“Stop!”
“I just spoke to John in the front hall. He and a cop are going to pay a visit to that Diego fellow.”
“The poor construction guy who almost got his head shot off the other day? Diego isn’t involved in this.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Brenda spit. “He’s literally the only lead these people have. Besides the twins and a few people associated with the opera house, he’s essentially the only other person who has had any contact with her since she got to Santa Fe. He’s an established fan of hers and he had access to the house. He may have even been the guy in the woods when we were in the hot tub, Skyler. I’m beginning to think he isn’t just some innocent, small town construction guy.”
Skyler kneeled down and started rubbing Mulder behind an ear. Scully was instantly jealous and began poking her head in. “You watch too many procedural dramas on television. It most certainly isn’t as easy as all that. The F.B.I. talked to him after the bombing. He was cleared.”
“Well, then I don’t know.”
“I do,” Skyler said sharply. She stood straight up and brushed her dog hair-covered hands off onto her jeans. “It’s Massimo.”
Brenda shook her head. “He’s in Italy.”
“Is he, Brenda? How do we know that he’s not still in Santa Fe? The only person who has ever told us that he was in Italy, was Georgia.”
“Oh…my…goodness,” Brenda said slowly.
“Right.”
“Where do we start? Do we tell John? Or the police?”
Skyler pondered that question for a moment. “Since their track record is rather questionable up until now, perhaps we should just look into this ourselves.”
“We’re not Cagney & Lacey.”
“That’s funny, because just the other night I was thinking about that Halloween we dressed as them. Do you remember that?”
“Do you remember that time I told you how much I hate when people bring up shit that two people did in the past and then ask, do you remember that?”
Skyler’s face crinkled up. “You are being a royal bitch today.”
“Jesus Christ, Skyler!” Brenda erupted.
“What? I’m sorry.”
“No, honey, it’s not you.” She struggled to pull her cell phone out of her pants pocket. “We never told the twins about Georgia’s abduction. They are going to be beside themselves!”
“Absolutely. Well, I know what you should say. Tell them it just happened.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Brenda pressed a few buttons and lifted the phone to her ear. “Now you shhhhush. I have to think fast.”
“Cry, if you can,” Skyler whispered. “That always helps.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Brenda said after a moment, dropping her phone onto the bed. “It went straight to voicemail. I think we need to make a quick trip to the hotel to see them in person.”
“Can we get out of this house?”
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Santa Fe Opera Theater and the wide, sprawling grounds on which is stood was admired around the world by opera-goers and revered by orchestras and performers. Positioned next to a cliff with views of the Jemez and Sangre de Cristo Mountains and surrounding valleys, the open-air structure had won prestigious design awards attracting not just the usual monied, cultured ‘elite,’ but regular folks, too. During the summer, three productions were typically done in reparatory, so that visitors could come to Santa Fe once and see all of the season’s shows in a three day stretch. And many did just that.
The rest of the year, there were a small smattering of administrative and grounds people working on the 150-acre compound, but late in December, the ‘opera ranch,’ as it was commonly referred to, was a virtual ghost town.
Miss Georgia Kennedy Reece, celebrated soprano who sang for kings and presidents and opera lovers worldwide, was not scheduled to perform at the Santa Fe Opera for many months. But she was in a darkened orchestra hall rehearsal room nevertheless, sitting on the floor in the corner, wearing yesterday’s slacks, knee high socks, and a bra. She was tired, cold, hungry, and terrified. She didn’t know what had become of her shoes.
And she was afraid this was going to end badly.
Massimo was in constant motion, moving in and out of the rehearsal room, agitated, in the middle of a long, passionate argument with himself. Periodically he’d stop and look at her with an expression of surprise, as if he’d just noticed her for the first time. During those moments of recognition, he’d include her in the argument and declare, “I made you. I gave you everything. You are selfish and mean and ungrateful woman. Why do you do this to me? Why have you torn down everything we have built together?” And then he’d scream, ‘figlio di troia!’ Georgia didn’t understand: she wasn’t anyone’s son and Massimo had never met her mother, who had been the furthest thing from a bitch as one could get.
She had been with him for a full day now. He’d given her no food or water. Every once in a while, he’d leave off his ranting, charge into the bathroom, and emerge after a few moments with water drops around his mouth and chin. She hadn’t seen him eat. They were both running on fumes. The windowless room and lack of a clock, her watch, or a phone made time disappear. She guessed that it was Wednesday afternoon, but she couldn’t be certain.
Massimo reentered the room, seemingly calm, and lowered himself into a crossed leg seated position a few yards away from her. He held a small grey handgun in one hand and rested his chin on the other. His hair was matted with sweat, despite the chill in the unheated room.
“What do we do now?” he asked quietly. It sounded to Georgia as is Massimo genuinely wanted an answer.
“I think you should dispose of that gun and get in that little car of yours and drive yourself down to the Santa Fe Police Department and turn yourself in.” She shook hair out of her face and examined his reaction. It was slow in showing itself.
“You know I’m not going to do that,” he said. “They’d lock me away for a very long time.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“There has to be a plan, Massimo,” Georgia said. She was growing angrier as the seconds passed and it was beginning to get the better of her. “You were always good with plans. You made all the rules. You made all the decisions.”
“It was you who decided to end our relationship. You!”
“Our sexual relationship? Is that what you are referring to? Sure, I did. It wasn’t healthy for either of us. You are a married man, if I must remind you for the thousandth time. It was a dumb mistake on both of our parts. You originally agreed with me on that, did you not?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You did.”
“My marriage is one on paper only at this point,” he said. He scratched his forehead with the barrel of the gun.
“Oh my God, Massimo,” Georgia exploded. “Don’t do that.”
“Relax,” he said, dismissively. “It’s not loaded.”
The admission ricocheted through her consciousness in an instant. She threw herself forward and knocked him backwards. The gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the carpeted floor. His head hit the thick wooden leg of a table. “What are you doing, you crazy woman?!” he screamed.
She was kneeling on him, trying to pin his hands down. She screamed out all of the terror and anger of the past day, the past week, right into his sweaty face. “Asshole! Fucking asshole! Asshole!”
Without much straining, he twisted his body and hurled the singer to the floor. When he stood up suddenly, he swayed left and right, and Georgia thought for a moment that he might pass out. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Georgia rolled her body and struggled to her feet. She started toward the closed door leading to the hallway when she felt his hands—large, deadly, rough—wrap around her throat from behind. Because he was holding onto her hair, too, he couldn’t get a tight grip, and she managed to squirm away from him. She
turned and kicked him as hard as she could in the groin, sending him back down to the floor, doubled over in pain.
She could hear him screaming out in Italian as she ripped open the door and ran down the hall, rounded a corner and took the stairs, two risers at a time, up to the ground level. She’d only been in the building briefly before this, but she had amazing retention—how else does one memorize dozens of three-hour long operas in a foreign language and never forget a single word?—and knew exactly where to go. As she rounded another corner she had the exterior door in sight. She paused to rip a window curtain from its rod and wrapped the fabric around her shoulders then rocketed into the bitter cold daylight.
“Help me!” she screamed out. “Someone! Please!”
Nothing. No one for miles. She didn’t scream again. No one could hear her, and she didn’t want Massimo to follow her voice.
She jogged along the path toward the main parking lot, hoping she’d come across a security patrol or anyone left on the property. But there wasn’t a single vehicle to be seen. She didn’t even know where Massimo’s rental was, not that she had the keys. A sudden memory came to her of a desperate woman on some television show, hotwiring a car, but she bitterly dismissed it. Sure, it looked easy on T.V. and in the movies, but she wouldn’t even know how to begin to do that.
“There’s no car to steal,” she told herself out loud. She was near delusional and her heart was racing inside her chest. She couldn’t focus, her thoughts were all over the place. She wondered if anyone was looking for her. She decided she’d ask Mallard Protection for her money back. She thought about her mother, and Christmas, and the Lowery twins. She wondered which of the brothers would come to her rescue.
Sullivan.
No, Carter. Yes, Carter. It should be Carter.
Damn! What am I doing?
Either one. Both! Who cares?!
I don’t have time for this.
Crouched down between a large tree and a thicket of bushes, she tried unsuccessfully to collect her thoughts and focus on…
She heard a sharp, loud crack and was immediately overcome with pain, but she couldn’t identify where it was coming from or how it happened. And then she blacked out.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brenda dreaded telling her new business partners about Georgia’s abduction. She was already distraught about not including them the day before. She nervously chewed the inside of her cheek on the walk from a parking spot on the street to the hotel two blocks away, Skyler leading the way.
When they got to the hotel they found it deathly quiet inside. The twins were side by side, leaning over a table, heads almost touching, looking at blueprints.
“Did you send the crew home for holiday break already?” Skyler asked. She took off her coat and placed it together with her purse on the cleanest part of the desk she could find.
“No,” a clearly exasperated Sullivan said. “It’s lunch. They take a full 90 minutes here. I have no idea where in hell they go.”
Skyler looked at Sullivan’s face for the first time and her eyes widened. “What happened to your face?”
Sullivan absently touched his sore black eye. “Just a little construction accident. I’m fine.”
“It looks horrible, honey.”
“He’s fine,” Carter said flatly.
“I’m fine,” Sullivan said. “What’s going on?”
Brenda cleared her throat and wrapped her arms around her body and hugged herself. “I have some bad news, boys. I’m going to just come out and say it. Georgia…she…Georgia has been kidnapped.”
“We don’t know that,” Skyler quickly added. “She is missing though. She disappeared late yesterday afternoon.”
“What?” Carter looked bewildered. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. What are you talking about—yesterday afternoon? Why are we just hearing about this?!”
Sullivan grabbed the back of a folding chair to steady himself. “I knew this was going to happen. I knew she wasn’t safe. How could we have left her alone?”
“She wasn’t alone,” Skyler said. “She had Brenda and two highly regarded, former New York City detectives watching out for her.”
The twins turned their outraged faces to Brenda. “No. No. Do not blame me,” she said. “I wasn’t hired to keep her safe. She walked right out of the back door of a dress shop and those useless Mallard people just let it happen.”
“She didn’t just saunter out the back door, Brenda,” Skyler said. She turned to Carter. “Georgia disappeared, leaving behind her coat, shirt, and purse. It was freezing outside. We have to believe that someone must have forced her out of that dressing room and into the alley. She wouldn’t have left with just a bra on. And without her phone, for goodness sake.”
“What are the police doing about this?” Sullivan asked.
“As far as we know, nothing. Not yet.” Skyler brushed sawdust off the top of a cooler and sat down. “The F.B.I. is involved. I mean, they were notified. But they’re not moving on it yet. No demands have been made, and it hasn’t been 48 hours yet.”
“We have to wait 48 hours before someone will take this seriously?” Carter exploded. “First someone breaks into the poor woman’s house and trashes the place, then someone sets off a bomb at the Christmas party, and someone stalks all of us from the woods near our house. I mean, honestly. Must I go on? There’s a pattern here. That woman is in serious jeopardy.”
“Skyler has a theory,” Brenda said calmly.
“It’s not a theory, really. But I have to wonder, did Massimo really leave the country? He hit her, for God’s sake. He was terrorizing her with that bogus contract. Manipulating and using her to line his own pockets for decades, according to Georgia. Massimo was devastated and very, very angry when she fired him. She was his bread and butter. His only income, as far as we know. Maybe this is some sort of revenge.”
The unfinished hotel lobby fell silent as it all sank in. The only sound they could hear was each other’s breathing, until the front door slammed shut, startling them all.
“I am so sorry, folks,” Matteo said. “The wind got ahold of it.”
“Skyler, this is Matteo Ferrera, our contractor,” Sullivan managed to say. “Matteo, Skyler Moore. She’s a friend of Brenda’s.”
“How do you do?” Skyler said.
“I do very well, and yourself?”
“I am much better now, because I just thought of something.” She turned to the twins, “You two have been to Milan to see Georgia perform, yes?”
“We have. About two years ago,” Carter said. “So?”
“Did you not visit Massimo’s home and meet his wife and children? Isn’t that where Georgia stayed when she was performing there?”
Sullivan brightened. “That’s right. And his wife’s name was Ava. She spoke both Italian and fluent English. She studied art history and English at N.Y.U., as I recall. She founded and directs a very successful Milanese art gallery now. She took us on a private afterhours tour and…”
“Christ almighty, Sully! Focus on what Skyler’s saying,” Carter erupted.
“Call Ava right this minute,” Skyler said. She looked at her watch. “It’s midnight there. She’ll still be up. Sophisticated Italians eat late and stay up late, no?”
“Yes,” Brenda said. “Skyler, you are a very smart biscotto.”
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
Matteo looked puzzled. “I am so confused.”
After an exhaustive search, and with the help of the twin’s assistant back in New York, Sullivan finally got his hands on a phone number. With the group crowded around him, he entered the digits into his cell.
“Pronto.”
“Ava Modena, please,” Sullivan said. He pressed the speaker button and held the phone in the middle of the tight circle.
“This is Ava. Who is this? Do you have any idea what time it is, sir?”
“Ava, this is Sullivan Lowery. We met a few years ago in Milan when my brother and I came over from
America to see Georgia Reece perform at the opera house. I apologize for telephoning you so late.”
“Sullivan, yes, of course I remember you. Who’s dead?”
“Excuse me?”
“Someone must be dead or you wouldn’t be calling me at this hour. Where are you? New York?”
“No, I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
“Massimo is dead, isn’t he? Dannazione! Is this why you are telephoning me?”
Brenda gasped and Skyler hit her on the arm.
“I don’t believe anyone is dead, Ava. I was calling to see if Massimo was in Milan with you.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Ava?”
“Massimo is spending Christmas there in Santa Fe. Surely you must know this since you are friends with Georgia. He said it couldn’t be helped. He said he wanted to be there for Georgia’s surgery. Is that why you are there, too? I must tell you, the children are heartbroken not to have their father here for Christmas.” More silence. “Sullivan? Is Georgia having vocal surgery this week in Santa Fe? Massimo said the best vocal surgeon in the world practices there.”
Sullivan quickly scanned the faces around him. His brother slowly shook his head and closed his eyes.
“No, Ava. There is no surgery. And she is not sick, as far as I know. But Georgia is unaccounted for. She disappeared yesterday after several attempts were made on her life this week. We are very concerned.”
“Jesus. Where is my husband?
“Soon to be ex-husband,” Brenda mouthed.
“That’s why I am calling you,” Sullivan continued. “He told Georgia that he was flying home to Milan. He supposedly did that several days ago. He hasn’t been seen in Santa Fe since Sunday.”
More silence. Then, they heard a long sigh. “I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but I must get back to bed. I have a very early morning tomorrow. Massimo is not in Italy, Mr. Lowery. And as far as I am concerned, he can stay in Santa Fe for the rest of his revolting life.” And she terminated the call on her end.
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