“No I don’t,” glowered Louisa. “Not when you tell more lies than truth. You’re just like my father that way—secrets and lies. Just like Ferro too.”
Niccolò looked hurt.
“Fine,” he said. “If you won’t listen to me, will you at least tell me what you’re up to? And please God let it be anything other than that girl in the morgue.”
Sniffing sharply, Louisa shrugged.
“So what if it is?”
“Modonna! Why?”
“You know why.”
Niccolò took another long breath and held it to buy himself time.
“What happened to Ferro—” he began. “Well, it was…”
Glancing down, he shook his head.
“It was terrible Louisa. But—it’s over now. We have to move on—you have to move on.”
“Move on?” Louisa repeated, her voice becoming deadly calm. “I read the report. I know what they did to him.”
Niccolò stiffened.
“You—you read the report? How—did you get your hands on it?”
Louisa stared at her uncle silently.
“Never mind,” he waved. “I don’t want to know. Was it complete, the report—did you learn everything?”
“Not everything,” said Louisa. “Most of it was redacted, but there were pictures. I filled in the blanks for myself.”
Taking out his cigarettes, Niccolò struck a light.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he spoke. “Ferro’s death was...”
“They stuffed him full of rocks and threw him in the Tiber like trash,” Louisa spat. “And they did it without leaving a single scratch on him. Explain that to me!”
Niccolò puffed on his cigarette for a long moment.
“What would it matter, Louisa?” He said at last. “Nothing would be different—he’d still be gone, and that girl in the morgue would still be dead. She isn’t Ferro, love. She’s no one. It doesn’t matter, don’t you see?”
Louisa winced, astonished by her uncle’s callousness.
“It matters, Niccolò,” she said. “How can you say it doesn’t matter?”
Niccolò chuckled hoarsely and exhaled twin jets of smoke.
“You forget that I have walked these streets a lifetime longer than you. It’s all black and white in the beginning—and then one day it’s not anymore. The grey seeps in until you can’t ignore it.”
Louisa shook her head and turned away.
“Louisa!”
“The girl matters to me,” she said over her shoulder. “All of them matter to me.”
Making a fist, Niccolò shut his eyes.
“You sound just like him, and it’s killing me to hear it all over again. I can’t loose you too, Louisa—what would your father think of me? You’re all that’s left now.”
“I’m a grown woman,” Louisa declared. “And I’m not your responsibility anymore.”
“Please,” Niccolò called after her. “If you don’t stop, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection,” said Louisa without looking back. “I can protect myself.”
…
Half an hour later, Louisa arrived at the Ufficio del Medico Legale, or The Office of the Medical Examiner, and took out her phone. Forcing the conversation with Niccolò to the corner of her mind, she texted Nunzio.
‘Meet me in the alley,’ was his response.
Louisa went around the side of the building and down a narrow alleyway. Emerging from a doorway just as she arrived, Nunzio squinted up through the lenses of his thick glasses.
“There you are,” he said.
Louisa kissed him on either cheek.
“How is everything? Are we good?”
“Yeah. The American isn’t here yet.”
“What about your boss?”
Nunzio shrugged.
“He’s on the third floor dealing with a couple of strange ones that came in last night—and before you ask me, no, I’m not going to tell you about them.”
“It’s those dead cops, Bifona and Mora, isn’t it?” Said Louisa.
Sighing loudly, Nunzio removed his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt.
“So you do know. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. What am I then, just one in a long line of stupidly willing informants? Who’d you hear it from—Niccolò?”
“No,” frowned Louisa. “Why would you think that?”
“He was here all night pestering my boss about it. I just figured maybe he might have told you.”
“Giorgio told me,” said Louisa absentmindedly. “In fact, my uncle didn’t say anything about Mora or Bifono when I saw him this morning.”
“Giorgio told you?” Exclaimed Nunzio, oblivious to Louisa’s puzzled expression. “As in your partner Giorgio? Tall, handsome Giorgio?”
“Yes—what of it?”
“Well it’s just that Mora and Bifona came in pretty late...”
Picking up on the insinuation, Louisa narrowed her eyes.
“He’s my partner, Nunzio,” she said. “I can talk to him whenever I damn well please.”
Nodding sullenly, Nunzio fished out his keys and unlocked a service door.
“I was just asking,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
…
Lit by a staggering of overhead halogen lights, the basement level was appropriately spooky for its purpose. Along either side of the corridor, metal doors lead off into different cold-rooms, each one containing inert black bags and special freezers for staving off the decomposition of dead flesh.
“She’s in here,” Nunzio pointed, leading Louisa toward the last room.
Inside, a sealed body-bag lay atop a metal table. Formless and black, it could just as easily have contained a load of garbage as it could the lifeless corpse of a young woman.
“Well,” said Nunzio. “There she is. What now?”
Louisa took a slow breath, unsure where to begin.
“Her stuff is there,” Nunzio offered. “You asked about that the other day. It’s everything she had on her.”
A white cardboard box sat on nearby counter. Louisa pried her eyes off the body-bag and put on a pair of latex gloves. Dumping the water-damaged belonging onto the countertop, she spread them out. All in all, there was a backpack, a sweatshirt, a pack of cigarettes, a tourist map of the city, a subway pass, forty-one Euros, and a ruined book of matches from a bar near the Vatican.
Louisa took out her phone and began snapping photos. When she had enough, she inspected the items by hand. Though wrinkled and a bit musty smelling, the map and the book of matches were both still perfectly legible.
“What are you hoping to find?” Nunzio asked. “I mean, the detectives have already been through all of that, you know?”
Ignoring him, Louisa held up the book of matches and studied the logo.
“I know this bar,” she murmured. “Niccolò told me it’s a front for the black market. They pay protection though, so we’re supposed to leave them alone. I’ve never been—”
“So?”
“So why was she there?”
Nunzio blinked tiredly.
“I told you she was a terrorist,” he said. “Maybe she needed to buy some terrorist stuff.”
“I don’t think she was a terrorist, Nunzio,” spoke Louisa. “I think it’s a cover story—a fake.”
“But—” Nunzio began.
“Just think about it for a second,” Louisa pressed. “Doesn’t this remind you of anything?”
“Well—” Nunzio tried again. “Terrorists cut off heads and all kinds of weird shit. I bet they do this too.”
He gestured to the body-bag.
“Anyways, it’s not my job to think about that stuff. If they say she’s a terrorist—then as far as I’m concerned, she’s a terrorist.”
“That’s not what I meant,” sighed Louisa. “I meant think about the situation—doesn’t it remind you of anything?”
Nunzio made an expectant face.
“Ferro,” said
Louisa. “You remember what happened with him, right? As soon as the autopsy was done—poof—the case was closed. No suspect, no motive, no nothing. Someone wanted it all to go away. And now, that’s happening again—don’t you see?”
Glancing at the body-bag, Nunzio frowned.
“So—this American is, like, part of some conspiracy? That’s a bit much, Louisa, even for you. Look, I don’t know the specifics, but I know the decision came down from the Questura. They called the Americans.”
Louisa peered at the matchbook in her hand, refusing to be swayed. Though she knew she couldn’t prove it yet, she wasn’t wrong.
“The girl isn’t a terrorist, Nunzio,” she said evenly. “If she is, then I’m a fucking forest nymph.”
Making another face, Nunzio began to respond, but his phone interrupted him.
“Uh, hello?” He said into the receiver. “What? He’s here already? Yes—yes of course—”
He snapped his fingers at Louisa and pointed to the evidence box.
“No,” he stammered. “No—yeah—no of course. Send him down. I’ll wait with him until you get here. That’s right—yes. Okay, thank you.”
Hanging up, he rushed to Louisa’s side, and the two of them began hastily shoving everything back in the box.
“The American is here,” he hissed. “My boss is still up to his elbows in Bifona’s corpse and the fucking American is already here. He just showed up without calling!”
Still holding onto the matchbook, Louisa waited until Nunzio wasn’t looking, then slipped it into her pocket.
“What do we do?” She asked.
“Lid,” Nunzio panicked. “Where is the lid?”
Louisa handed it to him.
“I’m supposed to wait,” he said, closing the box. “I just wait here with the American until my boss can come. Five minutes, that’s all. Where’s the tape—oh shit what did I do with the tape?”
In the hallway, the elevator dinged.
“Forget the tape,” Louisa said. “I need to get out of here. Where do I go?”
“Go?” Nunzio almost laughed. “There is nowhere to go!”
The wide medical doors swung open and a black-haired young man entered. Wiry in build and pale in complexion, he wore an expensive suit that seemed at odds with his character. Finding Louisa’s eyes first, he smiled.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m agent Cato Fin with the U.S. Department of Homeland Security.”
Reaching into his jacket, he produced an ID badge and offered it to Louisa.
“Are you the lead investigator on this case, or…”
Louisa accepted the badge and studied it for a moment.
“No,” she replied in near flawless English. “I’m simply here to facilitate. I am, Officer—Bifona.”
The American bobbed his head and extended a hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he smiled.
Shaking his hand, Louisa felt his grip, firm but all-too brief.
“I’m Nunzio,” ventured Nunzio, waving. “Just in case you were wondering.”
“Alright, great,” said the American. “Everybody speaks such good English. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Still holding Agent Fin’s badge, Louisa looked down at it once more. Elegantly designed and detailed, it was almost artful. By comparison, her own ID badge was a piece of computer printed junk.
“They already logged my badge number at the desk upstairs,” the American said. “I’m in the system.”
Louisa glanced up and caught a hint of wariness in Agent Fin’s eyes.
“Of course,” she nodded, handing the badge back. “Here you are.”
The American took the badge and disappeared it into his pocket with a practiced sleight-of-hand. Frowning, Louisa cocked her head. After countless hours patrolling the Coliseum, she knew the tricks of a pick-pocket when she saw them.
“What did you say your name was, Agent Fin?” She asked. “Was it Cato?”
“Yeah. Like k-toe. Not cat-o.”
Louisa smiled, letting her face become nonthreatening.
“Did you know that Cato is actually an old Roman name?”
“Oh really,” the American responded unenthusiastically. “You don’t say—how interesting.”
“Yes,” said Louisa. “It’s strange that someone from the USA would have this name, don’t you think? Maybe your family originated in Italy. Maybe even in Rome. You know what they say, all roads and so on.”
Flicking her a curious look, the American appeared to make up his mind about something.
“I was adopted by an American when I was six,” he said in clear, fluent Italian. “As for my namesake, I choose to emulate Cato the Younger over the Cato the Elder.”
Louisa arched an eyebrow, a little surprised.
“Well, it’s not a hard choice to make. One fought to preserve the republic while the other had poor Carthage razed to the ground.”
“People were so dramatic back then,” Cato grinned.
“Indeed,” Louisa chuckled. “It’s hard to say why they did the things they did. Who knows who was really pulling the strings.”
Watching all of this unfold with a combined look of curiosity and terror, Nunzio had turned ashen.
“Excuse me,” he said tremulously. “Officer, um—Bifona, thank you for everything, but Agent Fin has a little paperwork to get started on and my boss should be here any moment—”
“You’re right, Nunzio,” Louisa clapped. “Please forgive me, I’ve been holding things up.”
She turned to Cato.
“Agent Fin, it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Same,” he said. “I wish I wasn’t flying out so soon, I’d love to buy you a drink and get caught up on what’s been happening in Rome since I left.”
Louisa laughed and touched the matchbook in her pocket.
“It would take more than one drink, I’m afraid. Now please—allow me to insure that everything is ready for you upstairs. Tell me, did you come with a vehicle?”
“Yeah,” Cato replied. “It’s parked around back—white van, fat driver.”
“Very well,” smiled Louisa with a bow. “Addio per ora, Cato Fin.”
…
Louisa climbed the stairs without a backwards glance. Behind her, the elevator dinged the arrival of Nunzio’s boss. Careful to appear nonchalant, she quickly rounded the banister and came onto the first-floor landing. Pulling her cap down low, she headed toward the alley door, avoiding the cameras that hung in the lobby.
Safely outside, she unlocked her cell phone and began swiping through the pictures she had taken. Eyes on the screen, she came around the corner to the loading bay. There, police vans, freezer trucks, and fork-loaders were parked in rows.
Glancing up distractedly, Louisa noticed an unmarked, white transport van, waiting at the bottom of the ramp. She hesitated, then decided to move in for a closer look. Sitting behind the wheel, Agent Fin’s fat driver fiddled with his bracelets. The van rocked on its suspension, as if something very heavy had just shifted inside, and a new figure appeared in the window.
Louisa froze, her legs seized by shock. It was him—the Man from the bar last night, the Man who had disappeared in an instant, the Man with the golden eyes.
XV
Settling into the passenger seat, the Man from Rome lit a cigarette. Beside him, Popi picked at the chains around his wrists. Even tighter looking than the previous night, they bit into the Greek’s irritated flesh.
“I told you to leave them be,” said the Man.
“I can’t help it, Dominus,” Popi moaned. “It’s unbearable—I do it in my sleep. Please, just a little looser, please.”
“You remember the Catalonian, yes?” Spoke the Man.
Gulping, Popi nodded.
“Then you know I will not loosen your bonds. He was Orphanus, and I showed him no mercy. What makes you think I will show any to you? Besides, it’s not going to kill you.”
The doors at the top of the ramp parted. Emerging into the sunlight,
Cato and another young man rolled a metal cart between them. Secured to the cart with bright yellow straps, a sterile looking black body-bag lay in rigamortis. Below it on a shelf, a white evidence box jounced loosely.
Cato banged twice on the van’s back door, and Popi got out to help him unload. Loosening the straps for them, the young ME stepped back so that Cato and Popi could lift their cargo and lay it gently inside the van.
“Here,” said the ME, handing Cato the white box. “This is everything she had on her.”
“Thanks for all your help, Nunzio,” Cato smiled back. “The U.S. government really appreciates it. Give my best to your boss and to officer Bifona.”
“Trust me,” muttered Nunzio. “I will.”
Cato climbed into the van and pulled the double doors shut behind him. Sitting on the wheel well, he made sure the young ME, Nunzio, had returned up the ramp before speaking to the Man.
“Okay,” he said. “I think that went pretty well.”
Coming back from the front seats, the Man crouched over the black body-bag and gazed down at it.
“Were there any problems?”
Cato shrugged.
“Just a nosey cop, but you told me they were watching you so I was careful what I said to her.”
“Her?”
“Yeah it was a lady,” said Cato, eyeing the Man’s cigarette covetously. “Say, can I have one of those?”
The Man ignored Cato’s request.
“Did you happen to get this officer’s name?” He asked.
“Bifona,” Cato responded.
Flashing back to the day before, the Man pictured the two men he’d annihilated. Their names, printed clearly upon their badges, had been Mora and Bifona.
“Bifona?” He echoed after a pause.
“Yeah,” nodded Cato.
“And what did Officer Bifona look like? Describe her.”
Cato sighed and leaned back.
“About as tall as me, beautiful, green eyes, dirty blond hair, spoke great English—”
Sniffing the air, the Man pulled traces of the officer’s scent from where it had settled on Cato’s suit. It was her—the woman from the restaurant last night, the one who had seen him.
The Man From Rome Page 10