Venice Black (Alex Polonia Thriller Book 1)

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Kozak is quite resourceful, and after yesterday, I take him at his word. He has spies watching everything. The man is a murderer, and we will stop him.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Through the glass doors of her hotel, Alex watched Nox walk away. He immediately extracted his cell phone.

  “Why am I not surprised?” she said aloud to no one.

  She had told Nox she would be fine, then thanked him for all his help—most especially the breakfast.

  “We are a full-service safe house, ma’am,” he’d told her. “We have had many kinds of guests.”

  After returning to her hotel room, she laid out her clothes for the day, and then took a long shower.

  “What can happen now?” she said as she carefully folded up the damaged dress. She placed it in the bottom of her suitcase; she just couldn’t bear to throw it out. It would be a trophy of an extremely strange evening.

  Now that she’d been mistaken for Marika twice and the clowns from the DEA were in town, the heft of the captured Glock in her handbag was reassuring—disquieting too.

  At nine, she put her leather jacket over her arm and went down to the lobby. Sonia was at the concierge desk.

  “Ms. Polonia, how can I be of assistance?” she asked.

  “Good morning, Sonia. Someone suggested I visit Murano. What is the easiest way to get there?”

  On Alex’s map, Sonia showed the route to the vaporetto dock. The boat would make just one stop before reaching Murano. “The first stop is the cemetery. I do not think you should get off there. It’s just a few minutes more to Murano. You will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sonia added, “The shops and glass factories are everywhere, and besides, it’s an island. How can you get lost? You have a jacket, excellent. Rain is predicted for early this afternoon. Are there any other arrangements I can make?”

  “No, but thank you. I’m touring the rest of the islands this afternoon with a friend I met last night.”

  “Your enigmatic Texan?” Sonia blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask.”

  Alex smiled. “Not a problem. No, she’s a friend of his. The gentleman has asked me to dinner, though.”

  “He is beginning to sound less enigmatic.”

  “Sonia, I think he is,” she said as she walked away from the desk.

  The calli were almost empty. While there were some obvious tourists about, most of the carnival goers were sleeping off hangovers. She smiled when she thought about the Croatian thug she’d dumped in the canal. A quick shot of panic swept over her. She turned and studied the passageway behind her. Nothing.

  Damn nerves.

  She methodically followed the trail Sonia had drawn on her map, the same map she had used the night before as she walked from the train station. The red lines looked like strings of spaghetti. She double-checked the street names to the map and the signs posted on the corners of the buildings, and after passing a florist’s shop that colorfully filled the intersection of two passages, she saw the sun reflect off the lagoon beyond.

  She was quite proud of herself for not getting lost. A vaporetto was pulling in, the number 13 on the boat matching what the concierge had written on her map. She waved her pass over the machine and strolled on board the half-full vessel. In seconds, the boat pulled away and headed toward some islands across the lagoon. Alex walked to the bow and caught the wind in her face as the ferry gained speed.

  Alex let the lagoon’s air wash over her like a cold, cleansing breath. She tasted salt and a visceral richness she hadn’t found elsewhere. Cleveland, with its decrepit waterfront and sterile beaches, had nothing like this. Every waterfront in the world must be different, taste different, smell different, she thought. Someday she hoped to find that out. Cleveland smelled of rust and creosote. Maybe here it’s no different. Maybe the Venetians think the same about their home as I do about mine. But it’s all magic to me.

  The vaporetto slowed, and a dozen people queued up at the door. Alex stood to the rear and watched the three water taxis that had followed them from the island of San Michele. The first disappeared around the last of the three ferry stops; the others passed by on the port side. She walked across the barge-like dock, stepped onto Murano’s stone paving, and headed toward a tall column that seemed to be the focal point of the landing. The few tourists shivered in the cold wind that had kicked up from the north, inspected their maps, and took photos.

  Alex smiled when she thought about Sonia’s comment. Yes, an island. Hard to get lost and hard to hide.

  The cold front that Nox mentioned had arrived early. The temperature dropped as she crossed the lagoon, and now the paving began to spot as the first drops hit the stones. Wishing she had picked up an umbrella from the hotel, she turned into the first glass showroom and factory.

  Inside, the temperature warmed significantly. Men busied themselves around three large furnaces, carrying long rods with globs of red-hot glass stuck to the ends. Mesmerized, she watched one artisan manipulate his molten bubble until it became a large balloon shape. At each step, a part was added: a handle, a spout, and eventually a thin thread of yellow glass as decoration. More magic. The heat radiating from the furnace and the rods the men carried warmed her, body and soul.

  “American?” a small voice behind her said.

  “Yes.”

  “We have a shop next door. Through the door there.” The girl, not more than fifteen, pointed.

  “Thank you,” Alex said. She followed the girl out of the heat and into a shop filled with mirrored shelves of handcrafted glassware. The contrast between the two rooms astonished her.

  “Can I show you something, signora? Maybe a lion, the Lion of Venice? We have many fine animals.”

  “Let me look around. Then I’ll see.”

  “Yes, signora.”

  Alex studied the shelves filled with touristy knickknacks, small bowls melded into a million colors, thin goblets, cups with colored bands that matched the poles along the canals, even pendants and bits of jewelry. From the ceiling hung chandeliers and bell-shaped lamps. There was no end to the colors that filled the shelves and ceiling. She looked keenly at a neatly displayed collection of multicolored wineglasses.

  She had felt the man’s presence before she saw him. His face reflected in the mirror behind the wineglasses.

  “So, Detective, where is the money?” Turner whispered into Alex’s right ear.

  Alex just stared into the mirror. Behind Turner stood Damico. “Go back to the hole you crawled out of, Duane, and take that moron with. I do not know where the money is—I never did. Hell, I didn’t even know my husband was such a bastard until this whole thing blew up. Then you show up here! Just leave me alone.”

  Turner pushed himself even closer. “Damn, you smell good—for a cop. I’m running out of patience. I want to know where it is. That asshole of a husband of yours owes the government twenty million, and I want it.”

  “Damn you, Duane. You deaf or just fucking stupid? I do not know where the money is. You have to ask him.” She pushed herself away and turned to face him.

  “Signora, is this man bothering you?” the shopgirl asked. “I can have the men from the factory out here in a second. Is this man—”

  “That’s okay, we’re cool.” Turner raised his hands and backed away. “We were just talking. She’s a friend I haven’t seen awhile.”

  “Damn, Duane. Make her tell you, so we can get the hell out of here!” Damico demanded. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

  Two men from the factory stood in the doorway, each carrying an iron rod. One rod still had a glob of glass on its tip, and a long dribble of molten glass dropped onto the floor.

  “Cosa c’é?” the older of the two demanded.

  Alex watched as Turner slowly backed away, while Damico—a few feet behind them—stood his ground.

  “Tell us where the money is, we know you’re here to get it,” Damico said.

  �
��Bill, shut up,” Duane said.

  “These boys giving you trouble, lady?” one of the factory men asked.

  “Stay out of this, asshole. It’s none of your business.”

  “This is my house, no one tells me what to do.” The two men, easily fifty pounds heavier than either Turner or Damico, tapped the rods on the concrete. Molten glass exploded across the floor.

  “What the hell? This is United States government business.” Damico bull-rushed the man to the right, but all he got was an iron rod over his shoulder. He crashed to the floor. When Turner spun back to Alex, she threw a punch to his jaw. The impact rocked him, and he fell back onto a glass case. It exploded, sending glass doodads and shards flying across the floor. Turner pushed his hand into the mess, and blood began to ooze between his fingers. Alex bolted out the door into the rain.

  Ten minutes later and over two canal bridges, she was soaked. She walked down one passageway, then another, hopelessly lost. She kept shaking her hand, sore from Duane Turner’s jaw. Laughing to herself over the thought, she soon found a small café at the base of the lighthouse that marked the island’s southeast end. The weather had apparently sent most of the tourists back to Venice. Like the night before, she was again the only one in the café.

  “Double espresso?” she asked.

  “Sì, sì,” the waiter said.

  He addressed the impressive machine behind the counter and began the process. Alex removed her jacket and shook off the rain. The steaming coffee and the drumming of the rain on the entryway’s canvas awning softened the racing of her heart and the surge of adrenaline. What the hell did Turner think he was doing? Why was the DEA here after her? She’d told them a hundred times she had no clue where Ralph had hidden the money. Now it was as if they wanted the money more than they wanted Ralph in prison. As far as she was concerned, every last one of them was an asshole.

  She sipped the thick coffee. She’d never tasted anything this good in Cleveland. Her staple was Starbucks, but this was like a fine Bordeaux to Cleveland beer. What next?

  Maybe Turner and Damico were now guests of the carabinieri in a Murano jail. Maybe those glassblowers beat the shit out of them and threw them in the canal. Maybe . . . Shit, too many maybes.

  She took out Javier’s phone and punched in 007. It rolled over into voice mail. She left a brief message to call her that said nothing about the DEA agents. Outside the wind had died down, but the rain continued. She could see the Murano Faro ferry stop by the lighthouse that stood off to one side of the piazza. She wasn’t sure how Turner and Damico had found her, but it was certain that they had followed her from her hotel. She was, as they say in the spy business, burned. Who told them she was in Venice? She needed help now.

  Help was a six-foot-tall retired army ranger that strolled through the door. He walked straight to Alex’s table, sat, and said with a chagrined look, “Agent Castillo is very, very pissed at me right now. He gave me one job, and I blew it.”

  She smiled at the man. “And what would you have done, Mr. Nox? Shoot them?”

  “The thought did occur to me, but by the time I’d caught up to you, you were already running up the canal, and the men were backing out the door, being prodded by two glassblowers with long steel rods. The guys promptly jumped in a water taxi, the one they arrived in. The taxi driver was not too happy, my guess they hadn’t paid him yet.”

  “Figures.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Now that you are here, I’m better. How did you find me?”

  “Your phone has a chip, special issue through Agent Castillo’s people. When I called, he checked your location, then passed on the information.”

  “Not sure whether to be thankful or pissed. Right now I’m thankful.”

  “No problem. Do you want to head back or do some more shopping?”

  Alex lifted her eyebrow. “One more shopping remark and I’ll scream.”

  “Sorry, just asking.”

  “No, I’m pretty much over my need to shop, even with a bodyguard. Can we get back from here?”

  “Anytime. There’re two or three vaporetti we can take.”

  “After my coffee.”

  “No problem.”

  Marika was sitting in one of the hotel’s lobby chairs when Alex returned. When she saw the condition of Alex’s hair and damp clothes, she asked if she was okay.

  “I’m fine, just caught in the rain on Murano.”

  “Agent Castillo told me what happened last night,” Marika said.

  Having no desire to relive the last twelve hours, Alex said, “Yes, after leaving Agent Castillo at the train station, I discovered that Venice can be curiously strange for a gal from Cleveland.”

  “I could say the same for a girl from Zagreb. It seems that we both are out of our element.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  Alex excused herself to run up to her room to change into dry clothes and blow-dry the moisture from her jacket. She also managed to fix her hair, which she left down, so that it didn’t look like a disaster. The few pieces of jewelry she put on—earrings and a stack of bangles on her left wrist—were silver. Marika wore her hair up and under a dark-red, floppy felt hat. Her jewelry was gold. When Alex returned to the lobby, more than a few people took a second look at the pair; neither took offense at the attention.

  The two women then walked arm in arm to the campo and toward a waiting boat. Moored to the wooden dock fronting the Campo della Fava was a beautiful motor launch, its mahogany brightwork glistening from the light rain. Standing on the dock, the boatman, tall and lanky with a cap typical of every Venetian waterman Alex had seen so far, held the end of the line wrapped around the dock’s wooden post. He waved at the two women as they approached.

  “Roberto?” Alex asked.

  “Sì. And you are Alexandra and Marika?”

  “Yes, we most certainly are.”

  “Javier said that he had a surprise for me. Seeing the two of you is definitely that. You are sisters? He only gave me your first names.”

  “No, just friends,” Marika said. “Our similarities are as much a surprise to us as anyone. So, Roberto, where do you want to start?”

  “Signore, I have what I call ‘Roberto’s Tour Fantastico.’ The rain has let up, hopefully for the day. From here we travel to the Canale delle Navi, past the cemetery on the Isola di San Michele, then around the Cannaregio neighborhood, then into the Grand Canal on the north end. Like royalty, we motor down this most exquisite and famous place in the world, then to San Giorgio Maggiore Monastery for the obligatory photo opportunity. Agent Castillo mentioned that Marika had a special stop planned, but I am not to say what that is. We have the whole day.”

  “A special stop?” Alex said, looking at Marika.

  “Very special,” Marika answered. “You will see.”

  “I thought that Piazza San Marco was the most famous place in the world?” Alex asked.

  “To the pigeons, it is; but to a waterman, it is the Grand Canal. Are you ready?”

  Roberto turned his launch into the narrow canal and slipped under the Ponte della Fava. A few tourists stood at the apex of the bridge and waved; behind them two separate pairs of men entered the piazza, stopped, and watched.

  “That is the celebrated cemetery built to receive the dead from Venice,” Roberto said as they passed the island that appeared more like a fortress than a graveyard. “Many famous people are buried there, but so too are my grandparents. To me, they are a lot more important than the others. Do you want to go to Murano, to see the glass factories?”

  “No, Roberto,” Marika said. “Another day. Alex has never been to Venice, so to the Grand Canal. And after lunch, we need to find a dress.”

  Alex looked across the water at the cluster of buildings. Yes, she’d had enough of glass factories.

  They rounded the entry into the Cannaregio Canal and took the shortcut through the neighborhood to the Grand Canal. A vaporetto passed them to port; hundreds of boats lined the
long walkways that fronted the canal. This long, straight portion of the canal reminded Alex of a street, but here the street was water, the cars boats, the sidewalk a promenade lined with pastel stucco houses.

  “The Jewish ghetto is over there,” Roberto said, pointing. “Long, sad history there. This is the neighborhood I live in, just off the canal there on the right. At night I can hear the trains at the Santa Lucia station coming and going.”

  From under the forward cabin’s protecting canopy, Alex saw everything. Children in bright-yellow raincoats walked in groups, an old woman stared out a window, two young lovers kissed in a church alcove, men unloaded a barge near the ubiquitous white-and-yellow vaporetto stops—she missed nothing. They turned into the Grand Canal, passed a produce market, and soon confronted the Rialto Bridge. Hundreds of tourists filled the steps up and over the iconic bridge with its six arches leading up and six arches leading down.

  Alex drew Marika to her side and pointed to the spot where Kozak’s thugs tried to grab her.

  “Good girl,” Marika said. “Now they know not to mess with the Cleveland police.”

  “In some ways, my ex is like Kozak. He has his own agenda, and there is little room for anyone else. And like Kozak, people die around him. I’m incredibly disappointed, but it’s the life he chose. Thankfully, it is a chapter of my life that has passed.”

  “You seem intrigued with Special Agent Castillo.”

  “He is intriguing,” Alex answered. “Not sure what to do, but like a summer fling, there is the safe chance we may never see each other again.”

  “True, but life throws strange things in our paths. It’s how we choose to deal with them that makes us who we are. Enjoy this fling—I think you need it.”

  “You may be right.”

  After a few more minutes, Marika pointed to another vaporetto stop. “Alex, that is where I will denounce the man on Thursday. That is the Campo San Samuele and the Palazzo Grassi, where the conference will be held. While I would like to have the Americans support my evidence, I am prepared to proceed without them. The world cannot have men like Kozak leading countries, not anymore.”