Death Under the Venice Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  "I'm freelance. There is more money in it. With what I got for that picture of you and Cruz, I was able to pay back my informant and also buy myself a car." He sounded so satisfied with himself he forgot to crack his knuckles.

  Car? Did he mean the beat-up old Opel? He spent his just-earned money on that? "Wait, wait. How many people were involved in this…expedition…to the underbelly of the palazzo?"

  I sensed his eyes on me, but the car was cloaked in darkness so I had no idea what was going through his mind.

  Finally, he said, "You speak funny, you know that?"

  Yes, I know that. My Italian is somewhat rusty, and my English? Well, at least Americans seem to find my manner of speaking charming.

  "Augusta is a friend of my mother. She is my informant. She's also the owner of the place. Okay, not the whole palazzo, not yet. She will be soon, though. She is the one who told me where to find Cruz and…the woman. Come to think of it, she told me that a day earlier. According to my notes, you weren't even in Italy then. Did you call in advance?"

  My head was spinning. Either this man was an idiot who just blurted out whatever fool ideas popped into his head, or I was the idiot—apparently not the only one.

  Could Augusta have fooled us all? Why? She must have earned a nice salary. She received plenty of goodies from Cruz, and possibly from other residents. She even collected money from Roberto to keep an eye on Cruz, and not to forget what she made selling Cruz's private information to this—this—freelance something or other. I hated to call him a reporter. That would make a joke of the whole world of journalism.

  What was I missing?

  The BMW slowed down. I looked out. We were exiting the autostrada. I couldn't read the directional sign. Where were we?

  "Excuse me."

  I tapped the driver's shoulder.

  He answered without turning his head. "Pazienza, Signora York, siamo quasi arrivati."

  Almost there? Where?

  The simple gesture of moving forward in my seat sent sharp pains from my knees to my hips. Curse the damn Polizia Stradale. I sat back and decided more creative ways should be found to punish Mr. Larry Devin.

  Nicola's voice was sad. "What do you think will happen to my car?"

  I had forgotten about Nicola's Opel. It was left behind at the rest area. His first car, poor kid.

  "If you locked it, it will probably be okay," I lied. How was he going to get back there? And why bother to drive the Focus back? What if they weren't real cops? Stop it, Lella. "Nicola, were you following me because of Augusta? Why did she want you to track me? I have nothing to do with Cruz, the French heiress, or the condo. So, what's this all about?"

  "I believe you, but then why are you sitting in the police car with me if we are both innocent?"

  "No, no, you haven't answered my question. Why were you following me? What is it you wanted?"

  "To find Cruz, of course. According to Augusta, sooner or later you'd end up where he was, and I would be right behind you reporting the discovery. First to break the news, only available photo." His voice rose an octave, and I would have just bet his eyes sparkled. The man was delusional.

  "You still believe that?"

  "It doesn't matter what I believe. You aren't going anywhere, and neither am I. The clock is ticking, and Augusta's big bonus is about to expire."

  "Augusta promised you a bonus if you found Cruz?"

  "Sort of. A foreign company wants to buy the palazzo to restore it into a luxury hotel. That would be great for Chioggia, but because of an old law, there must be an Italian partner in the corporation or no deal. They brought in Augusta. In exchange, she agreed to convince the different condo owners to sell their place to the foreign investors. They all did except the woman who owns Cruz's condo." That explained the lack of parked cars and the general sense of neglect. "Something about a promise to the actor. I don't know. Augusta figured if we made Cruz's life in Chioggia miserable, he wouldn't come back. The Frenchwoman would sell. Instead he disappeared and left all his stuff there. The investor offered Augusta a bonus if she closed the deal by the end of October. That's why it was so important to find him. I would get a cut of the bonus."

  Oh my God! Talk about la-la-land. No way. Although, all things considered, the story could make sense. Up to a point.

  "How could all this scheming, buying and selling of condos go on without Cruz having been aware of it? How could he not know Augusta was trying to force him out?"

  "Because he comes to Chioggia and only stays in his condo or only goes out on his boat. I had no idea he was ever there until Augusta had me over and showed me the place. She let me see his closet and his awards. She has keys to everything and locks the room up when he isn't around. It's his fault for not mingling with the locals like your son did."

  Ah, what a nice thing to say about Kyle.

  It dawned on me that Larry should have checked in by now, if for no other reason than to congratulate himself on yet another successful rescue of poor Lella and the apprehension of her dangerous stalker.

  "Well, for a reporter, freelance or not, you are not up to date with the news. Certainly you must know that Cruz's phone was found in Pia Bartolomei's wrecked car? She died without regaining consciousness. My son, my boyfriend, and a whole group of specially trained Carabinieri are up in the mountains looking for Cruz, dead or alive."

  "You have a boyfriend?" That's all he got of my elaborate speech? "Who is Pia Bartolomei?"

  "She is—was—a reporter for RAI TV."

  Why was he asking me these questions? Did he not read the latest development regarding Cruz's case? Did I? Now that I thought about it, I hadn't seen anything about Pia, not in the papers or on the news. How was that even possible? The woman worked for the biggest media corporation in Italy.

  A wave of heat hit me right then. I fanned myself with the magazine I had bought at the rest area. My hands felt sweaty, and my knees hurt even more. The two up front had not exchanged a single word, but the car was slowing down. I turned to see if the Focus was still behind us; it was.

  We entered a fenced lot in what appeared to be an industrial area of Verona. Other bright blue cars were parked there, and they did say Polizia. I guess snazzy uniform was the real deal. He parked the BMW in front of a two-story building with all the windows brightly lit. He got out of the car and opened my door. His partner let Nicola out. From the corner of my eye I could see the Focus being parked on a side lot. What time was it? I had trouble standing up straight, and I practically dragged my left leg.

  Something must have snapped in Signor Ufficiale's consciousness, because he slowed down and finally offered his arm. "Signora York, it looks like you are having trouble walking. Perhaps we can have a nurse take a look at you."

  I darted him the meanest look I could muster, but he had moved on and was no longer paying any attention to me. A true bleeding heart. The shuffling of Nicola's and his escort's feet sounded behind us. There was something so wrong about the whole picture that at this point I hoped for Larry's phone call. Why wasn't he calling me?

  The two steps up to the main entrance were pure agony. We entered into a large room with many empty desks. A policeman sat behind what must have been a receptionist desk and another cop, hips leaning against the desk, seemed busy talking to him. They both stopped and openly stared at our quartet. They nodded to Signor Ufficiale. He nodded back and motioned for us to follow him. We walked through a room full of what I assumed to be televisions hanging everywhere. I quickly realized they were screens, showing images captured by cameras everywhere along the autostrada. One showed the rest area where Nicola left his car.

  I had no idea. Had they been watching us? But why? Enough nonsense. I needed answers. Now. I didn't know the name of the officer who drove me there. I tried to catch up to him while feeling the stares of the other cops.

  I turned a corner and found myself in a waiting room. It reminded me of the waiting rooms in American hospitals with couches and chairs—not too comfy but
better than standing around. This room had a television and soft lighting.

  The officer pointed to a chair. "Signora York, please make yourself comfortable. The comandante will be here soon."

  He turned and left. Where was Nicola? What did this comandante want from me? I literally collapsed on one of the couches. Sitting sideways, I managed to pull my left leg up. It seemed to ease the pressure on the knee. Five minutes went by, and I decided I should call Larry.

  Just then Nicola showed up. He looked much happier than in the car. No knuckle cracking. "They are bringing us some panini," he said and sat on a chair opposite from where I sat. "How is your leg?"

  "I'll probably need to see an orthopedist. I hope nothing's broken. Do you know where we are? What do they want from us?"

  "We are at the Verona office of the stradale. I assume they have questions regarding Cruz."

  "Come on, Nicola, what do you think the highway patrol cares about Cruz?"

  "I don't know. You said there was a wreck, that his phone was found in the wreck."

  I hated to admit it, but he sort of made sense. I tried to remember how car accidents were investigated in the States. By the highway patrol? I didn't know. Time to call the expert. The panini arrived, looking really good. And Signor Ufficiale brought some mineral water and an open bottle of red wine. What was this? Our last meal?

  "Mangiate, mangiate che il comandante sta arrivando."

  We followed the suggestion and ate. They couldn't possibly have had a kitchen in the building, could they? I didn't care; the bread was deliciously crunchy and soft, just the way I liked it. Nicola must have been famished. I was still working on my first sandwich as he finished his second one.

  And "California Girls" chimed.

  Nicola looked at me, mouth open, eyes even more than the mouth.

  I laid my half-eaten panino back on the tray, smiled at him, then answered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  "Hi, sweetie, you made it there okay?"

  Nicola chewed quietly, probably studying my every move, my every word.

  "Lella, can you hear me?" Genuine concern in Larry's voice, had to give him that.

  "I can hear you loud and clear." Breathe, Lella, breathe.

  "You sound…angry. What happened? Please don't tell me you're still sitting in that rest area with the man you think is following you."

  "Good one, Larry, I like your sense of humor."

  "From anger to sarcasm, what's going on? Where are you?"

  "Where am I? Ah! That's my line."

  "Fair enough, I'm in Trento. Search has been called off until morning—however, we made progress." He spoke with pride, as if he were one of them, the Carabinieri. Talk about bonding. "The special search team thinks they are on to something. They located an abandoned cabin, but they called it something else—"

  "Baita."

  "Yes, exactly. It's empty, and by the time they got there it was dark. Anyway, they're leaving two people behind. In the morning another group will join them to see if indeed Cruz was there. Of course, we were hoping to find the man. Police work is the same regardless of country. I'm waiting for Kyle to make up his mind where he wants to spend the night, it's either here courtesy of the Carabinieri or we drive back to Lake Garda to Giada's place." It was so endearing the way he pronounced Garda and Giada, I almost forgot how mad I was at him. "How about you? Do you have a place for the night?"

  "Funny you should ask."

  "Lella, what's going on? What's with the attitude?"

  "Attitude? How dare you? You know damn well where I am. That was fast; first day in Italy and you get me picked up and put away." Silence. I waited. And waited.

  "Once again?" This was the voice of enough-nonsense-Larry. "Lella, where are you?"

  What if he really had nothing to do with this? What if he didn't know where I was? Oh my God. My heart began to hammer…what if?

  "I'm somewhere, a police station." There was no more room in my voice for any further righteousness or a cocky attitude. "Nicola, do you know for sure if we are in Verona?"

  "Whoa. Nicola? The stalker? He took you? Oh, Lella, I'm—"

  "No, Nicola is like me. We are—prisoners, sort of."

  "Parlate Inglese? Quello e' il tuo boyfriend o tuo figlio?" Nicola's eyes lit up.

  "Is he talking to you? What is he asking you?" Larry's voice had that calm and detached tone I've known him to assume when he was really upset.

  "Nothing, it's nothing. He is curious because I'm speaking English. They brought us here together from the rest area."

  "Who, Lella? Who brought you there? And why? They must have given you a reason."

  "I thought it was you. This is so confusing."

  "What's the stalker—Nicola. What's Nicola doing?"

  "Eating." The absurdity of the situation began to dawn on me. "Listen. Let me tell you what happened." I gave him the highlights.

  "They drove the Focus back to where you are? Okay, I need to figure out what's going on. I'll talk to the detective. Don't hang up; he may have questions."

  "Okay, okay." It was not okay, not at all.

  Nicola watched me, his sandwich gone, his face sad, the kind of sadness that comes when one's acknowledged defeat.

  "Lella." Larry was back. I heard voices in the background and thought I recognized Kyle's. "Were you stranded on the autostrada? Did you get rescued by a—an Italian highway patrolman?'

  "First of all." Just the facts, ma'am. "I parked on the emergency lane to look for the ringing phone. And then a highway patrol came up and so—I—he escorted me to the rest area then he left."

  "Yes, she's saying a patrol car escorted her to the rest area. That's correct." Who was he talking to? "I'll ask. Then what happened?"

  "I called you from the public bathroom. Remember? Told you where I was and what I was doing." I didn't want to mention Nicola's name. I didn't want him to know what we were discussing. "At some point, I'm chatting with—you know who, and—"

  "You were chatting with the stalker?"

  "Can you just listen? It's not the way it sounds. I mean—anyway, snazzy uniform stormed in with two other cops, knocked me to the ground, and here we are."

  "Snazzy uniform? What do you mean he knocked you to the ground? Wait."

  He was talking to someone in English. I could hear something else, a funny clicking in my ear, Larry's voice from far away. "No reports of any disturbance on the autostrada? She said the rest area, outside Verona I assume."

  Click, click.

  "How is it possible that there isn't any report? I'll ask her." Larry's voice…so far away…going…going…gone.

  "Nooo."

  "Signora, what happened?" Nicola rushed over. So did someone else, a policeman I hadn't seen before.

  "What's going on?" the officer asked.

  "My phone. It's dead. Nicola, do you have a phone?"

  "I do. It's in my car."

  "I'm here to escort you back to your car." The policeman spoke to Nicola.

  "How about me?" I asked.

  "Your car is here, parked outside, Signora York."

  "Yeah, and you have the keys. I would like to get going, if you don't mind. I have a long trip ahead."

  The man avoided my eyes. "Our comandante should be here shortly." He turned to Nicola and motioned him to follow.

  "Nicola, let me give you my phone number. Damn, no, wait. Wait, I'll give you Larry's number."

  "Who's Larry?"

  "A detective," I said slowly and clearly. "Do you have something to write with?"

  "I'm a reporter," he announced proudly, pulling a pen and paper from his brown leather coat.

  I reeled off the number, and he kept on writing as the policeman dragged him out of the room.

  "Hey, wait," I called after them. "I need to use the bathroom. Now. Please, got to go."

  The cop looked at me without an ounce of sympathy. He moved away from the door, still holding on to Nicola's arm. "End of the hall," he said. "Hurry, I don't have all night
."

  I grabbed my purse and my dead phone and followed the direction of his pointing finger.

  Four stalls lined one wall. The place was barren but clean. I wondered how many female employees worked in the building. I picked the last stall, as I planned to sit there for a very long time. I wanted to see who would come to get me. The lock didn't latch.

  I used the toilet and, once done, sat quietly and waited. Lella York, the self-proclaimed queen of passive-aggressive behavior. I should write a book on the subject. Someday.

  I didn't hear the door open. The staccato click of high heels against tile, however, perked up my attention.

  So they did have women working here. What kind of uniforms did they wear? I wanted to see without being seen. I could peek through the crack between the stall door and hinges. Maybe it wasn't a woman cop. The tall blonde wore a black tailored pantsuit and—oh my God—it was Giada.

  Calm down, Lella. Calm down.

  My first impulse was to push my stall's door wide open and rush to hug her. But something kept me from doing it. How had she gotten here so fast? Fifteen minutes ago I was on the phone with Larry, and he had no idea where I was. Even if he had known, even if he had sent her, how could Giada get from Garda's far shore to Verona so quickly? Impossible, even by plane. No way.

  She went into the first stall. I held my breath. What was happening? Why was she here? To rescue me or to throw away the key, so to speak? She came out, washed her hands, examined her lipstick, fluffed her hair, then pulled a phone from her bag. Who was she calling?

  Apparently no one. She held the generic piece of electronics with both hands. I could only see her profile. The phone looked a lot like Kyle's. What? Identical phones? Sort of sweet. Focus, Lella. She clicked then waited. Oh, she was checking her messages. Got it. Finally she dropped the phone back in the purse and left.

  The phone chimed just as she reached the door. She fished in her bag again and pulled out a slick, black shiny object. A different phone.

  "Hi, babe. Okay. Your mom?" She moved as she spoke, then was gone. The door closed softly on her back.