The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “Kate!” I heard a voice behind me and turned to see Falcone striding towards me, his long black coat billowing out behind him. With his helmet of smooth black hair, he looked a bit like Darth Vader. One arm rested in a white sling. “Are you well?” he asked. “Did they check you out?”

  “They did and it’s only a graze. What about you?”

  “Beh,” he shrugged one shoulder. “The bullet missed everything. Only a small hole that will heal quickly, they tell me.”

  “Do you have an update on Ethan?” I had a million questions for Falcone, but finding Ethan was the most pressing issue.

  “Nothing yet. We have an alert out and are checking all the hospitals.”

  “He might be lying in a ditch, or…” I didn’t want to think about the possibility that the nurse had already killed him. She could have had help moving his body. Dante had other strongmen working for him apart from Rocco and one of them could have gone to the apartment to assist her.

  As if reading my mind, Falcone patted me gently on my good arm. “Stay calm, Kate. We’ll travel to the Comando Carabinieri together, yes?”

  “No. We should be looking for Ethan,” I said. “We can handle all the paperwork later, surely?”

  “Half the Florence police force is looking for him. They will do a better job than we can.”

  “What about Claire? I’m not leaving without checking in on her.”

  “Two officers are on duty here. I talked with the doctor. She’s doing well and they are finishing up some tests. They will release her when she’s ready.” He put his hand under my elbow and guided me towards the glass doors at the exit.

  I pulled away. “Just a few minutes. I need to see her.”

  Falcone frowned. “Kate, don’t be unreasonable. An officer will drive her to the police station as soon as the doctors sign her out. I assure you she’s all right. Now, let’s go.”

  Too tired to argue, I nodded and trailed after him. As we left the building, a driver leaning against a car on the opposite side of the road must have recognized Falcone. He suddenly stood to attention and flicked a cigarette butt into the gutter, sparks flying in the darkness.

  “Shall we?” said Falcone, waving me forward. It was still bucketing down, and I hesitated at the edge of the portico, bracing myself for another drenching.

  Falcone glanced up. “This portico was designed by Bernardo Buontalenti,” he said. “The same man who created the vault for the Custodians.”

  32

  After a short drive, we hurried out of the rain through a stone-arched doorway into the Carabinieri station. Inside the tiled lobby, an officer leapt to attention when he saw Falcone. He ushered us into a small office and offered me a plastic chair that reminded me of the one in Detective Lake’s office in London. I felt another pang of guilt for missing my meeting with him.

  “Wait here,” Falcone told me. “I need a couple of minutes.”

  Alone, I looked around the office, which had one window, opaque and barred on the outside. The walls were decorated with frescos of Tuscan landscapes, with towers and cypress trees reaching up to azure skies. The ceiling was high, vaulted, and painted midnight blue, dotted with white stars.

  Grey metal filing cabinets lined one wall while another held a sleek flat panel television. The whole room was incongruous, a contrast between old and new, utilitarian and ornamental. I guessed the building had once been an elegant palazzo, now converted for a more prosaic use.

  The plastic felt like an instrument of torture, but I sat and leaned my elbows on the desk, its surface a slab of dark wood, incised with years of cuts and nicks. A pad of lined paper and a pen were neatly lined up in the center, and an old-fashioned black telephone squatted in one corner.

  I could hardly stay awake. Although it was only nine-thirty, my limbs were stiff and my eyes were heavy. A quick calculation of how few hours I’d slept since Friday night explained my fatigue, so when a young officer came in bearing a cup of coffee I accepted it gratefully. To my surprise, it was a rich, creamy espresso, the jolt I needed to clear the fog in my brain. When I finished it, I dug in my pocket for a tissue. My fingers found my brand new phone. I’d forgotten I had it. At once, I called Leo, who picked up on the first ring.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Jesus, Kate. Where the hell are you? I’ve been ringing you every five minutes.”

  “Literally every five minutes?” I asked, aiming for levity.

  “Five and a half,” he said. “Why haven’t you been in touch?”

  “Someone stole my phone.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yes, totally. In fact, I’m sitting in a police station.”

  “With handcuffs on or without?” he asked. “Accused, accomplice, aiding and abetting?”

  “None of the above. I’m assisting. The police that is. I’m helping them.”

  “Hmm. That sounds innocuous enough, I suppose. What about Ethan? Have you seen him? Is he all right?”

  I should have decided before making the call what I would tell him about Ethan. I didn’t want to worry him more, but I opted for honesty, always the best approach with Leo. As a kid, I used to think he had a truth detector hidden under his shirt. He could scent a lie like a dog can smell truffles. I got away with nothing when we were growing up.

  “He’s missing,” I said. “We found him, but now he’s gone.”

  There was a long silence. I heard a hissing noise on the line but that was all. It took a lot to render Leo speechless.

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I added. “The police here are searching for him. They’ll find him.”

  “Does he still have an aura?” Leo demanded.

  “Yes, last time I saw him…”

  “Damn.”

  “But I haven’t seen him since earlier this evening.” I rushed to be reassuring. “It’s possible that he escaped, which means that he’s safe now, safe from the people who were holding him.”

  “Bloody hell, Kate. This sounds far worse than I thought and, believe me, I was thinking the worst. You’d better ring Dad. I was so concerned that I phoned him to see if he knew where you were. He didn’t, of course, and now he’s calling me every half hour to ask if I’ve heard from you.”

  “Oh gosh. Poor Dad. Listen, I don’t have much time. Will you ring him back to say we’ve talked? I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I’m done here. On second thoughts, don’t tell him that bit, because I’ve no idea how long this will take and I don’t want him sitting by the phone waiting. Tell him I’m okay.”

  “I will,” said Leo. “So what’s next for you? When will you be coming home?”

  “I’m not sure, but soon. I should go, but I’ll keep in touch, I promise.”

  With a grunt, Leo ended the call. I felt sorry to have made him so anxious. In the days before mobile phones, I could have been out of touch for days or weeks, and he wouldn’t have even been aware I was missing. Today’s pervasive, always-on communications came with significant drawbacks. I realized that Laura had probably been trying to reach me, too, so I dialed her number. When her voicemail clicked on, I left a message explaining that I wouldn’t be at the office the following morning after all. I knew she’d do her best to cover for me, but it was gut-wrenching to be missing the first meeting with the Randall Group. Alan Bradley would not be happy when he found out.

  Falcone came into the office, accompanied by the young officer who’d stayed with me at the hospital. The officer stood by the door, while Falcone sat opposite me at the desk.

  “First, I’m sorry I cut things so close,” he said. “Getting through the warehouse took longer than I estimated.”

  I remembered all those doors and the keys that Rocco used. “How did you even get in?”

  “I had duplicate keys, courtesy of Santini.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers under his chin. “You look surprised. Let me explain how that came to be. I’ve been working with the cardinal for a couple of years. But I acted as what they�
��d call… a double agent in the intelligence community. Santini knew I was a police officer but he thought I was crooked.” He smiled. “That I’d gone to the dark side.”

  He tilted his head, looking at me with those black, bird-like eyes. “You’re still not convinced that I’m legitimate. You distrust me?”

  “Of course I don’t,” I protested. “Well, yes, a bit. I can’t see how you managed to get so chummy with Santini? Or why? Did you do it because of the Custodians?”

  “In fact no, not initially. I am a special investigator for the Art Thefts unit based in Rome.” He picked up the pen and scrawled some numbers on the pad. “Sadly, art theft in Italy is very big business. In the last thirty years alone, there have been over half a million thefts, and those are only the ones that are reported, many from churches, museums and other public buildings, others from private owners. I work with local police forces and with Interpol’s Art unit to track and identify stolen pieces.”

  “Do you find them?”

  “Sometimes. But, usually, the artwork simply disappears, either sold to buyers on the black market or stashed away, hidden once the thieves realize how hard it is to move a piece that’s on a missing artworks list.”

  “And did the Vanucci brothers organize some of those art thefts?” I asked.

  “Santini certainly did, although art is not his primary interest. And, now that I know more about Dante Vanucci, I have to believe that he was also involved, either complicit with his brother or operating independently. Once we’ve completed an inventory of his warehouse, we’ll know for sure.”

  “So what is Santini’s ‘primary interest’?”

  Falcone’s eyes lit up. “Good question. Cardinal Santini first came to my notice two years ago when he was rumored to be orchestrating a series of thefts of priceless relics.”

  “Relics? You mean religious relics?”

  “Yes. Relics and other ancient artifacts of immeasurable value to the Catholic Church. Ah, don’t look so skeptical, Kate. Did you know that the number of people going on pilgrimages to sacred sites has doubled in the last few years? Religious tourism is big business. The power of the shrine and the relic is not over, even in this modern age.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  Falcone smiled again, drawing a line on his white notepad. “The cardinal’s position made it hard for the authorities to get too close to him. So, we set up a fake heist that allowed me to present myself to him as— how shall I put it?— sympathetic and easily corruptible. For example, on a couple of occasions, I allowed a consignment of relics to enter the country without being stopped for examination. And so, over time, Santini came to trust me.”

  “He knew all along that you were a police officer? And he still confided in you?”

  “Certo. Of course. Every cardinal wants a policeman in his pocket.” He paused. “And every policeman would like to have a priest on his side, if only for absolution, perhaps, for all the misery we inflict on people.”

  “Did he tell you about the Custodians?”

  Falcone shrugged. “At first only a little here and there, enough for me to understand who they were and what he was after. Finally, he told me everything because he thought I could be of assistance to him. He wanted to use my influence and resources to locate the missing book and key. In return, he promised me a cut of the profits he’d make on the hoard of art hidden in the vault.”

  “That must have been tempting,” I said.

  Falcone ignored that. “About two months ago, Santini set up a meeting with me,” he continued. “He told me that a key to the Custodians’ vault had reappeared, but that another party was also interested in finding it. The Hamiltons’ name first came up at that point. Santini said Simon Hamilton had been asking questions.”

  “That makes sense.” I shifted on the seat, trying to get comfortable. “Claire’s father was an investigative journalist. From what we’ve been able to work out so far, he started looking into the Custodians after he found the book containing the key in his mother’s attic. He somehow made the connection to the Vanucci brothers and contacted Santini to conduct an interview. Dante heard about it. He had Simon killed in a car accident in England.”

  Falcone jerked his head up. “Did Dante confess to that?”

  “Yes. He did it for fear of exposure. If Simon had written a piece on the Custodians, the Vanucci family name would have been associated with them. Quite apart from his intention to seize the vault contents for himself, Dante wouldn’t have wanted any questions to arise concerning the contents of his warehouse.”

  “No, indeed he wouldn’t.”

  “He has crates marked with swastikas down there.” My voice rose in indignation. “He claims that most of the artworks have been returned to their rightful owners but, honestly, I’m not sure I believe him. And God knows what else he has. The place is crammed full of stuff.”

  Falcone checked his mobile. “I’ve got two dozen officers securing the warehouse and the goods stored in it. I’m impatient to see what we find, but there’s no news yet.” He continued doodling on the notepad.

  “What about the vault? Has anyone looked inside the crates? Are they full of artworks?”

  “We don’t know yet. It’s a crime scene and needs to be thoroughly examined. When that’s done, I’ll bring in an expert to inspect whatever the vault contains. It may take a while.”

  “You’re not an art expert then?”

  “Not at all. I had some training of course, but my skills are purely investigative. When I need expert advice I call on specialists.” He shifted on his chair, moving his shoulder as though testing whether it still hurt. From the expression on his face, I gathered that it did.

  I slumped back in my chair, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the last few days.

  “So,” I said, finally. “Knowing what you do about Santini and his criminal activities, why did you tell Claire and me that you thought Ethan was implicated?”

  “At the time I was operating only on Santini’s information, which implied that Simon Hamilton was looking for the vault. That opened up the possibility that Ethan too was involved, a scenario confirmed by your Detective Lake in London.”

  My cheeks burned. “I hope you’ll both admit you were wrong. And let’s not forget that Ethan’s still missing.” I stood up, pushing my chair back. The feet squealed on the tiled floor. “We need to find him.”

  Falcone gestured for me to sit. “I assure you that every effort is being made to recover him safely. Please, Kate, sit and be patient. You’ll achieve nothing by running around Florence looking for your friend.”

  He beckoned the young policeman over. “Can you get me an espresso, please?” He raised his brows at me, and I nodded. My little burst of anger dissolved, leaving me tired and dispirited. I felt as though I’d been on a long-haul flight, woozy, aching and with that gritty sensation in my eyes and mouth that recycled air always seemed to generate.

  The officer saluted Falcone so smartly I was surprised he didn’t dent his cap. I’d begun to realize that Falcone was a celebrity of sorts within the police force. Everyone treated him with the utmost respect.

  “Back in Venice,” I said. “Did you honestly think Ethan was trying to get to the Custodians’ treasure before Santini? Is that what Santini believed?”

  Falcone nodded. “Dante had seized Ethan, but Santini didn’t know that at the time. He simply knew that Ethan had the key and that he’d disappeared.”

  “And you thought Claire and I were helping Ethan?”

  “It was a legitimate premise based on the information I had then.”

  “So why didn’t you bring us in then? Deliver us to Santini?”

  The officer came back and placed fragrant cups of espresso on the desk. Falcone picked up the tiny cup and cradled it in his long fingers. He drained it in one swallow and set the cup down.

  “Please remember I did not work for Santini. And, in spite of what you think of me, I’m not in the habit of dec
eiving innocent young women or handing them over as offerings to an unscrupulous fraud.”

  He drew another line on the pad. The doodle had started to look like a spider’s web. I wondered who the spider was. Falcone himself? Dante? I was definitely feeling like a fly, all wrapped up in sticky threads.

  “So Santini had a complete set of keys to the warehouse?” I asked. “I thought it only belonged to Dante.”

  “Santini also had a set. The warehouse and the vault belonged, if that’s the right word, to the Vanucci family for generations. The brothers were both able to enter it at will.”

  I remembered now that Dante had told us “only two people have access to this warehouse.” I’d assumed he meant himself and Rocco.

  “Earlier today,” Falcone continued. “Santini sent a messenger to me with a set of keys and the access codes for the keypads on the electronic doors. He said I should be there, and to bring a few trusted officers for backup in case it turned out to be necessary.”

  “Trusted as in crooked?”

  “That’s what he expected, naturally. He was forced into doing a deal with his brother because he needed that diagram, but he was deeply suspicious of him. My presence and the additional gun power were intended to provide security in the event that Dante tried to double-cross him.”

  “That didn’t exactly work out for him, did it?”

  Falcone grimaced. “No. I failed in that regard.”

  I thought of Santini’s smug smile while he drank wine at the villa and talked about his dying parishioners as if they were another race. He hadn’t believed that death could touch him. Perhaps I should have told him about his aura before he left the house.

  The house. “I just remembered something that might help you,” I said. “Last night, a van came to the villa where we were being held. Santini’s people unloaded the van. There were a dozen or more boxes. Maybe a consignment of relics?”

  Falcone put down his pen and gazed at me, as though trying to intuit whether I was telling the truth. “You said you were blindfolded for the drive to the house and again when you were taken away this morning,” he said. “Would you be able to locate the place?”