video and Nico’s information with Micelli? What happened last night to Nico could tangibly be related to Tony B’s murder.”
“I agree, but at the moment I can’t conclusively prove it. Tony B wasn’t a forger. Il Carver was. Last night’s skirmish could be the result of professional jealousies. We only know what il Carver told Nico, and we could be swayed by the fact that what he said ties closely to the information we already believe.”
“You aren’t going to suppress the video, though, right? We could work the angle ourselves, but we’re getting stretched pretty thin.”
He gave a tired chuckle. “Yeah, pretty thin. No, I’m considering contacting a friend in MI-6. The suspicious deaths cover more than Italy, and the only way they tie with Tony B’s death is if we assume so.”
“Pretty coincidental.” T
hough bright sunlight felt good, I was grateful I hadn’t packed my coat in my checked bag.
“True. We have to keep all of this in a manageable sequence if we can. I do need to contact my friend in the Italian military police.”
“The one who was with you and Nico at the hospital?”
“Right.” The car was in sight, and Jack clicked the fob to unlock the doors. “We have some time to kill until Roberto is able to call me.”
“I didn’t really follow your conversation,” I said. “Did he have any information?”
“Maybe. We needed a little more time to talk, to correlate what names I have with which ones he knows. By the way, thanks for speaking up when you saw Micelli.”
I climbed in. He shut my door and walked around to the driver’s side.
“From your reaction, I take it Micelli doesn’t know how well you speak Italian,” I said as Jack settled into his seat.
He grinned at me and started the car.
“What’s the scoop on Roberto?” I asked.
“He’s an artist I met years ago. Nice guy.” Jack looked away as he spoke, busy gauging an opportunity to merge into traffic.
“And…”
The mostly back view of his shoulders shrugged. He zipped out ahead of a white delivery truck. We heard a crescendo of horns, but our car remained unscathed. When we were comfortably in traffic, he said, “Roberto may have done a little counterfeiting work I may have kept silent about once all the money was confiscated.”
It might sound unethical, but one of the ways to get people to help in work like ours is to look the other way sometimes when a crime is committed by someone who isn’t a hardened criminal. Second chances often help develop great sources for future information.
He looked at his watch. “It’s early for lunch. I’d go back to the hotel, but—”
“If Nico is working he won’t want us around. If he isn’t, he’ll be asleep, which I don’t want to do anything to disrupt either. Cranky tech guys aren’t one of my favorite things.”