Fatal Cover-Up

by Lisa Harris

  She pulled off the old bandage.

  “Ouch.”

  “I thought this wasn’t a big deal? It’s red around the edges, and if you put the cream on it, I can’t see it.”

  “Sorry, doc.”

  “I suppose you get a few brownie points from your colleagues from what you’ve gone through. I’m assuming most FBI art agents don’t run into a lot of bullets.”

  “You’re just full of jokes this morning,” he said, catching the smile in her eyes.

  “Just wait until I get my morning coffee.”

  He laughed, wishing she didn’t have to be so funny, and genuine and beautiful. They were ignoring the inevitable, but he didn’t mind. Another few minutes before having to deal with the real reason they were here was fine with him.

  “There,” she said, stepping back. “You’re good for another few hours, though if I were you, I’d have this checked out again by a real doctor in a day or two. You don’t want to get an infection.”

  He rolled his sleeve back down. “You hungry? I think they might finally be open for breakfast.”

  She rested her hands against her hips. “I’m getting the impression that you’re always hungry, aren’t you?”

  “It has to be the Italian food,” he said, zipping up his backpack then standing up. “And on top of that, I’m a bachelor used to living on frozen dinners and fast food.”

  “That should be a crime if you ask me. They are supposed to serve a complimentary hot breakfast, but all I want right now is coffee.”

  “Well, I’m starving, which has to be a good sign.”

  He followed her out onto a small terrace lined with flowers and lanterns, but what caught his eye was the sweeping waters of the Grand Canal dotted by dozens of boats. Its banks were lined with dozens of century-old buildings that seemed to float on the horizon of the gray blue water.

  “Wow… I’ve traveled a lot, but this is incredible.”

  “I could stare at this view all day and never quite soak it all up.”

  “Why don’t you get us a table if you’re not going to eat, and I’ll be right back.”

  He filled up his plate with eggs and bacon and a couple of pastries before joining Talia at a table with a view of the canal.

  “So are you telling me you’ve never visited Venice?” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “I’ve been to both Rome and Florence, but never this far north.”

  “How can you come to Italy and not see Venice?” He saw the surprise in her eyes. “I love Rome, and Florence and even Pisa, but Venice…despite some of the memories this city brings, it will always hold a piece of my heart.”

  He dug into his breakfast, wondering what kind of memories the city held for her. Her husband’s family was from here, which meant the time she’d spent here was far more than any tourist.

  “Once again,” he said, “I could really use a tour guide.”

  She added a package of sugar to her coffee. “I think I could arrange that when this is over. The history of this city is fascinating. Set on over a hundred small islands with dozens of canals and linked by bridges—just over four hundred, in fact. In the past it held a strategic position, commercially, but it also had enough naval power to protect the sea routes from piracy. In fact there was a time when the city was very powerful.”

  “I’ve heard the city’s sinking?”

  “About one to two millimeters a year. If we have time, when this is all over I’ll have to give you a proper tour, including a ride out on the water on the vaporetto.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a water bus.” She pointed to one of the long, flat-top boats floating past. “Venice’s public transportation. It might not be as romantic as the gondolas, but the views are just as good for a fraction of the price.”

  Joe took another bite of his breakfast. “You could start the tour now. Tell me about Venice’s hold on you.”

  “The first time I came here was to meet Thomas’s parents. They showed me around the city and some of the nearby islands. I was as captivated as I am today.”

  “I can see why,” he said.

  “I think you’d like Thomas’s father. He’s always telling us Italian proverbs and funny stories from his childhood, though I’ve wondered more than once if he doesn’t make up half of them. The stories anyway.”

  “And the proverbs?”

  “Let see…one of his favorites is ‘count your nights by stars, not shadows, count your life with smiles, not tears.’”

  “And your favorite?”

  “My favorite?” A slight blush crept across her face. “‘In the middle of life, love enters and makes it a fairy tale.’”

  “I can see why Thomas fell in love with you. Especially with Italy in the background.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, when she didn’t respond. “That was too personal.”

  “No…” She looked up at him. “It’s fine. I let Thomas go a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean it’s been easy to relive it all.”

  He knew she still felt the sting of betrayal. He wished he could take that part of her memories away. Because he hadn’t expected to care so much. But there was something about Talia, with her passion for life, that had him dreading the moment when they found the paintings and she didn’t need him anymore. When his life went back to normal. If he could call anything about his life normal.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Just about.” He glanced at his watch. “Have you heard back yet from your brother-in-law?”

  Talia shook her head. “Not yet, but I’ll try again.”

  “No answer?” he asked after she set the phone down.

  She shook her head. “I’m just being paranoid again. He probably got called into work an extra shift.”

  But she didn’t have to say anything for him to know that she was worried. Whoever was behind this had made a handful of threats. And if they were threatening her sister, why not Marco, as well?

  “It’s still pretty early,” he said. “Maybe he’s still asleep.”

  “Maybe.” But she didn’t look convinced.

  “What does he do for a living?” he asked.

  “He delivers cargo to restaurants and shops. All of it’s done by boat, of course.”

  He dropped his napkin onto his plate. They needed to find her brother-in-law, get into the apartment and find those paintings.

  Ten minutes later, they were making their way across one of the bridges down the narrow street. He’d seen photos of the city, but like with his first impression of the canal, in person the colors seemed even brighter. Apartment buildings with flower boxes and shutters had been painted in oranges, yellows and browns. Below them the water sparkled in the morning sunlight, while boats made their way down the narrower veins of the canals.

  One day he really would like to find the time to visit this country while he wasn’t chasing down the bad guys. And from what he knew about her, no doubt Talia would be the perfect tour guide. He’d love to see the city, not as a tourist per se, but through the eyes of a local.

  “How far’s the apartment?” he asked.

  “Just a couple more minutes. It’s in a more private, less touristy neighborhood.”

  He watched one of the gondoliers propel his black, flat-bottomed boat across the water with a yellow rowing oar. “Have you ever taken one of those?”

  “Never have. Can you believe that?”

  “Too touristy?”

  “Thomas’s family has their own boat. Didn’t make sense to pay for a thirty-minute ride through the canals when he could take me for free.”

  There was something peaceful about this city. Completely different from where he came from, where cars filled the street, and pedestrians had to fight for the right away.

  “I think my father-in-law would have moved away years ago if it was up to him, but Thomas’s mother… I don’t think she’ll ever leave the house, or Italy, for that matter. She insists that modern cities destroy the sense of community.
”

  He didn’t blame her. Stone paving lined the narrow streets. Supplies were being transported along the water, as goods were delivered to the local bakeries, pastry shops, and grocers. Bright yellow one a row of apartments had faded, its plaster chipping off the walls that were lined with green shutters and flower boxes sitting on tiny window sills. Laundry fluttered in the wind above them as they walked across another bridge. There was a sense of community in the small shops and houses away from the busy tourist sections.

  “Personally I think it would be hard to leave a timeless place like this,” he said.

  Talia pulled out her phone and called him again.

  “I’m still not getting him,” she said, after letting it ring a dozen times. “Let me see if their neighbor has a key.”

  A minute later, Joe could sense the unease in Talia’s body language as she returned with a neighbor, a woman in her late fifties. The neighbor nodded at him, then slid the key into the door of the apartment.

  The tour of Venice was over.

  “Hello?” She flipped on the overhead light in the darkened room.

  He stepped into the quiet apartment behind her and looked around the living room. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”

  She heard her suck in a lungful of air.

  “Talia?”

  He rushed over to where she was standing. A body lay on the floor next to the dining room table. Blood pooled beneath his head. His open eyes were lifeless.

  The neighbor screamed.

  “No. No…this can’t be possible.” Talia pressed her hand against her mouth and shook her head. “It’s Marco.”

  TWELVE

  Talia she couldn’t stop staring at Marco’s lifeless body. She felt numb. Frozen. This had to be yet another bad dream. But instead it was a waking nightmare that refused to end.

  Signora Nicolai, who’d been a neighbor of the family for decades, grabbed her arm, her face turning to a chalky gray.

  “I just spoke to him a couple days ago,” the older woman said in Italian, her breathing suddenly labored. “He’d come by to water his mother’s plants and check on things. Told me he’d come back today and hang up a new mirror I just bought. He was such a nice young man.”

  Talia glanced up at Joe. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  Joe kneeled down by the body to feel for a pulse, then looked back up at the two of them. “I’m sorry. He’s gone. Ask her if she heard anything. A gunshot? People shouting? Anything.”

  Talia quickly translated the questions into Italian.

  “No, I didn’t hear anything,” the older woman said. “We need to call the police.”

  Talia nodded. “Why don’t you go call them now? We’ll wait here with the body.”

  She turned back as the woman hurried away, the soles of her shoes clicking against the sidewalk. It was strange the things that she noticed. The buzz of the overhead light. A fly landing on the coffee table. The slightly musty smell from having the house closed up in the heat.

  All in an attempt to avoid what was right in front of them.

  The only reason she was alive was because Anna thought she still needed her. But if she couldn’t find the paintings, or if she discovered Talia had recognized her, it was going to be her body lying dead on the ground somewhere.

  Like Marco.

  Like Thomas.

  She walked over to Marco’s body, stopping a few feet from him. This was no accident. Blood had pooled on the floor beneath him from a gunshot to the head. How long had he been there before he’d died? Alone? No one should have to die that way.

  A surge of anger shot through her as she fought back the tears. Anna had gotten to him. But why? Marco had nothing to do with any of this. She leaned against the back of the leather couch to steady herself. Her legs and hands were shaking. Her mind was spinning with implications…

  Her mind flashed back to Thomas’s death. She’d sat in the interrogation room and they’d shown her photos of his body at the crime scene as they’d tried to determine if she was connected to his crimes. The photos would always be imprinted on her mind.

  “Talia?” Joe stepped between her and the body and pressed his hands against her arms. “Take a deep breath. I know this is hard.”

  She took a step back.

  “It looks as if Marco walked in on her,” Joe stated.

  Talia glanced up at the tall ceiling, the large chandelier hanging in the center and the familiar blue walls. She noticed now what Joe was seeing. The living room had been searched. She could tell from the photos hanging askew on the wall. From the way her father-in-law’s books lay strewn on the floor. And how the narrow rows of white shelves going up the wall with dozens of knickknacks and photos were a jumbled mess.

  Anna had been here, looking for the paintings, and somehow Marco had gotten in the way.

  “So what do you think happened?” she asked. “Anna was searching the house when Marco arrived. She panics and shoots him?”

  “Makes sense.” He nodded at a broken lamp. “There was definitely a struggle.”

  “He tried to fight back.”

  “And she shot him,” Joe said.

  “Someone had to have heard something,” she said.

  Joe was walking around the room, systematically studying the scene. “But if the shooter knows anything about guns—like Anna would—and if she used a suppressor, it would change the sound enough that it might not be recognized.”

  “Once the police arrive, they’re going to start asking a slew of questions, and we still haven’t found the paintings,” she said. “Even if they are here in the apartment, we won’t be able to search for them.”

  She felt the heat of the space press against her chest. “How much time do you think we have until the police get here?” he asked. “Five…ten minutes?”

  “At the most.”

  “Then we need to work fast. Because you’re right. Once they get here, they’re going to block off the house and won’t let us look, but if we can find the paintings—assuming she didn’t find them—before the police turn up, we might be able to end all of this before someone else is hurt.”

  Talia looked around the trashed living space of her mother-in-law’s normally perfectly clean house. “And if the paintings have already been found?”

  “Until we know otherwise, let’s assume they haven’t at this point.”

  She was staring at the body again, remembering Marco’s karaoke attempts at the annual family gathering. His insisting that his mom make his grandmother’s recipe for homemade cannelloni stuffed with veal, pork, ricotta and parmigiano. Her breath caught. And she remembered Thomas lying just as still in a wooden casket at his funeral. The brothers had looked so much alike, with their dark hair, tan skin and lighter eyes. This never should have happened. If she hadn’t come here in the first place—

  “Talia, I know this is hard, but you need to stay with me,” Joe said, stepping back in front of her. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to focus. She could do this. She’d deal with Marco’s death later, but for now, Joe was right. If the paintings were still here, they needed to find them.

  “Do you know where his mother kept Thomas’s things?”

  “There’s a trunk in the guest room. It seems like the most logical place to start.”

  “Go see if there’s anything still there, and I’ll see what I can find in here.”

  Talia moved quickly through the familiar apartment. The police would see it initially as a home invasion gone wrong, but she knew better. And knew how Marco’s parents’ lives would never be the same again. Surprisingly, the guest bedroom looked untouched. Apparently Marco’s arrival might have gotten him killed, but it seemed like it also had scared their burglar into fleeing.

  Inside the guest room, she glanced at the brushed orange wallpaper and solid wood furniture. The trunk sat at the end of the bed. She pushed away the memories of staying here with Thomas and concentrated instead o
n finding the paintings.

  Her heart raced as she searched. Any second now she’d hear the sirens. She lifted the lid of the trunk and breathed in the musty smell of mothballs. She found a leather box with Thomas’s name written on the outside. Talia took in a deep breath before opening it up. Inside was the watch she’d given him for his thirtieth birthday. Postcards he’d sent her and his parents. Birthday and anniversary cards. A couple ball caps he used to wear. His class ring…

  All things she hadn’t been able to look at after his death.

  She kept going through things until she got to the bottom of the box.

  But there were no paintings.

  She looked around the room, then decided to pull open the door of the armoire next to the window. Inside were coats and a pile of winter blankets.

  I don’t know what to do, God. I don’t know how to end this.

  She pulled open a dresser drawer and started rummaging through neatly folded towels and tablecloths. After Thomas’s death she’d found herself in a downward spiral. Faced with not only his death, but also his guilt, she’d blamed God for what had happened. Slowly things had changed. She’d realized that Thomas’s guilt didn’t change who God was. He was still God.

  Death was never a part of God’s original plan.

  Joe’s words ran through her mind again. Living in a fallen world had brought the grief and pain and death. And despite all that had happened today, God’s faithfulness was just as real after a tragedy as it had been before. Even when it seemed impossible to see. It was what she had to hold on to when the countless doubts began to surface.

  *

  Joe made a quick sweep of the room. It was clear someone had been searching for something. What wasn’t clear was if they’d found what they were after. The clock on the wall clicked down the seconds, a steady, rhythmic beat, reminding him that they only had a few minutes—if that—to find what they were looking for.

  He crouched down on the large rug in the center of the living room and glanced under one of the couches. A cell phone had slid under the edge. He pulled it out, clicked it on, then swiped the unlock.

  Bingo. Unlocked.

  It was amazing to him how many people didn’t use any kind of lock for their screen, but not locking the phone was common. The background photo was of Marco and a dark-haired woman. He glanced at the body a few feet from him, then checked the call log. Nothing stood out. Next he ran through the emails and wished he knew Italian. He stopped at one sent the previous day with three attached photos.