by Susan Fleet
That got his attention. Agent John Conti, calling from Italy. Maybe he worked for Interpol. His English was fluent, though it had a certain rhythmic pattern that Frank recognized. His Sicilian grandparents had spoken with a similar cadence.
“Peripherally involved. The Boston FBI office was in charge. Why do you ask?”
“I am working on a recent case in Venice that involved the Peggy Guggenheim Museum.”
The hackles rose on the back of his neck. Natalie.
“How many paintings did they steal?”
“You misunderstand. No art was stolen. Two Mafia thugs robbed a nearby jewelry store. They killed a police officer, shot several bystanders and ran across the street to the museum. They killed an unarmed guard and escaped by boat via the Grand Canal.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“In 2008, you assisted in the investigation of the murder of a former CIA agent, correct?”
“Yes. Oliver James. Are you CIA?” If Conti reported to Clint Hammer, it meant Hammer was hot on Natalie's trail.
“No. I work for Europol, but we have an interest in the case. Can you put me in touch with the Boston detective in charge of the Oliver James murder and the Gardner heist?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Harrison Flynn was in charge, but he passed away recently.”
“How unfortunate. My condolences. We know Natalie Brixton was involved in the Gardner heist and the Oliver James murder. I understand you are looking for her.”
Damned right he was looking for her. A black cloud of fury rose up inside him, but he forced himself to speak calmly. Why tip his hand to a guy he didn't know? “She was the prime suspect in the James murder and we know she was involved in the Gardner heist. Do you know where she is?”
“Yes. I took her into custody yesterday.”
He felt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. Natalie was in custody?
“Civilians were killed,” Conti said, “which means I must work with the carabiniere. Unfortunately, the man in charge can be difficult at times. Generalissimo Cesare Valenti.”
Conti's words barely registered. Natalie was in custody in Venice! His heart pounded his chest. He wanted to go get her. Now.
He realized Conti was waiting for him to speak. “Generalissimo? Like Mussolini?”
Conti chuckled. “Not Mussolini. But the carabiniere are military police. They love these fancy titles. We believe Natalie Brixton can help us capture these Mafia gangsters.”
“She's wanted for three murders in New Orleans.” And another in Boston, not to mention illegal flight to avoid arrest.
“So I understand, Detective Renzi. But we hope to obtain your cooperation so that we can use Natalie as our—” Conti paused, groping for a word. “Our undercover agent, so to speak.”
He didn't answer immediately. Conti had arrested Natalie, but with Natalie, nothing was certain. She had escaped from police custody before.
“How did you find her?”
“I contrived to meet her two months ago and began a relationship with her.”
“What kind of relationship?”
Silence on the other end, a telling pause. Did Conti seduce Natalie or did she seduce Conti? She knew how to bamboozle people. Last September she had convinced the Boston cop who was driving her to jail to stop his cruiser, disabled him with a Taekwondo move and escaped in the cruiser. He'd been looking for her ever since.
“An intimate relationship,” Conti said. “So I could, how do you say, keep tabs on her. I had reason to believe she was planning to leave Venice, which is why I arrested her yesterday.”
“Where is she now?”
“In a hotel in Venice, guarded around the clock by carabiniere officers.”
“A hotel? Why didn't you lock her up in jail?” And throw away the key.
“A small concession on our part. These robbers are members of a ruthless Mafia gang. They killed the wife of the jewelry store owner and kidnapped their five-year-old daughter. We want Natalie to help us rescue her.”
Use Natalie to help them? Was Conti out of his mind? Natalie was the one who used people.
“Where's the girl's father?”
“He is in hospital, comatose. The doctors fear he may not recover. But our main concern is the girl. And capturing the robbers, of course.”
Amused by the double-speak, Frank smiled. Conti was trying to imply that catching the robbers was an afterthought. Bullshit. Conti and his Europol colleagues wanted to capture the Mafia thugs.
“They stole a large quantity of uncut diamonds. Untraceable, as you probably know. We believe they will fly to New York City soon.”
“How do you know this?”
“Valenti's officers are in a cottage across the street from their safe house, monitoring it with sensitive electronic equipment. We heard them talking. The robber's wife wants to hire a nanny to care for the girl. We want Natalie to be the nanny.”
Frank conjured an image of Natalie in a hotel room, guarded by carabiniere officers, her mind working overtime, plotting how to escape. “She agreed to this?”
“We want to sweeten the deal to convince her. Tell her we will make these murder warrants in New Orleans go away. She pleads guilty to the art theft, gets probation and all is forgiven.”
All is forgiven? Not in his mind. “No fucking way!”
“She returned three valuable paintings that were stolen from the Gardner, did she not?”
“She murdered four men in cold blood.”
“Detective Renzi, this may be the only way to assure the safety of Bianca Ruffino, an innocent five-year-old girl. We heard the robbers threaten to kill her.”
Frank weighed his options. Conti might be bullshitting him, but he could sling bullshit, too. Once Natalie landed in New York, she'd be in U.S. jurisdiction. If he agreed to the deal, he could save himself a trip to Venice, serve the murder warrants after she landed in New York.
“How do you keep tabs on Natalie if she's with the robbers?”
“I will fly on the same plane with them to New York City.”
“A city Natalie knows well. She lived there for a while.”
A short silence. “Really? I did not know that.”
You don't know a lot of things. Conti had no idea who he was dealing with, or how ruthless she was. Natalie had waited twenty years to avenge her mother's murder, had murdered four men in the process.
“She told me she shot you,” Conti said. “She said you would not agree to this deal.”
He smiled tightly. That sounded like Natalie. A step ahead of everyone, cops included.
“I don't have the authority to make the murder warrants go away.”
“Detective Renzi, when these gangsters fly to New York, we want Natalie to be with them. Please. Help us convince her.”
“I'll talk to some people but no guarantees. If she flies to New York, I want to know when the flight lands so I can be there.”
“I can arrange that. Thank you for your cooperation,” Conti said, and ended the call.
Frank studied his notes. Natalie in custody, Venice, Italy. May fly to NYC soon. Maybe Conti would tell him what flight she was on and maybe he wouldn't. But if she tried to pass through customs, NOPD and Boston PD would know it immediately. Her name and passport were on a watch-list at every international airport in the country.
_____
Venice 2:15 PM
Natalie studied the man across the table from her, Generale di Brigata Cesare Valenti, head of the Venice carabiniere, stiffly erect in his fancy black uniform, red epaulets on the shoulders, a red stripe down the legs of the trouser. A distinguished-looking man, he appeared to be in his fifties, his dark hair graying at the temples, his thin mustache neatly trimmed. He reminded her of the Frenchman in Paris who had tutored her in art history, so she could converse intelligently with the wealthy men who paid to have sex with her.
But Valenti was no art teacher, he was a military policeman, saying in heavily accented English, his dark eyes boring into her,
“These men are not characters in some Hollywood film like The Godfather. Like his father before him, Orazio has tortured and killed many people. Strangers fear him because he seldom speaks. They think he is retarded. Nonsense. He is highly intelligent. Tomasso, the younger brother, is better looking but ...” Valenti frowned. “Equally ruthless. For them, killing is a means to an end, to get what they want. And they wanted to steal the shipment of uncut diamonds that arrived at Ruffino and Son Jewelers on Friday.”
“Orazio killed the owner's wife,” Natalie said. Valenti had already told her this.
“And put her husband in the hospital. The doctors tell me he may not recover.” Valenti pinched the bridge of his prominent Roman nose and gazed into her eyes. “If you cross these men, they will kill you.”
Chilling words, but she had dealt with ruthless men before. Last summer in Boston two men had tried to kill her. They hadn't, but she had no illusions that her luck would hold if she agreed to this deal. The 'Netti brothers might kill her no matter what she did.
She fingered her cheek, then her eye socket. They still ached where Giancarlo, the deceitful prick, had punched her. Now purple bruises decorated her face. “What about Tomasso's wife?”
“A well-born woman—her father sits on the city council—but her wealthy parents gave her whatever she wanted. She was not Tomasso's first lover, far from it, but he is handsome and charming. He uses her to help him rob and steal. He only married her so she couldn't testify against him.” Valenti grimaced. “Another case two years ago, and poof, Tomasso goes free. Catarina is a beautiful young woman.” His lip curled in disgust. “Married to a gangster, but she prances around like a fashion model, wearing fancy clothes, painting her face with makeup.”
Natalie sipped from a glass of water. Maybe she could use this to get close to Catarina. She knew all about fashion and fancy clothes and makeup. Another thing they'd taught her in Paris when she'd worked as a high-paid escort.
“What about Bianca?” Memories of the girl's terror-stricken eyes still haunted her.
“I know nothing about her. But she witnessed the shooting of her mother. Perhaps you can get her to talk. John Conti tells me you work with children here.”
Hearing his name fueled her fury. The deceitful prick had charmed her into trusting him, then punched her and took her into custody. The hate she felt for him was like nothing she had ever experienced. If she had her Beretta, she would shoot him without remorse.
She had violated her rule. Trust no one. She would never trust anyone again. Conti and Valenti were using her, just as Tomasso, the Mafia brother, had used his wife to stay out of jail.
The door of her hotel room opened and Conti sauntered across the room to the table. With grim satisfaction, she studied the abrasions on his cheek. Four jagged scratches, two-inches long, only now beginning to scab over. She should have scratched his eyes out.
“Hello Cesare. Hello Natalie.”
Valenti returned his greeting. She didn't.
Conti sat down beside her. “Do you like the room we chose for you?”
No, she hated it. High above the street on the sixth floor, the only window, which opened onto a fire escape, was barred. No window in the bathroom. Two armed carabiniere officers stood outside the door around the clock. The bed was comfortable enough, not that she'd slept much, tossing and turning, by turns angry and fearful, wondering what would become of her.
“You're a liar,” she said, shooting him a venomous look.
He smiled, the faux-charming smile he'd used to seduce her.
To make sure Valenti understood, she said, “Un caffone repugnante. Un culo di merda.” A disgusting boor. A shitty asshole.
He reeled back as though she'd slapped him.
She saw Valenti's lips quirk in a smile, quickly suppressed. Perhaps Valenti wasn't fond of Conti either.
Recovering quickly, Conti smiled. “It's better than a jail cell.”
“Do you fuck all the women you seduce with your lies or just the ones who are good in bed?”
His smile disappeared. Slowly and deliberately, he reached inside his jacket, took out a pack of Benson & Hedges and shook out a cigarette.
“Put that away,” she snapped. “Don't stink up my room with your disgusting cigarettes!”
He grabbed her forearm and squeezed. “Watch your mouth. I will be your only protector in New York City. Don't piss me off or I might not be there if you need me.” He released her arm. “Your favorite detective will be there, too. Frank Renzi.”
A spasm of fear jolted her. Renzi would be there? How much worse could this get? Trying to get information from two ruthless brothers for a deceitful Europol agent was bad enough. How would she escape if Renzi was there? He might arrest her as soon as she got off the plane.
“You need an attitude adjustment,” Conti said. “You play nice, we play nice. If you don't, you pay. We need to buy you some clothes. It's cold in New York this time of year.”
“I have my own clothes.”
“Not anymore. We took your belongings and put them in an evidence locker.”
To hide her despair she turned and stared out the window. Any hope of retrieving her iPhone, her lifeline to Pak Lam, was gone. Worse, if they had the iPhone, they might call him. Not that Pak Lam would talk to them. They used a coded greeting, but still.
Conti rose from his chair. “Come with me, Laura, otherwise known as Ling Lam, the name on your fake passport. Let's go shopping.”
“Momento,” Valenti said. “Wait outside, John. I need a private word with Natalie.”
Conti frowned and a flush rose on his cheeks. Then he shrugged and left the room.
After the door closed, Valenti said, “You are having second thoughts about this?”
“Not about the deal. But what about my employer at the shelter? What will you tell her?”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her my mother is ill and I must go to America to care for her.” A lie. Her mother had been dead for years, murdered by a rich bastard who treated women like dirt. Ever since then her life had been a disaster, one problem after another.
She thought about the children she'd tutored, picturing their young faces and adoring eyes. “Ask her to tell the kids that I love them. I will miss them very much.” She looked at Valenti, who gazed at her, his dark eyes somber. “I loved working with them. I thought I could start a new life in your beautiful city, but now you force me to return to a life of deception.”
“The past has a way of catching up with us.” But Valenti said this in a kindly way, as if he were dispensing fatherly advice. “I believe you intended to end your life of crime, Natalie. If you help us capture the 'Netti brothers, you can live out the rest of your life in freedom.”
Live her life in freedom? That's what she thought when she had escaped from Boston. And Frank Renzi. But when she landed in New York City, Renzi would be waiting for her.
Valenti gazed into her eyes. “Natalie, I am worried about Bianca. She needs someone to protect her. These Mafia brothers are ruthless. Please, look out for her. As a favor to me.”
“Of course,” she said, automatically.
But that wasn't her main priority. She had to find a way to escape from John Conti and Frank Renzi.
CHAPTER 8
12:35 PM – Venice
Bianca hunched over the kitchen table, perched on the phone book Catwoman had put on her chair. That wasn't her real name. She didn't even look like a cat. She had long blonde hair and blue eyes, but the men called her Catarina.
She was the woman who gave her the cute little stuffed puppy. But that was a trick to make Mamma let her in the house. Later they put her in a big black car with Mamma and drove to Papà's store. She didn't want to think about what happened then.
Afterwards, Catwoman had to buy her new clothes. When Owl came out of the store and shot Mamma, she'd wet her pants.
She called him Owl because his eyes scared her, like when the owl in the zoo glared at he
r, only worse. She didn't know his real name.
Catwoman called the other man Tommy. She was pretty sure they were married, because they wore wedding rings. But Tommy talked nasty to Catwoman. Papà never talked to Mamma like that, using bad words. She didn't know what they meant, but she knew they were bad because Catwoman told Tommy not to say things like that in front of her.
Yesterday Owl told Catwoman that people were looking for her. That made her happy, but then he told Catwoman cut her hair so he could take her picture. Now she looked like a boy. She didn't want to look like a boy! She hated wearing boy's clothes, jeans and itchy long-sleeved shirts with buttons down the front. She liked pretty dresses and leggings.
But Catwoman had thrown her red dress and white leggings and shiny black shoes in the trash. She had to wear sneakers, like a boy.
Tears filled her eyes, but she didn't cry. If she did, Owl would get mad. He was bigger than Tommy and scarier, always glaring at her.
He had mean eyes. And a gun.
Did he shoot Papà, too? If Papà was dead, who would come find her and take her home?
She looked at the sandwich Catwoman had given her, pulled off the top piece of bread and picked out a slice of cheese. She wasn't going to eat the salami. She hated salami and it had mustard on it. She hated mustard, too. Mamma never made her eat sandwiches for lunch. She fixed her a bowl of soup or ravioli stuffed with cheese.
Catwoman brought a glass of milk to the table and set it beside her plate, hovering over her. She smelled nice, some kind of perfume. She was pretty, not as pretty as Mamma, but she wore makeup like Mamma. Blue eye-shadow to match her blue eyes. Mamma's eyes were brown.
She loved Mamma more than anyone in the world, except for Papà. But now Mamma was dead. Whenever she thought about this, it made her cry. But she couldn't dare to cry now. Owl came into the kitchen, frowning like always. Her heart pounded. She could hardly breathe. It felt like Owl had sucked all the air out of the room. She refused to look at him.
“Eat your sandwich, kid.”