by Unknown
The Sofitel was located inside a converted seventeenth-century palace and, most importantly, close to the railway station from where Jack hoped to catch an early-morning train back to his wife. There was a chance that she would have calmed down by then.
He fought his way through a swarm of German tourists who were buzzing phrases of mangled Italian at the front-desk staff. Finally he managed to secure a second-floor room looking out towards Piazza del Duomo. Best of all though, it had the kind of deepfreeze air-conditioning that he was used to back home. He clicked the fan on high and raided the mini-bar to make Bloody Marys. The session with the shrink had unsettled him. It had not been the gibberish he had anticipated; it had made sense.
Fenella was right. He was frightened. He was anxious, and he had to do something about it.
And even though he’d promised himself he would go back and see the sessions out, right now he was going to banish all those awful home truths with a good dose of trusty Russian vodka.
The first drink didn’t touch the sides.
He ran his finger along the inside of the glass and licked tomato juice off it. Minutes later he took the second to the bed, where he flopped down, kicked off his shoes and called Portinari to find out where she was and decide whether to hold off eating or not. Her phone tripped to a recorded message in Italian which he guessed meant he should leave his name and number. After sinking the second vodka and tomato juice he flicked on CNN and decided to kill time by checking out Nancy’s new book. It contained both the original Italian, on the left side of the page, and a translation on the right. He ploughed past the blurb on Dante, stuff describing him as the founder of the Italian language for the common people, a brief story about his exile from a house not far from Jack’s hotel, and some remarks about the two writers who’d carried out the translation. Eventually he got to the first Canto and read it out loud in an atrocious Italian accent: ‘Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.’ Jack couldn’t understand a word of it, but that didn’t stop him enjoying every syllable as the melody of the words swirled as richly around his mouth as a fine Italian brandy. He glanced over to the translation and found it had a personal resonance: ‘Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.’ Right now, he sure felt that way. He wondered just how his life in the FBI’s elite psychological profiling unit had so quickly changed into a life in Italy helping run a small hotel. Was he here by choice, or because he had been unable to face up to the darkness that had overwhelmed him back in the US?
Another drink chased off his melancholia and the alcohol and the warmth of the room soon lured him into an unplanned doze. He dreamt something nice for once. He was somewhere with Nancy, far off on an undulating Tuscan hillside, the sun shining as brightly as it always did. Zack was running in front of them with a birthday balloon tied to his wrist. As Jack’s eyes fixed on the balloon it exploded, with a bang so loud it made his blood race. He sat upright in bed and realized the noise was someone knocking on his door. He checked his watch and saw he’d been asleep for nearly three hours. ‘Just a minute. Hang on!’ he shouted, rubbing his eyes and giving himself a once-over in a wardrobe mirror, as he walked to the door. Instinctively, he slid back the spy hole cover and checked out the caller. Through his squinted view, he guessed someone from the front desk had a message for him. ‘Signore King?’ asked a dark-haired girl as he opened up. Sure enough, she was carrying an official-looking document case.
‘Hi there,’ he said sleepily, patting his pocket. ‘Hold on one minute, I’ll get a pen.’ He left her hanging, the spring-loaded door virtually banging shut in her face, while he searched for a pen and a few loose euros for a tip.
‘Sorry,’ said Jack, opening up again, the coins clinking in his palm.
The girl seemed bewildered. He took a closer look at her. She reminded him of an Italian Keira Knight-ley, only larger and with maybe a little more muscle than the featherweight film star. ‘You have something for me?’ he said, nodding towards the case. ‘Do I need to sign first?’
‘Signore, I don’t want you to sign anything,’ she announced, holding out her hand. ‘I am Detective Inspector Portinari.’
‘Shit! I’m so sorry,’ said Jack, deftly pocketing the euros he had been about to tip her and shaking her outstretched hand. ‘Please come in. It’s been a long day and I’d almost given up on you coming tonight.’
He held the door this time. As she squeezed past him, she decided that his looks did indeed match up to the strong voice she’d heard on the phone. He was certainly much taller and broader than she’d imagined.
‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ she said. ‘Italian traffic is always bad, and then I had some trouble booking in downstairs.’
‘Too many guests and not enough staff,’ said Jack. ‘You want a drink?’
‘Is that cold?’ she asked, pointing towards an unopened bottle of Orvieto that Jack had taken out of the mini-bar in order to reach the vodka.
‘Sort of.’ Jack checked the temperature of the bottle. ‘You want to risk it?’
‘Yes, please,’ she answered, settling into a chair beside the bed and weighing up the room.
He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses.
‘Salute,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.
‘Salute,’ replied Jack, thinking how different Italian policewomen looked in comparison to some of the gun-slinging, 200-pound dames he’d worked with back in the States.
As Orsetta sipped her drink she looked across the top of the glass at the man she’d heard and read so much about. In profiling circles Jack King’s published theories, lectures and criminal case studies were as legendary as his burnout. His specialism had been serial sexual offences and she’d read that during his career he’d been directly involved in the investigation and conviction of fifteen serial rapists and five serial child molesters. His hit rate on serial murder cases was even more impressive: twenty-nine successful clear-ups out of thirty cases that he’d worked. Only one had defeated him, and it was in connection with that single case that she now sat opposite him.
‘We have a murder,’ she began, gently placing the wine glass down on a nearby coffee table stacked with magazines about Florence, ‘which has some disturbing similarities to the Black River case.’
Nothing registered on Jack’s face but he felt his heart jump. He swirled the wine in his glass and asked, ‘How similar?’
‘Very,’ said Orsetta. ‘I have a case outline here.’ She tapped the document bag at her side. There is also a confidential briefing that Massimo Albonetti has prepared for you.’ She went to draw out the file but he held up his hand.
‘No, please, not tonight. I’ve had a long day, and to be honest, I’m really in no state to dive into that kind of stuff right now.’
His hesitancy made Orsetta wonder if it really was just the lateness of the hour, or whether Jack simply wasn’t yet over the burnout and all the emotional baggage that no doubt came with it. ‘Breakfast in the morning?’ she suggested, shooting a smile while studying his face for signs of stress. ‘We could do it then.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Jack topping their glasses up. ‘You want some olives? I’ve got a jar in the fridge.’
The smile vanished. ‘Really, Mr King, you should know better than to offer an Italian lady olives from some hotel-room jar.’
If looks could kill, Jack was already having earth dropped on his coffin. He tossed a room service menu on to the bed next to her. ‘You want to choose some food, and help me finish off this wine? I’m going to grab a steak sandwich and some salad, then crash out. We could eat and talk for a while.’
One half of Orsetta just wanted to go to her own room, fall in a bath, and then catch an earlyish night. But her less responsible half always won. ‘That sounds fine to me,’ she said, handing back the menu. ‘I need my steak medium-rare, please.’
Orsetta watched h
im dial in the order. His hair was jet black and cut fashionably short, but not so short that she couldn’t run her fingers through it and hang on to a good handful if the need arose. He had strong cheekbones but looked as though he could do with a shave to banish an end-of-day shadow that some women would find rugged but she regarded as scruffy. He was plainly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. The white showed off a healthy, light tan, the type picked up naturally, rather than one baked on through lounging around on some blanket on a beach. From the outline of his shoulders she could tell he was muscular, and she also liked that he wasn’t showing off his physique. His shirt was a loose fit and was fastened all the way up, except for the collar button.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said Jack, putting the phone down and turning towards her. Orsetta looked away, a little embarrassed at the thought that he might notice she’d been sizing him up.
Jack seemed oblivious to her attentions, but had missed nothing. He picked up his wine glass again, settled into a chair opposite her, and went on: ‘I guess Massimo sent you for three reasons. Firstly, you’re no doubt a very good police officer and he respects your judgement. Secondly, he wants you to find out whether I’m up to the job that you need help on, or whether I’m really just a cabbage and it would be a waste of time asking me.’
Orsetta looked confused. ‘How could you be a cabbage? This is a vegetable, no?’
Jack laughed. ‘Yes, it is. It’s a figure of speech, an expression we use. Not a very kind one actually; it means someone’s mentally no more use than a vegetable.’
‘Aaah,’ said Orsetta, deciding to use the humour of the moment to be honest. ‘Then yes, I suspect you are right. But I think my boss has also your best interests at heart. He wanted me to make sure that a case like this wouldn’t be too unpleasant for you. He knows what you’ve been through, and he has only the greatest of respect for you.’
Jack gave her a thin smile of acknowledgement. He knew Massimo had to be careful about asking for his help, and guessed he would have been similarly cautious if their roles had been reversed. ‘And I suspect the third reason is that, if you think I’m up to it, then he knows you will have to persuade me to help out, because let’s face it, I need this kind of gig about as much as a reformed alcoholic needs a free crate of bourbon.’
‘And are you persuadable?’ asked Orsetta.
Jack didn’t reply. He took another hit of wine and felt himself unwinding. He was glad to have company tonight, even if it was dangerously charming company.
‘Maybe not?’ continued Orsetta. ‘That pause tells me you’re a think first, reflect a while and then speak kind of person. Text-book introvert, with detached objective reasoning and logic. Am I right?’
Jack nearly spat out his drink. He couldn’t believe it; the damn woman was profiling him. ‘You running a Myers Briggs on me?’ he asked, smiling playfully.
She sipped her wine and felt her pulse quicken. ‘I bet an MBTI would place you more in the Perceiving category than the Judging one.’
‘How so?’ He sat down on the bed deliberately close to her, close enough to make most women shuffle back and claim some space. Orsetta didn’t budge an inch.
‘You switched your plans at the last minute, decided to stay in town. Perceivers are – let me remember – “comfortable moving into action, able to plan on the go.” Am I right?’
This was home turf for Jack and he effortlessly took control of the conversation. ‘Personality tests are never entirely accurate. Rorschach can help in some cases, Holland Codes has a value, as do the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory and all the rest of them, but they’re not much fun and don’t really open up the secrets of your imagination.’
‘Imagination,’ Orsetta echoed flirtatiously. ‘Now I’m fascinated. Tell me what you believe goes on in my imagination.’
Jack put his glass down. ‘Indulge me for a moment. Close your eyes and clear your head. You’re walking somewhere nice, in some woods somewhere, on your own –’
‘I wouldn’t be,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve worked too many cases to walk in woods on my own.’
‘These are safe woods. Trust me, you can go there.’ He waited for her to close her eyes. ‘Now, picture yourself walking through them. Look around you, what season of the year do you think it is?’
‘I can see tall trees,’ she said, her never still hands shaping them in the space in front of her. ‘It’s summer, they’re big evergreens stretching to the sky. There’s light shining through the leaves and branches, a strong smell of pine. I can hear animals scurrying around and there’s a small bird flying in and out of the trees. It feels lovely, I like it here.’
Jack studied her; he noticed the way she relaxed, happy to escape from the horrors of the case files that he was sure had gradually hardened her. ‘Are you following a path or is the wood too dense for paths?’
She answered quickly, ‘There is a path, it’s a public walkway, but I’m not following it, I’m wandering away. I’m drawn to something, I think I hear a waterfall, but I can’t see it. Yes, I can hear running water. As I’m searching, I see red-spotted mushrooms near some small logs that have been cut up; they’re those fairy-tale mushrooms.’
‘Forget the mushrooms, they’re probably poisonous or at least hallucinogenic. Let’s move on. Imagine something spooks you. You look around and there’s an animal there, just a few paces away from you. What is it?’
‘Orso!’ she said quickly, then screwed up her eyes and struggled to find the right English word.’
‘Orso grizzly, not orsacchiotto, not a teddy bear. It’s a big slow black bear, its arms are open wide and it has a shiny snout and bright white teeth.’
‘What do you do?’ After his ordeal at the psychiatrist’s earlier that day Jack found himself comforted by being back in control and on the right side of a Q and A session.
Orsetta licked her lips and concentrated. ‘I move slowly. Very slowly. My eyes never leave the bear. If it takes a step nearer, then I’m going to pick up one of those small logs near the mushrooms and smash its leg, or maybe its face. Then I will run.’ The thought of violence made her open her eyes. She blinked as she adjusted to the ugly lighting in the bedroom.
Jack started to regret what he was doing. He was only a fraction of the way through a mental scenario that had already told him more than he now felt he had a right to know.
‘So?’ said Orsetta, sensing his discomfort. ‘What has the great Perceiver learned from his strange questions about woods and animals?’
If the wine hadn’t clouded his judgement, he would have made small talk while they waited for their steak, but now hewas too relaxed tocensor himself. He went with the flow. ‘You’re an optimist and a romantic,’ he said. It was a statement of fact, not a compliment.
She tilted her head quizzically in an attractive way. ‘Why? How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘Your trees were green – evergreen – you saw sunlight. If you’d described the forest as black and wintry, then it would have been more indicative of pessimism. Colours are often keys to our moods. And never forget, Mother Nature is a great undercover spy. Deploy her like I just did, send her on a mission deep into another person’s imaginings and fantasies, and she will always return with their secrets.’
‘Go on,’ urged Orsetta, finding herself surprisingly excited by the revelations. It was almost as though he was a voyeur in her imagination, a secret traveller in her private inner world.
‘You’re very sensual,’ Jack said, carefully and almost clinically. ‘I suspect you’re also intensely passionate –’
Orsetta reddened a little. ‘Scusi?’
‘I’m only telling you what I deduced from the descriptions you gave, the language you used.’
Orsetta still looked puzzled.
‘Let me explain. I asked you what season it was, and you didn’t just say “summer”, you also told me what you saw, how you felt and what you heard. You described the effect on almost all of your senses. You
mentioned how you could smell – the pines in the forest – what you could hear – the birds and the animals – and how you felt about the place – that it was lovely.’
He saw so much and yet I told him so little, Orsetta thought as he topped their glasses up. It felt as though with one flash of his profiling skills he’d x-rayed her entire personality. ‘What did the water mean? I heard water but couldn’t see it, what did that mean?’
Jack cleared his throat. ‘Okay. The water you mentioned – well, water often represents our interest in sex. At the moment I don’t think you’re in a relationship as the water you talked of was out of sight. But you’re seeking it, and it was loud enough to be heard even though you couldn’t see it – that’s indicative of the need for powerful, intense sexual closeness.’
Orsetta swallowed hard. She wished she hadn’t asked. Her mind was picturing waterfalls and the pair of them having sex in the water. She tried to clear her head and stop herself from blushing. ‘This isn’t a standard test, no?’ she joked. ‘I’m sure you don’t do it with most suspects.’
‘No, not too standard,’ said Jack. ‘It’s just something I do sometimes to open people up. Actually, it works well on suspects, throws them off guard and gives you an insight into them before you start asking offence-related questions.’