Midnight in Venice

by Meadow Taylor

  One lane of the highway leading to the causeway had been left clear for emergency vehicles. Without coming to a full stop, Alessandro flashed his badge at the traffic cops and barreled past them, slamming on his brakes seconds later and narrowly missing an oncoming ambulance.

  Once at the bridge, he knew there was no going farther. Even the railway tracks were blocked with people and equipment, a tow-truck driver told him. He pulled the car off the road and climbed out, hardly noticing the cold, damp air blowing off the lagoon. The causeway was impassable. He would never get through that mess of vehicles and people.

  He was certain Olivia had been kidnapped. But how was he supposed to find her? He had yet to receive a ransom call. Then again, he’d never received a ransom call when Katarina was kidnapped, and that was because she was already dead.

  He looked at the dark screen of his phone. “Come on, you bastards! Call!” he muttered.

  What were they waiting for? Perhaps they were sitting tight until they knew he was in the US.

  A fiberglass boat sporting a strong spotlight and a powerful outboard motor pulled into shore. A woman and a boy climbed out, thanking the boat driver profusely. “We’re good from here,” she said. “My husband’s waiting at the gas station—”

  Alessandro interrupted her without apology, holding out his badge to the driver. “I need you to take me to the Guardia di Finanza station by the naval yard.”

  “Yes, sir!” the driver said, putting the boat into reverse as Alessandro jumped aboard. “I’ll have to go farther into the lagoon,” the driver called over the motor. “Too many boats helping people off the bridge. Don’t want a collision.”

  The driver looked to be in his early twenties, and the sparkle in his eyes showed he was up for intrigue and adventure. He knew the lagoon well, finding the markers for the channel easily even at night in the dense fog.

  “What’s your name?” Alessandro asked.

  “Placido Armani, sir. I served with the 3rd Alpine Regiment in Afghanistan.”

  “Thank you,” Alessandro said. “You’ll be reimbursed for your trouble, and you know this is all confidential, right?”

  “Yes, sir. And no need to reimburse me. I’m happy to be of assistance.”

  Suddenly, Alessandro’s phone pinged.

  Olivia!

  But it wasn’t from Olivia, just sent from her phone.

  We have Olivia and the cop. 10 million for the pair of them. There’s a phone number waiting for you behind the poor box in the Salute. The doors will be unlocked, and you’d better be alone. If you don’t call us back at that number before midnight, the deal’s off, and you know what happens then. That gives you two hours. Now you have 1 hour and 59 minutes.

  “Change of plans,” Alessandro said to Placido, glancing at the time on his phone: 10 p.m. exactly. “Take me to the Salute.”

  Placido’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes, sir!”

  Alessandro texted back. I’ll call before midnight.

  He quickly hit Columbo’s number. One ring. Two rings. Every ring a wasted second. Answer, damn it!

  “Pronto.”

  “I just received a text from Olivia’s phone. Dino’s buddies have her and Orlando. They want ten million. They’re leaving a phone number at the Salute. I’m to go alone, and call them back before midnight for further instructions. I have a boat and a driver. I’m on my way now.”

  “What are you doing?” Columbo asked.

  “As soon as I get off with you, I’m calling my lawyer to line up ten million in cash.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  1 hour and 55 minutes.

  “We don’t pay ransoms. You know that. If you pay that ransom, we’ll have a tsunami of kidnappings in this country. It’ll be open season on every rich family in Italy.”

  “We can worry about that later. Right now, I just want Olivia back.”

  “I know, but not by paying a ransom. I’ll find some men to position near the Salute to cover you. You go in, pick up the number, and call me.”

  Alessandro didn’t answer.

  “Are we clear?” Columbo asked sternly.

  “It’s clear,” Alessandro said. He resisted adding “I quit,” knowing the words themselves wouldn’t absolve him of anything. He was still bound by the law, even if he did go rogue. He ended the call.

  “Going rogue, sir?” Placido asked.

  “Going rogue,” Alessandro echoed grimly. “If you’d rather not be part of this, I’ll drop you off on the Giudecca and steal your boat.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m in, hook, line, and sinker.”

  1 hour and 50 minutes.

  His lawyer answered the call on the first ring. “Gino, how long to get your hands on ten million cash? And it’ll be better for you if you don’t ask why.”

  “Okay, I won’t. You know how late it is? Fortunately, bank managers are willing to get out of bed for someone with your assets. But handing out that kind of cash, even if they have it on hand, which I doubt, can invite scrutiny. People from the Guardia di Finanza, whom I believe you work for, start asking questions about organized crime and ransoms and—”

  “So how long?” Alessandro interrupted.

  “Maybe half by the morning?”

  What if the kidnappers expected it before that? Would they believe him if he said he needed more time? But surely they’d realize he didn’t keep his money stuffed in his mattress.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Gino added.

  “It’s the only thing I can do,” Alessandro said, clicking the phone off.

  1 hour and 45 minutes.

  Chapter 43

  After what seemed like an eternity, during which Alessandro forced himself not to look at the time, Placido spoke again. “That would be Tronchetto.” He indicated the faint glow on their left, all there was to suggest the large artificial island that indicated Venice was close. “We’re making good time, considering the weather conditions.”

  “Good,” Alessandro said.

  “Maybe you should have my cell number,” Placido said. “You might need it.” Alessandro punched it in.

  Ahead in the fog was the wail of an ambulance siren, and Placido was forced to pull out of the channel to avoid a collision. Wasted seconds that felt like hours. While he knew Placido was going as fast as he could, it wasn’t fast enough for Alessandro. It was all he could do not to throw himself into the water and swim for it.

  1 hour and 19 minutes.

  His phone rang. Columbo again. “We found Olivia’s phone. City police answered a noise complaint and found a gondolier tied up near the opera house. We’d just given them a head’s up about Olivia, and they called us immediately. The gondolier said it happened pretty fast. Three men in white masks. He said there also was a plague doctor on a bridge, but he was unclear about what role he—”

  “She!” Alessandro interrupted. “Pamela.”

  “Okay, so now we know where she was. We’re checking the phone for prints. The message Olivia sent you is there, as is the one sending you to the Salute. I found four men for you and I’m sending them to the rowing club so they’re nearby, but not so nearby as to rouse suspicion. You report everything to me. You got that? Every little thing. And you remember what I said about ransoms—”

  Alessandro ended the call.

  1 hour and 14 minutes.

  The lights of the Hilton Molino Stucky pierced the fog at the opening of the Giudecca Canal. They were getting closer. Any luck at all, they would make it with almost an hour to spare.

  His phone rang again. He looked at the display.

  Pamela!

  He tapped the Accept Call button. “You have exactly two minutes to tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t what me. Where the h
ell are you? And where’s Olivia?”

  “What’s going on? I don’t know where Olivia is.”

  “Look. I know what you’re up to. Columbo said you turned off the camera when you were interrogating Dino. And maybe you didn’t know the Carabinieri have been tailing Dino for months and have several photos of you with him. And others of you with Silvio Milan—wearing your plague-doctor costume. And Olivia has just been kidnapped by a plague doctor. So you see, I know it all.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Two minutes, Pamela. I’m sorry if I led you on, but how did you think joining forces with a drug dealer, lying to me about Katarina, and kidnapping Olivia were going to change anything?”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t know where Olivia is, and I didn’t lie about what Dino said! He really did say that. I did turn the recording off, it’s true. But it wasn’t because I was making a deal with him—not about that, anyway. It was personal. That’s why they have photos of me with him. I wish you’d trust me on that.”

  “I can’t, Pamela, and you know it. I have to call them in an hour, and the clock is ticking. Right now the theory is you’re helping Dino because you’re in love with me and jealous of Olivia—”

  “Oh Alessandro, I do love you. But not like that. You’re my partner and also my best friend. How could you think I had anything to do with kidnapping Olivia?”

  “Then be straight with me now.”

  “It’s true I know Dino.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been having an affair with Silvio Milan since November. He sends Dino to pick me up. Sometimes I meet Silvio at his place, and other times at the Hotel Danieli. I didn’t want you to know. You’re so loyal, and I know it makes me look awful—being married to Fabio and having two little kids. But I just couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s hard enough working full-time with the Guardia and looking after the children without being expected to also help out with the bar. And Fabio just won’t stand up to his mother. I met Silvio at the bar—he kept coming by on the nights I was working there, and it’s close to his place. He was so charming and attentive. He made me feel like a desirable woman again, and one thing led to another . . .” She was crying now. “I don’t know what to do. He wants me to leave Fabio. I’ve been with him all afternoon, trying to decide what on earth to do . . .”

  1 hour and 2 minutes.

  “Stop, Pamela!” This was not what he expected. And while at any other time it would’ve shocked him to hear Pamela was having an affair with Silvio Milan, right now it was a relief. Better an adulteress than a kidnapper and drug dealer.

  Except for one thing.

  If Pamela didn’t have Olivia, then who the hell did?

  Chapter 44

  He forced himself to take a deep breath before speaking again. “I believe you. But I have to go. I’m almost at the Salute.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said.

  “No. I’m to go alone. You call Columbo and tell him exactly what you just told me. Then call Fabio—he’s worried sick. Just tell him you’re safe for now. I’m sorry, but right now we don’t have time to deal with your marriage. And for God’s sake, leave your bloody phone on!”

  He ended the call, his heart pounding.

  1 hour exactly.

  The city’s churches chimed eleven times. Thank God they were almost there.

  “Pull around the point of the Customs House,” Alessandro instructed Placido as they turned in closer to the fondamenta.

  “You want some backup sir?” Placido whispered. “I have a gun.”

  Alessandro didn’t ask Placido why he was carrying a gun. “No, I have men to call on, but I might need your boat again.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll wait for y—”

  “Watch out!” Alessandro shouted as, out of the fog, a bricole, a piling built of tree trunks, suddenly appeared. Placido swerved, the side of his boat scraping against wood.

  “Sorry, sir,” Placido said. “Forgot those bastards were there.” He navigated between the pilings carefully now, pulling around the tip of the island and into a mooring slip. Across the canal, the lights of San Marco were nothing but a faint haze.

  “Good luck, sir,” Placido whispered as Alessandro jumped out of the boat and ran along the fondamenta. Above him loomed the dome of the Salute. The marble angels, ghostly in the fog, watched him with dead eyes as he ran up the stone steps.

  55 minutes.

  He’d made it with almost an hour to spare.

  The door was unlocked, and the church was empty and dim, lit only by the prayer candles glowing in the banks of red-glass holders. Someone had lit every candle in the church.

  He walked around the perimeter, locating the poor box without difficulty, and slipped his hand behind it.

  Nothing.

  He felt the back of the box, then looked behind it in case the number was written on the box itself.

  Panic rising, he scanned the floor beneath it. Was there more than one poor box?

  Frantically, he went from offering spot to offering spot, even looking behind the box where one deposited coins to turn on the spotlights that illuminated the paintings.

  Nothing.

  51 minutes.

  What was he to do? He needed that phone number. If he didn’t call, they’d kill Olivia. But where the hell was it?

  This couldn’t be happening! Were they messing with him?

  Would he receive another text, telling him to go somewhere else? He had no way of getting in touch with them without that number. He felt so helpless.

  Was this a setup?

  A loud moan rose from the front of the church. He jumped, his heart pounding before he realized it was only one of the organ pipes releasing some trapped air.

  “If anyone’s here,” he called out, “tell me what you want.”

  You want, want, want . . . His voice echoed around the dome despairingly.

  He ran to the still-open door and stood at the top of the steps. The square was empty save for a cat hunting rats along the edge of the canal.

  Maria! Where was she when he needed her? But she wouldn’t be here. The church usually wasn’t open at this hour. He looked at the lock and saw it had been tampered with.

  Had he arrived before they had time to plant their demands? No, that didn’t make sense. They’d been here to break the lock. But what if someone had removed the note after the kidnappers had planted it? He hoped not. Then they’d believe he’d missed the deadline. If they thought he was working with the police to ambush them rather than meet their demands, they would kill both Olivia and Orlando.

  “Can anyone hear me?” he called out into the fog. “I was here on time, but there’s nothing behind the poor box.”

  Silence.

  “Call me if you can hear me.” He shouted out his number twice, even though he knew they already had it.

  His phone remained silent, but the night was suddenly filled with the ominous wail of the high-water sirens. I hate those sirens, his father had once said. They remind me of the war. I keep waiting for the bombs to fall. Alessandro wasn’t superstitious, but hearing them now, he couldn’t help but think they were a bad omen—a very bad omen.

  45 minutes.

  Somewhere in this maze of a city, Olivia had a gun to her head. And without that phone number, there was nothing to stop that gun going off the second the clock struck midnight.

  In his mind, he could already hear it: a single gunshot accompanied by church bells chiming the hour.

  And he was powerless to stop it.

  Chapter 45

  Olivia woke up, her head pounding, an unfamiliar room spinning around her. It was the sirens that had roused her, creeping through the drug-induced sleep. Acqua alta—high water. She closed her eyes, waiting for the sirens and the spinning to subside.

  Where was she? She remembered nothing after the p
lague doctor put the evil-smelling sponge to her nose. Chloroform? Would serious kidnappers resort to a murder-mystery cliché to knock out their victims?

  Thinking back, she slowly pieced the events together. She’d been writing a text to Marco about his apartment. He’d asked her to check the water level around the palazzo. It had been fine, but the lights were on.

  She remembered the text she’d sent: In a gondola. Looks fine from the canal side, but I’d call the caretaker anyway. Did you know your lights are on?

  Then Orlando had leaned close to her and whispered: I saw that plague doctor when we were in Al Bottegon.

  She remembered looking up from the screen to the bridge ahead of her. It was the plague doctor all right, and suddenly she knew who was under that mask. Only it was impossible to believe.

  No. It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.

  An instant later, the plague doctor held up its cellphone and looked at the glowing display, then back to her.

  Marco.

  The plague doctor was Marco.

  All along it had been Marco.

  But how could it be? Marco was in Iceland. Maybe someone using his phone?

  She opened her eyes again. The room was spinning a little less, and the sirens had stopped. For now. She could just make out a stone floor, a door to the street, a bare lightbulb, a beamed ceiling above her with stairs leading up to a trapdoor. This must be the ground floor. When the high water struck, would it be flooded?

  She was cold and stiff, the only thing between her and the floor a canvas tarp. Her arms and legs were still bound, and along with her pounding head she could feel a lump on her forehead.

  It just couldn’t be Marco.

  The staff members prefer to text each other, Silvio had said that first day when he’d given her the company phone. And it doesn’t matter if you’re in the next room or on the other side of the world . . . And Rocco on the day of the concert, saying, I thought I saw Marco near San Marco the other day, but Silvio tells me he’s in Iceland.