Sign of the Cross

by Chris Kuzneski

  39

  The thought of asking her father for help was enough to keep Maria awake. No matter how she rationalized it, she just couldn’t get past his basic ideology of life. Women were weak, and men were strong. God, it infuriated her. How could someone living in the twenty-first century think in such an old-fashioned way? To make matters worse, she knew if she went to him for assistance, he’d use it as proof that when the going got tough, all women turned to men for help.

  Then again, what choice did she have? She realized if she wanted to go public with the Catacombs, she needed to get everything documented by her father’s office. Otherwise she and Boyd would be labeled grave robbers, not archaeologists, and they would lose the rights to everything they found. The fact that he was a blatant sexist and an asshole of a father shouldn’t factor into it. He was the minister of antiquities, and he needed to be notified immediately.

  Both she and Boyd knew it. Yet it was a call she was unwilling to make.

  The thought of him saying that he would rescue her was one she couldn’t bear. The bastard had abandoned her as a little girl and turned his back on her when she needed him the most. So she refused to turn to him now. Not if she could help it. No way in hell.

  ‘Professore,’ she whispered. ‘It’s time to wake up. The sun will be up shortly.’

  Boyd opened one eye, then the other, desperately searching for clues to his location. The first thing he noticed was the intricate design of the spiderwebs that hung from the ceiling. Next he felt the coldness of the concrete floor against his back. Breathing deeply, he noticed the distinct stench of urine in the air. Ah, yes! The memories came flooding back. He was in a warehouse.

  ‘Come on,’ she snapped. ‘We need to get out of town before breakfast.’

  ‘Why’s that, my dear?’

  ‘Because we’re bound to be on the front page of the local paper. Once people see that, the odds of us being spotted go up significantly.’

  The moment Payne and Jones got to Frankie’s office they could tell he was bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘One of my jobs is making monthly bulletin for our school. Lotsa pictures, lotsa stories, lotsa nothing.’ Frankie rummaged through his desk and found an old newsletter. It was the type of thing sent to graduates and big-money donors. ‘I do whole thing myself from here.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Payne said. ‘But what’s that have to do with us?’

  Frankie walked over to his computer and opened his scanner. ‘We scan pictures. We make pictures big on screen. We see why pictures is so important. Good idea, no?’

  Payne agreed and handed him the pictures. Frankie put the first photo in and hit start.

  The basic purpose of a scanner is to convert a document into a digital format (i.e., a computer file) so it can be stored on disk or manipulated on-screen. They were interested in option two, hoping to magnify Barnes’s pictures to several times their original size. Ten seconds passed before the first signs of color started to appear. The three of them stared at the image as it slowly filled the screen. A rainbow of dots here, a massive shape there. After a while it was obvious that the photo was coming in upside down. Jones had the most experience in the computer field, so he offered to man the keyboard.

  ‘Not to worry,’ he bragged. With a touch of his mouse, the image flipped 180 degrees and continued to grow. ‘OK, what do you want to look at first?’

  Payne pointed to a section of wreckage. ‘Zoom in on the helicopter. I want to see if we can make out more of the serial number besides the last three digits.’

  Jones clicked a few of buttons on the toolbar and waited for the image to be redrawn. Charred metal filled the screen, but no additional numbers could be seen. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping the chopper would show us something useful. Maybe if we –’ That’s when Payne thought of a different approach. ‘Hey Frankie, give me the photos.’ He glanced through the pile until he found the one he wanted. ‘Try this instead.’

  Frankie put it in the scanner, and soon they were looking at the picture on-screen.

  ‘Zoom in on the truck,’ Payne said. ‘Maybe we can see a make or model.’

  Jones moved his mouse across the desk. ‘And what good will that do?’

  ‘I bet Boyd’s truck was a rental. And if we figure out where he rented it, we might be able to get some additional information, right?’

  The moment the close-up of the truck filled the screen, they realized they were on the verge of a major discovery. Jones attacked the keyboard with zeal, hoping to magnify the picture. Soon they were able to see the make and model of Boyd’s truck and his license plate as well.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ Frankie blurted. ‘You guys is good!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jones said as he sent the image to the printer. ‘But we ain’t done yet.’

  Seconds later, Jones logged on to the Internet and went to his personal website, where he punched in his secret code. Even though he rarely used his system outside the office, he’d set it up so he could access it from any terminal in the world. Once his password was accepted, he typed the truck’s license plate number into a military search engine where he was given the name of the vehicle’s title holder. The truck belonged to Golden Chariots, a rental agency on the outskirts of Rome. Next, with a quick click of the mouse, he went to the company’s website, looking for anything that might help their search.

  ‘What you looking for?’ Frankie wondered. ‘Name? Address? Money-saving coupon?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘I need a twenty-four-hour hotline that I can call this late at night.’

  Frankie pointed to the screen. ‘Look! Right there. That is number, no?’

  Jones nodded. ‘And since you found it, I’m going to let you make the call.’

  ‘Me? Why me? Why do I make call?’

  ‘Frankie, relax. I’ll do the hard part. All I want you to do is call this number and pretend you’re the manager of a local hotel. I don’t care which hotel, just pick one, OK? Then I want you to find out if the rental agent speaks English. If he does, tell him one of your guests needs to talk to him about a car problem. Got it?’

  ‘Si, I got it. And if he no speak English?’

  ‘If that’s the case, I’ll talk to him in Italian. But our charade will work better in English.’

  Frankie nodded and dialed the number, although he had no idea what Jones was planning. Neither did Payne, for that matter, yet he patted Frankie on the shoulder and assured him he’d be fine. A woman answered on the fourth ring, and Frankie spoke to her in rapid Italian, explaining who he was and what he needed. Thankfully, she said she could speak English and would be willing to talk to Jones. Frankie handed him the phone and whispered, ‘Her name is Gia.’

  Jones thanked him with a wink. ‘Gia, I’m so sorry to call you at such a late hour, but there’s been an accident.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked in near-perfect English.

  ‘I’m fine. A little banged up but fine. Although I can’t say the same about your truck.’

  ‘The vehicle is in bad shape?’

  ‘Yeah, the whole side’s caved in. I plowed into it something good.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ she said, confused. ‘I don’t understand. You hit your own truck?’

  ‘What? No!’ Jones sighed loud enough for her to hear. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m doing a pretty bad job of explaining this. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m still a little shaken up from things.’

  ‘Not a problem, sir. Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.’

  He sucked in a gulp of air for her benefit. ‘Boy, let me try this again. I rented my car from a different agency, not yours, and as I was backing out of my parking space, I slammed into one of your trucks. I should’ve seen it because it was just sitting there. But, man, I hit it pretty good.’

  The sound of typing preceded her next comment. ‘And the vehicle is heavily damaged?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I caved in the whole side and shattered its window.’


  More typing. ‘And why are you calling us instead of the actual renter?’

  ‘Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t know who it belongs to. I assume it’s someone at the hotel, since it was parked in their lot, but I don’t know who. I came inside and asked the manager if he knew, but he didn’t. That’s when he suggested that we call you to find out.’

  The clicking of keys continued. ‘And you’re sure it’s one of our vehicles?’

  ‘I think so. When I checked to see if anyone was inside, I noticed a pamphlet on the front seat with your company’s name on it. That’s how I got this phone number to begin with.’

  Silence engulfed the line for the next few seconds. ‘Do you have any other information, sir? The make of the truck, the registration number, the –’

  ‘I wrote down the license plate. Will that help?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that would be great.’

  Jones read off the digits and waited for her reply.

  ‘Sorry, sir, there seems to be a discrepancy here. The license you gave me belongs to one of our vehicles, but its itinerary says nothing about Milan. That’s where you are, right?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Then I don’t see how you could have hit this truck. The vehicle with this particular license should be in Orvieto, not Milan.’

  ‘Orvieto?’ he said, feigning confusion. ‘Is that near here?’

  ‘Not at all. That’s why I’m guessing you’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘But I’m not. There’s no doubt in my mind I hit this truck. If you don’t believe me, I can put the hotel manager back on the phone. This truck is sitting twenty feet from us.’

  The sound of clicking started up again. ‘Hold on, sir. I’ll double-check my records if you’d like. Can you give me that license plate again?’

  Jones repeated the numbers, even though he started to doubt his plan. He figured, if she was reluctant to believe that the truck was even in Milan, then there was little chance that she’d answer any of his questions about Boyd.

  ‘Sir,’ she finally said, ‘while I was rerunning the license plate, something caught my eye. The customer you’re looking for is obviously in Milan, just like you suggested.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘I noticed on my computer that she just rented a second vehicle.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ It took a few seconds for things to sink in. ‘Wait a second! Did you say she?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The driver of the truck just rented a Fiat from our Linate Airport office.’

  Jones mouthed holy shit to Payne before he talked to Gia. ‘And how long ago was that?’

  ‘About a minute, sir. The order just came up on my screen.’

  40

  Fenway Park,

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Nick Dial had always wanted to see Fenway Park. There was something about the Green Monster, the thirty-seven-foot left-field wall, that captivated his imagination. His obsession started when he was a boy, during the summer he lived in New England. He and his father used to listen to games on the radio, then they’d go in their backyard and imitate their favorite Red Sox players.

  Dial smiled as he thought about the ballpark on his flight to Boston. He imagined what the grass was going to smell like, the dirt was going to feel like, and the Monster was going to look like. He’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and couldn’t wait to get there.

  All that changed, though, when he walked out of the tunnel and saw the crime scene spread before him. The playground of his dreams had been stained by the reality of his job.

  Dial wasn’t there for a baseball game. He was there to catch a killer.

  The cross had been planted on the pitcher’s mound with the victim facing home plate. His muscular arms stretched toward first and third, while his feet were angled toward the pitching rubber. A garbage bag had been slipped over the victim’s head to protect his identity from the news choppers that hovered over the field. Meanwhile, several officers searched around the cross for physical evidence.

  Strangely, Dial saw a second team of cops standing in front of the Green Monster. He tried to figure out what they were doing, but the fence was over 300 feet away, and his already shitty vision was being obscured by the spotlights. Throw in the wattage of the stadium lights, and Dial felt like he was standing in the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, even though it was midnight in Boston.

  ‘Hey you,’ a cop yelled in an accent thicker than chowder. ‘Get outta here. This field is off-limits.’

  Dial whipped out his credentials. ‘Where can I find the man in charge?’

  ‘Probably takin’ a leak in the dugout. Captain’s got a wicked large prostate. Can’t last ten minutes without hittin’ the crapper.’

  Dial nodded, pulling out his notebook. ‘What can you tell me about the vic?’

  ‘He was an asshole. Wicked bat, wicked arm, but nothin’ more than a cock tease. Can you imagine him in our lineup? No way the Yanks beat us.’

  ‘Hold up. The vic was a ballplayer?’

  The cop stared at Dial with a mixture of amusement and disgust. ‘That’s right, Frenchie. He was a ballplayer. You guys have baseball over there in Paris? Or are you too busy eatin’ cheese and watchin’ Jerry Lewis movies to play sports?’

  Ouch! Dial wondered, Where did that come from?

  The truth was, he’d been told very little about the case from Henri Toulon, only that a third victim had been found. Dial knew if he wanted to see the crime scene, he needed to take the quickest route to Boston, even if it meant not being fully briefed on the case.

  Unfortunately, now he was paying for his haste.

  At least until he decided to do something about it.

  Dial took a step toward the cop. ‘First of all, you Beantown piece of shit, if you were half the cop that I am, you would’ve noticed that I can speak English better than you. So your theory that I’m French is as misplaced as my assumption that you’re drunk just because you’re a Boston cop. Secondly, I grew up in New England, so I know more about the Sox’s history than half the players on the team, which isn’t saying much, since most of them aren’t American. Finally, if you would’ve taken the time to read my badge, you would’ve noticed that I run the Homicide Division at Interpol, which means if someone dies on planet Earth, the odds are pretty good that I’m in charge. You got that? Now why don’t you run off like a good little batboy and tell your captain that his boss is here.’

  The cop blinked a few times, then did what he was told. Five minutes later Captain Michael Cavanaugh was introducing himself with a firm handshake. ‘Sorry about our lack of hospitality. We’re spread a little thin right now. Hell, if we had known a bigwig was coming to town, I’m sure the mayor would’ve greeted you himself.’

  ‘I’m glad he didn’t. I’m here to find a killer, not get my ass kissed.’

  Cavanaugh laughed and patted Dial on his shoulder. ‘Then you’ll fit right in with me. Just tell me what you want to know, and I’ll be happy to help.’

  ‘We can start with the vic’s name. I understand he’s an athlete.’

  ‘Yes, sir, a helluva athlete. Truth be told, we were kind of looking forward to booing the bum all weekend. I guess the good Lord decided to protect him from the abuse.’

  This was protection? Holy shit! That meant the victim could only be one person. The most hated man in Boston: Orlando Pope. Stunned, Dial tried to figure out how a Yankee fit in with the others. First a priest, then a prince, now a Pope. Maybe the killers had something against the letter P? If so, the plumbers of the world should be very afraid. ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  ‘I don’t mind if he don’t mind.’

  Dial nodded, his eyes searching for anything that seemed out of place. He dealt with copycat crimes on a regular basis, so his first order of business was figuring out if Pope was victim number three or just a copycat corpse, someone’s sick way of stealing the spotlight from the real killer.

  Most investigators would’ve started w
ith the body, but not Dial. He knew most copycats got the body right – at least until the forensic experts got involved with all their high-tech toys and found fifty things that didn’t belong. But the place they normally screwed up was in the minutiae, the small facts that were never released to the press, all the things that couldn’t be known by simply looking at a picture that had been published on the Internet.

  In his world, the trivial was sometimes more important than the significant.

  Dial started with the construction of the cross, making sure that the wood was similar in color and age to the African oak. Then he examined the three spikes, eyeing their length and making sure that the victim was positioned in the same way as the others.

  When that checked out, he turned his attention to the body, first looking at the wounds on his back, the way his skin had been sliced open with repetitive blows of a metal-tipped whip during the scourging process, then examining his rib cage, probing his puncture wound with a gloved finger, hoping that the tip of the blade had fractured and remained imbedded in his chest.

  ‘Whatcha lookin’ for?’ Cavanaugh wondered. ‘The wound’s clean.’

  ‘Just doing my job. I tend to double-check everything.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed.’

  Dial smiled, then glanced at the choppers still hovering overhead. ‘Can’t you do anything about them? I need to remove the bag to see the handwriting on the sign.’

  Cavanaugh stared at him like he was crazy. ‘There ain’t no sign under there. Just Pope’s ugly mug, which we’re trying to keep out of the papers.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘He’s been crucified enough in our sports pages.’

  Dial ignored the joke. It was typical police humor. ‘I’ll be damned. The most famous vic yet, and they eliminate the sign. Why would they do that?’

  Cavanaugh shrugged. ‘Then again, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What type of sign were you expecting? I didn’t hear anything about a sign.’