Widow's Run

by TG Wolff

  She fell back into the couch, setting the ice to her knee, wincing again. “Gavriil was very generous, including me in such an event. I have never been inside Il Leone. It is…” Ilsa looked around a home furnished by hard work. The trim wasn’t gilded, and the chandelier didn’t glitter, but there was nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Overdone,” I said.

  She bowed her head slightly. “None of his friends spoke Russian and only one spoke Italian. They were all very kind, but I felt…I felt I was holding him back. He was there for work, not to babysit his sister’s friend. I collected the books he had borrowed from my store and went home.” Ilsa sipped the vodka, long and slow. “I didn’t know he had died until two days later. When I unpacked my bag, I found I had Gavriil’s notebook.”

  Ding ding ding ding ding

  “You have Gavriil’s notebook?” I dug my nails into the chair to stop from coming across the woman’s lap. “Here?”

  She nodded. “I went to Il Leone to return it. It was in the lobby I discovered he had been hit by a car and died. I’ll never forget. This big man with no neck leered over il poliziotto.” Ilsa used her hands to draw the figure of the hulking beast burnished in her memory. “He barked like a big dog. In English. I didn’t understand what he said. He spoke very quickly and my English…” She shrugged. “Washington, DC. Basketball. California. Jazz.”

  Her English was as good as my Italian. A small laugh escaped. I hurried to cover it, but she caught me. “Spaghetti. Pizza. Roma. Mozzarella,” I said with my American accent.

  Ilsa smiled, tentatively and reserved but she did smile, and it broke the tension.

  I raised my glass, reaching across the table separating us. “To Gavriil.”

  “To Gavriil.” She tapped my glass. “You aren’t with an insurance company, are you?”

  “Would I lie?”

  “Yes. Why would you?” Ilsa set the towel filled with ice one the couch. She stood again and hobbled to a set of bookshelves lining her longest wall. “The big man, he said Gavriil’s name. He is what got my attention. I did not like a man who would shout at the poliziotto, shout Gavriil’s name.”

  “How? How did he say his name?”

  Ilsa’s face tightened as though she’d bit a lemon. “With anger. Big, loud anger on a tomato red face. He was the one Gavriil argued with at the party.”

  I drew out my phone, quickly navigated to the web and pulled up a picture of Buford. “Is this him?”

  Her brows pressed together and then disappeared under her hairline. “Yes. Yes, I am certain. It was then I asked one of the bellmen and he told me two of the scientists had died.”

  “The big man was Buford Winston. The other man who died was Francisco Thelan.”

  “Yes. I had met him. He was the one who spoke some Italian. He was kind and told funny stories about cows and chickens and lentils.” Ilsa’s back was too me as she spoke. The fingers of her left hand stroked across the book spines.

  I didn’t want to spoil the memory by telling her Thelan likely hadn’t been telling a joke. Some scientists doted on their subjects the way some women doted on cats. On the surface, it’s good and nice…but down a floor or two, it gets weird.

  Ilsa selected a book and brought it to me. “Will you see Gavriil’s wife receives this?”

  I didn’t need to touch it to know what it was. “Yes,” I said, my voice failing me. Put it away. I demanded it of myself. Emotional bullshit was a waste of energy for the living and useless for the dead. I drove my nails into my palm, focusing my attention. Ilsa was a witness. I needed to treat her like one.

  “Did you recognize anyone else when you went back?”

  “Two others Gavriil introduced to me. After so long, I can’t recall their names. The woman, his assistant. She sat on a couch, holding a magazine upside down but watching the big man. There also was an older man with a white beard. He said something sharp to the big man but stepped back when the big man answered. I didn’t understand what was happening, so I left. I went to the polizia a few days later but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Been there. Done that. “Tell me what you remember of that night. You had gone to Gavriil’s hotel room.”

  Ilsa nodded. “He had been interested in scientific books on plants. We had talked through many topics the day before. Then I remembered there was a box in my storeroom from the estate of a botanist. I hadn’t had time to sort and shelf them. I brought several to Gavriil. We were late to the reception because we were reading. His assistant called. If she hadn’t, he would have missed the whole event.”

  It was so Gavriil. He had a long history of working through social engagements, including ones with me. “Do you remember who was buying the drinks? The group you were with gathered around a high table.”

  She nodded. “Gavriil bought wine for me and himself. After Gavriil argued with that man, somebody sent a drink to him.”

  I stood then, needed to move my body to keep my brain under control. “Somebody? Did you see who gave it to Gavriil?”

  “A waiter delivered it. Gavriil went to pay, but there was no bill. He said an admirer sent it.”

  “You understood what he said?”

  “The waiter said it in Italian and then English.”

  “Did you ask Gavriil what he and Buford argued about?”

  Ilsa inhaled deeply. “He said ‘profit versus planet.’ It sounded like an old argument.”

  I knew those words. Gavriil used them like a blunt weapon to criticize Buford.

  “Gavriil was a happy man,” Ilsa said, choking on emotion for the first time. “He said he would call if his schedule changed. He kissed my cheek and then, and then he died. If…if I had thought he would die, I never would have left him.”

  I understood what she felt, but it wasn’t Ilsa’s “shoulda,” it was mine. I shoulda gone to Rome. I shoulda been at his side. I shoulda saved him.

  Ilsa’s eyes were on the floor, a child contrite after admitting a poor decision. She was finished. Ilsa had done what she could and now wanted to be alone with the consequences.

  I got it.

  “It’s not on you. Not then, not now.” I shot the rest of the hundred-proof vodka. I took my wallet from my jacket pocket and set a hundred euros on the table. “For shoes.”

  The narrow staircase kept me upright as I descended three floors to the cobblestone street. The vodka worked its magic, disassociating my head from my shoulders, my feet from my legs. I glided along on the wings of spirits, past nameless faces and pastel lights. Lyrical Italian from altos, basses, and sopranos faded to the background, putting the noises of the city center stage. A motorbike engine started. A camera shuttered rapidly. A horn blew long and clear.

  The ground rocked as though I had little boats on my feet and I was walking across rough waters. I came to a main street and hailed a taxi. I had come to Rome to find out what happened to my husband but never expected to find so much of him. Vodka and exhaustion undermined the wall I had built until I stood exposed. Every image, every reminder slashed my psyche bone deep.

  I needed to get to my hotel. I needed solid sleep if I was going to get to the bottom of the classic question…

  Where Does an Elephant Hide the Evidence?

  Under the scalding, beating shower spray, my brain worked on the progress made the prior day. I made this trip because I believed Gavriil had been pushed. I had a trainer tell me beliefs were for churches. We dealt in fact, in knowledge, in knowing, but sometimes all you had to go on was faith. Today, I knew Dr. Gavriil Rubchinsky was the target of assassination. Cross the Francisco Thelan evidence with the hotel surveillance, corroborated by a credible witness, and you’ve moved from the church to the courtroom.

  Today I would focus on the how, which would point me to the who and why. Which brought me to my next thought. Shower off. Towel on. Phone up. “Dixon, how did you find Ilsa?”

  “Hey, Diamond. Didn’t expect you to call.”

 
I don’t do chitchat before coffee. “How did you find her?”

  “I accessed Doc’s email. I know he liked emailing better than texting so I figured, if he was meeting someone, he’d, you know, have an email. I was right.”

  Maybe my ears didn’t work before coffee either. “Did you say you accessed his email? His university email? It hasn’t been used for a year.”

  “Well, just because you don’t use it doesn’t mean it goes away. An e-trail is forever. Like infinity. Or until the technology changes and the system it’s on isn’t supported anymore. Even then, it doesn’t go away. It’s more like the door is locked and the key was, kind of, lost.”

  Thank God I only listened to every third word. “How long have you been hacking?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe…five years.”

  “Since you were twelve?” Yeah, I sounded old, talking in the top of my register, glaring at the phone like I could see through it to the slickster at the other end.

  “Something like that.” Dix was matter-of-fact. Me going school teacher on him didn’t have more than a ten-second effect. “Once I got settled in my place, I got bored. So, you know, I took a look around.”

  “A place? You got a place this fast?” I expected to kick him off the couch when I got back.

  “Uh huh. I read a bunch of the Doc’s emails, but most didn’t make sense. I knew he was smart, but he’s like Sheldon smart.”

  “Any from Buford Winston?”

  “Yeah, Buford. I remember Buford. Buford.”

  Apparently, Buford made an impression. “How about Francisco Thelan?”

  Silence hung for a moment. “I don’t remember him.”

  Adrenalin jolted my little gray cells. “I want to read the ones from Buford. Let’s start there.”

  “Who is Buford?”

  “A son of a bitch from the biggest agriculture lobby called AgNow! He and Gavriil were always at each other’s throats.”

  “Huh.” Keys on a keyboard clicked. “They used a lot of big words, but I don’t remember no threats.”

  Dix was still young. “The threats are veiled. Buford’s not stupid enough to put in an email he was going to kill Gavriil. Can you get the emails to me?”

  Dix snorted. I could picture the eye roll with it.

  “On to the license plate. How did you get it?”

  “Oh! You’ll like this. I was thinkin’ about how to get the tag. My friend Ru— uh, this guy I know is kick ass with, you know, pictures. He used this program using math and statistics to figure out the most likely answer.” Dixon got off on this stuff. The more he spoke, the faster he went. “It wasn’t perfect, but we could make out a few of the numbers. Then I tapped into the traffic camera system. That’s my area of expertise.” He said it like a cocky—but justified—bastard. “They say they only keep the loops for a week but, like I said, e-trails live forever. I looked at cameras on streets close to the hotel and caught the fucker. Ha! Suck on that!” His triumphant tone changed to reticent. “Uh, not you, Diamond. The fucker driving.”

  The energy of youth. You couldn’t do anything but shake your head, be happy you outgrew it, and be happier it was on your side. “I knew what you meant. Carlo ran the plate. We’re going to pay a visit to the driver this morning.”

  “What can I do? There has to be something else.”

  The same trainer told me no one could do it all alone. Anyone who thought they could was an idiot. Dead or alive, I was no idiot. “I want to see copies of Gavriil’s work. If he was killed here, at an agriculture world summit, we have to consider he was killed for his work. He had a grant to study modifications to improve the crop yield in water-poor environments. He focused on quinoa.”

  “Keen-wa? Sounds like a Chinese toilet bowl cleaner.”

  “It’s a very balanced and nutritious food. Aztec warriors used it in their diet. I’m going to upload some security video to you. I want you to dissect it like a frog. I want to know the to-and-froms of every person who had contact with Gavriil.”

  “K. I’ll send you a secure link. I can do, prob, um, another hour or two.”

  Damn time zones. I checked the clock on my phone. “What are you still doing up at two in the morning?”

  “Reading Doc’s emails. I have school tomorrow, but I’ll skip it.”

  “Don’t skip the YPF. Hear me? We don’t want that kind of attention.”

  Dix yawned. “I just sent you the link. I don’t mind skipping school.”

  “Sleep, school, then help me find a killer. I’m counting on you, Dix.”

  “Yeah? On me?” I heard it, he felt important, needed instead of tolerated. “Sleep, school, dissect videos.”

  “Good. Call me tonight.”

  Carlo and I zipped through the countryside in a car one model size up from the toddler toys of my suburbia days. The electric blue two-door fit Carlo, me, and enough air to keep us alive until we reached our destination, Hugo Franzetti. Like any good Italian man in his late twenties, Hugo lived with his mother. With his spotty employment record, it was probably all he could afford. The only asset to his name was a Fiat. A quick search of the make and model revealed a bumblebee masquerading as a car. Hugo liked going fast. Not a surprise. He’s Italian. There was a chain of tickets through May of last year. Then nothing. A few months ago, the plate expired.

  My gut wasn’t liking the way things were setting up, so I dressed for trouble. Good fitting clothes engineered to move with me. Boots I could run, climb, or kick ass in. Leather jacket hiding the gun I borrowed from Carlo. I had a knife at my ankle and one up my sleeve. I kept the blond hair and tinted eyes of Celina Matta. It was her ID in the bag at my feet.

  Pieces were coming together. Ilsa. The videos. Now Franzetti. I couldn’t help being anxious, wanting to know how he fit into the picture. “How much longer?”

  Carlo glanced at dashboard. “Not long. Enjoy the view. Spring is very beautiful in Italia.”

  “Save it for the tourists.” I opened the file Carlo provided. The driver’s license photo showed a man in his prime, years before the paunch and disillusionment set in. Hugo had high cheek bones and hollowed cheeks. Brown hair, thick and rich, was a sexy mop of curls. “You send this to Dixon?”

  “Si. To Dix.” Carlo took a sweeping exit ramp putting us onto a smaller road. Hills rolled lazily along, basking in the Mediterranean sun. Small houses on large properties dotted the road, set apart by fields newly planted. Carlo downshifted, letting the car roll into a driveway that was more grass than gravel. This was a road less traveled. Much less traveled. He parked in a cleared area, avoiding the flowers blooming with the full glory of late spring. Carlo dug in a black duffle on the back seat. He handed a name badge to me. I’d buy it was official.

  If I was blind.

  Oh, things were going to get interesting.

  I clipped my badge to my jacket. “You know I don’t speak Italian.”

  “You don’t need to speak. Just look, what is the word?” Carlo snapped his fingers. “Tough. Just look tough.”

  “Alligator meat, shoe leather, and me.”

  Carlo took the point, knocking on the front door. A dog answered. As we waited for a human, I tried to picture the man who killed my husband living here. The flower beds bordering the house were mature and well attended. Roses bopped their heads, dancing to the rhythm of the wind.

  Where the flowers had been doted on, the house had been neglected. The roof needed repair, as did a shutter and the wood trim of the windows.

  A woman opened the door who had once been over five-foot before receding a few inches. She stood with shoulders square, her white hair piled on the top of her head. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes had been carved by laughter and bronzed by the sun. Light brown eyes, ringed in a darker brown, twinkled in welcome. A mutt of a dog, plump and happy for company, competed for space in the doorway.

  “Buon giorno.”

  Carlo ducked his head, bowing quickly. “Buon giorn
o, signora Franzetti?” I didn’t follow anything he said after. But then, I didn’t need to. The soft smile slid from Mama Franzetti’s face. Those twinkling eyes darkened, saddened. She opened the door wider and, with a sweep of her arm, invited us in.

  The house was a tapestry for the nose. Wood fires. Fresh bread. Simmering tomatoes. Carlo spoke as we followed Mama into a communal space between the living and dining rooms. Carlo’s tone was firm but respectful. It was the same lilting Italian he used to sweet talk the panties off the hotel party planner. The reaction from Mama Franzetti was very different. (Thank God.) Mama put one hand to her throat and planted the other on the back of a sturdy dining chair. She shook her head, as if she couldn’t accept what Carlo said.

  “No,” Mama said. Then it was her turn to speak in the same flowing manner as the hills surrounding us.

  Carlo made a tsk tsk sound. Apologetic. Then he gestured to me.

  The bad cop.

  I crossed my arms under my chest and gave him a deadpan glare. “Mr. Giancarlo.” I spoke in English. There was no point running a bluff I couldn’t back.

  “Un momento. Un momento.” Carlo held his palms out to me, asking for time.

  I turned away with a dismissive wave of my hand and began to assess the scene. The living room was only slightly bigger than my hotel room. It was neat, clean, comfy. No television. A fireplace was swept clean but had seasoned the room and conjured images of campfires and s’mores.

  A doorway tucked into the corner lead to a narrow hallway. The hardwood floors were polished by generations of lives lived. Four doors opened to the hall. Two open, two closed. Open, a small bathroom. Fixtures, stained with time, were polished until they shined as much as they could. Open, a small bedroom furnished for a woman with a thick quilt covering the bed and small trinkets dotting a low dresser. Lined on the back edge were framed pictures of a laughing, growing boy. Hugo.