by Jeff Carson
“I’ll probably get some rest tonight and just pack up my brother’s things. Then, I have no clue,” he said. “How about tomorrow night you pick me up and I take you out for a pizza?”
She smiled wide and laughed. “There’s more to Italian cuisine than pizza! I will take you for Risotto Milanese.”
He shrugged. “I have no clue what you just said. Sounds good to me.” He closed the door and slapped the roof.
“Eight o’clock!” She rolled up the window and peeled away.
Chapter 37
The room was dark as a cave, the only light coming from the screen of his cell phone, which was chiming incessantly on the floor next to him. He shut off the alarm he’d set, ripped off the sheets, and stood with forced enthusiasm.
A bright flash flickered through the shutter slats and the building rumbled. He walked to the bedroom balcony and opened up the shutters, revealing a bright-orange sunset sky with jet-black storm clouds stacked up against the mountains. A long ground strike of lightning flickered for a two count halfway up the mountain, followed by a deafening boom that shook the windows near to the point of breaking. The thunder rolled for what seemed like a minute, the sound waves sloshing back and forth between the mountains of the lake valley.
It jolted him into action. He put on his pants, socks, and shoes and ran up the stairs to Cristina’s.
He knocked and she cracked the door, showing her milk-chocolate eyes. She smiled pleasantly and pulled it open. The apartment was filled with the sounds of modern electric jazz and an aroma that made his mouth water.
“How are you?”
The three-hour nap had energized him. “I’m doing well. How are you?”
“One second. Come in!” she said shuffling to the stereo. She wore a pair of black tights without shoes, a long gray sweater and black leather belt that cinched to show her slender waist. Her sandy blonde hair was pulled up in a quick ponytail, which draped over her face as she bent to turn down the volume.
“Please,” she beckoned again. “Come in.”
He realized he was just staring dumbly. She looked a lot better than he remembered, and she didn’t seem to be trying too hard. Maybe it was her chipper mood and the spring in her step. Or the perfect body, face, hair, and eyes.
“Who was that?” He pointed to the stereo and shut the door behind him.
“Oh, it’s a group from New York. Incognito.”
“Okay. Yeah, I know them.”
She looked skeptical. “Really? You? Country boy from the Colorado mountains?”
He smiled. “I swear. I like them, actually. I’ve got some of their stuff, but I’ve never heard this CD.”
“It’s their newest. It’s great,” she said. She turned it a little louder. “I would think you listened to country music.”
“I do,” he said, shrugging.
She laughed, walking to the kitchen. “So what’s happening?” She lifted a pan lid revealing a simmering tomato sauce.
“I was hoping you could give me a ride somewhere tonight.”
“Right now? I’m about to eat. Are you hungry? I have plenty of food. Besides, it’s about to pour!”
He looked out the window at the black skies, then at the spread of bread, cheeses, meats, and olives, and was suddenly not in such a hurry. “Yes, I am hungry now that I think of it. Thank you.”
…
They ate pasta and listened to jazz while the rain outside drummed the dining-room window in sheets.
Swapping stories about John put them in a good mood, and it was a much-needed respite from the sorrow of the last few days for both of them.
“Cristina.” He looked at her with a serious expression.
“Yes?”
“I need to know about these guys who own this pub. The Albastru Pub that John was always going to.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know the guys from home? From before you came here?”
“No, I don’t. Why? Because we are both Romanian?”
Wolf wiped his mouth and looked out the window. The rain was letting up gradually. “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. How about this guy, Ferka Vlad, from the observatory? Did you know him from before?”
“I’ve met him before, that one time I went to the pub. But it was just the one time. There really are a lot of people from Romania in Italy. But I don’t know many. I know that they are often looked at as criminals here, though. There is a lot of crime in northern Italy. There is more money in northern Italy than the south, so there’s a lot of theft and people’s houses getting robbed. The finger is often pointed at the Romanian.” She shook her head. “There are bad Italians just like there are bad Romanians. But I do know that those guys at the Albastru Pub look bad. I would bet a lot of money they are criminals.”
“So would I.” Wolf looked out the window. There was nothing in her voice or mannerisms that said she was lying.
“Why? What’s going on? What have you found out?”
“I’m pretty sure that the owner of that pub and this guy, Vlad, killed my brother. But they’ve covered all their bases, and I can’t prove it. They’re smart. Or one of them is smart.” He set down his fork. “Or, they’re getting lucky.”
He looked around the kitchen, then got up and walked over to the knife set on the counter. He pulled four smaller knives from the bottom row, then checked the larger blades on the top. “You know my brother doesn’t have a single knife in his apartment other than four butter knives? Didn’t he ever cook?”
She laughed, then stopped, watching him put back all but two blades. He picked them up in one hand and brought them back to the table.
“What are you doing?”
“I need these.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “You have to be careful with those guys from the pub. I’m serious. They are probably killers.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She shook her head with glistening eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“It will come to me.” He picked up the plates and put them in the sink. “They beat my brother over the head and strangled him to death. And they beat Matthew Rosenwald’s head in. Making it look like my brother did the whole thing.”
He fetched the blades from the table, walked back to the counter, and put them back in the wooden housing.
“I’m just going to bring this down to my brother’s apartment, okay? I’m sorry, you’re going to have to get another set. If anything happens, I don’t want anything tied to you. And, come to think of it, it really would be better if I could borrow the scooter tonight.”
Chapter 38
Faint ambient light from the city beyond the piazza streamed into his brother’s otherwise pitch-dark bedroom. Wolf was certain he was being watched, so he’d made a show of walking around in his underwear, turning off the lights in the entire apartment, as if he’d been going to sleep early.
Now he dressed quickly, putting on the darkest clothes he had, without overtly looking like a cat burglar. The two most important things he wore were tucked into his socks—two kitchen knives, the blades loosely covered with folded paper towel sheathes to protect his skin.
He patted the knives, twisting his ankles to test the tuck-job, adjusted his socks, and went to the balcony. The piazza was ninety degrees to his right and out of sight, on the other side of the A-ridged roof. The roof extended straight out at least fifty yards. He could hear the murmur of a bustling Friday-night crowd and see bright lights streaming upward against the humid air, thick with swarming insects.
There was no moonlight shining on the ceramic roof. It was dark, difficult to get a sense of the exact angle of pitch. He knew it wasn’t too steep to navigate, no more than thirty degrees, but steep enough to keep his heart rate racing, and wet enough to quicken his pulse even more. If it was a ski slope, it would have certainly been labeled black diamond, he knew that.
The roof butted right up against the balcony to his lower right. Ceramic tiles could be brittle, and he had no idea how old and brittle
these were. He also knew that old ceramic tiles that were wet after a rainstorm were probably slick with a thin film of clay.
He looked over the edge to his left, away from the roof to the narrow walking alleyway below. It was far—three vaulted-ceilinged floors up from the hard cobblestone ground. He stared for a full minute, not seeing a single soul.
He gritted his teeth, gave a sharp exhale, and stepped over the railing. He put his left foot on the roof and gradually placed more and more weight on it while still straddling the balcony. There was a creak. He placed more weight still and tested the traction of his left foot.
Satisfied, he stepped his other foot over, and made the entire transition to the roof, lying forward in a low push-up position, on his hands and tiptoes.
Wolf thought briefly of slipping over the edge, hearing the gradual rush of air become so loud as to be deafening right before he hit the ground with unfathomable pain. He shook his head with a humorless chuckle and began climbing up.
Small scrapes and creaks accompanied every movement up the kiln-hardened tiles, though none moved more than a fraction of an inch under his weight. He shuffled quickly up toward the ridge of the roof that was a straight line of shadow against the bright light of the piazza beyond. He stopped just before the top, not wanting to risk being seen from the other side. He got to the soles of his feet, stooping, his right hand in contact with the tiles, and made his way parallel to the ridgeline.
Step by step, foot by foot, the tiles held up beneath him as he carefully crept along.
Impatience overwhelmed him, so he stood up with bent knees, arms out for balance. He looked to his right, unable to see the other side of the roof, so he knew no one could see him from below. He began walking faster toward the dark void that was still twenty yards ahead.
No more than three paces into his light-footed trot, his left foot gave way, sweeping violently down to the left with a ceramic crack. His right foot shuffled forward in mid-stride and caught on a tile as his body weight plummeted toward the roof. His right knee bent, smashed into his chest, bounced him up to the left and into an uncontrollable fall.
He hit the roof with a hollow thud on his left side. For a moment, he stalled, planking parallel to the roof ridgeline, shifting slowly, unstoppably into a roll toward the roof edge. He extended his right leg out and up to stop it, but it was no use.
Without thinking, he kicked up with his left leg, extended his right arm straight above his head, and twisted hard to his right, toward the drop. A two-hundred-and-seventy-degree turn later, he split his legs and arms into a wide X, toes and hands digging for purchase, belly against the wet roof. He landed in a cacophony of cleaving tiles, which tumbled like the sound of plates sliding off a waiter tray into the darkness, now just a foot to his left.
Panting now, every muscle in his body straining, he forced himself to take a deep breath, then heard a few distant splatters of tiles hitting the cobblestones below, giving him yet another shot of adrenaline.
Ten seconds later, he managed to get back to a position perpendicular to the crest of the roof. This time, he went all the way to the peak, willing to trade being seen from within the piazza for living to see another day. Straddling the crest, he walked, low and quick, the remainder of the distance to the end of the roof.
As he approached the black void, growing discouragement gave way to instant relief as his eyes adjusted, revealing a one-meter drop onto a flat-topped black roof below. He could see puddles reflecting the city-lit clouds. The roof extended twenty feet, and then there was a steel rectangular structure at the edge.
He slunk over the edge and made his way there.
It was a fire escape. Steps zigzagged all the way down to the ground, or so he assumed. He wasn’t about to test the strength of the railing by leaning over to see.
It wobbled and creaked with each step, but he was on the ground safely within moments.
His body tingled with adrenaline as his feet hit the ground. Turning to look back up at the stairway, he shook his head with wide eyes, cold-blooded conviction pounding in his veins. Now he knew. This is exactly how the murderers got out of John’s apartment that night.
The piazza was just around the corner. He walked the opposite way, through a narrow gap, and to where Cristina had told him to go earlier. The familiar white scooter was parked right where she said it would be. He cranked the key, fired up the kazoo-sounding engine, and took off down the side street.
Chapter 39
He rode the scooter as fast as it could take him to the Merate Observatory. The gate in the rear of the property was wide open, just like every other time he’d seen it, so he planted the scooter in the corn and walked in. Checking the back door with a tug, he was surprised as bright light poured out, opening without any resistance.
Walking in like a stalker would have drawn unwanted attention. So he walked into the building like he belonged.
Opening the door, he strode across the brightly lit telescope-room floor while looking down at his hooded sweatshirt zipper, making a mild show of struggling to unzip it. A man at a computer terminal looked to him over a pushed-down set of reading glasses.
Wolf nodded and gave a quick wave as the man looked toward him. Wolf didn’t break stride, walking through the big room and into the hallway beyond.
“Ciao,” the man said distractedly, already turning his head back to the computer screen.
Wolf veered to the right, down the hallway toward Vlad’s office, and allowed himself a quick look over his shoulder. No one was in sight along the hall that extended in the opposite direction, but a few lights were on. He glanced at his watch. 8:44 p.m. For a Friday night, it seemed positively bustling. But, then again, it was an observatory, where work was done at night.
He walked past an occupied office on the left. Inside, a man sat with his face to a computer screen. There was an Asian man looking over his shoulder—Dr. Chang. Wolf passed unobserved and continued down the hallway. Blinds were drawn tight over Vlad’s hall windows, lights on inside, and his door was shut. Wembly’s office was dark, looking locked for the night.
Wolf stopped, swiveled another look down the hall, and pressed his ear lightly against Vlad’s office door. There was no sound.
He twisted the handle and entered fast.
Before he’d finished shutting the door, he already knew he was in big trouble.
Chapter 40
Nothing inside the office moved but the swirling digital lines on the computer screen. Nothing. Including Vlad.
Vlad sprawled motionless, directly face down. His head was tilted back, face balanced on his nose and gaping jaw, which was mashed into the terrazzo floor.
What bothered Wolf was not Vlad’s lifeless body, but what was wrapped around his neck—a shiny black leather belt. A shiny black belt of a design he might have remembered seeing in his brother’s closet earlier in the week.
His mind raced.
He looked at the computer screen. The lines had just disappeared, blanking out to a black sleep-mode screen. He snapped his head to Vlad and bent down, feeling his cheek with the back of his hand. The body was still warm.
Wolf stood up with a jolt and turned toward the door. He pulled it open with his sweatshirt-pocket-covered hand and scrubbed clean the exterior knob. Suddenly, he heard a faint two-tone siren somewhere in the distance. Turning to the exterior window, his breath quickened when the flicker of red and blue flashed through the closed blinds, and the siren became louder.
Wolf sprinted down the hall, past the Asian scientist, who was now taking a long swill of soda in his office doorway.
“Hey!” Chang’s voice called as Wolf blew past him.
Wolf ran hard through the telescope room and out the door. He stopped outside with a skid and lunged back to the handle, wiping both inside and outside knobs quickly with his sweatshirt before turning and sprinting as fast as he could out the gate.
Red and blue pulses lit the cornrows in front of him as he ran. They were shining from
behind him, on top of a quickly accelerating vehicle. He dove straight left into the cornfield, this time not touching a single stalk as he plunged onto the ground.
The siren was now muted, but he heard the fast crunch of tires, and the brightening strobe of red and blue told him the vehicle was getting closer by the second.
Wolf inched to the edge of the corn and stole a glance just in time to see a carabinieri Alfa Romeo Gazelle whipping into the rear property of the observatory. He waited for the next car, which never came. He held his breath and listened. A faintly familiar clack of the observatory door told him the officer had entered the building.
The body wasn’t even cold yet, not even discovered by his fellow employees milling about, and the carabinieri were racing to the scene? Wolf instinctually twisted and looked behind him, half expecting to see whoever had killed Vlad sneaking up on him, but there was nothing but corn.
He stepped out and craned his neck to look over the corn at the building, seeing only flashing blue and red against the trees. Static and beeps, clipped Italian conversations, the sound of radio noise echoed in the still air.
He ran down the road to the scooter and pulled it out of the corn. Then he paused, looking and listening again. Nothing had changed. He pushed it up the dirt road, away from the observatory grounds, until he reached the crest of the rise where the pipe had been found. With a quick look back, he jumped on and coasted toward the lake—toward the narrow trail they’d navigated earlier in the day. Toward the crime scene.
That thought made him jam the brakes, skidding to a stop. Whether or not the crime scene would be manned was a toss-up. He knew there was a farm road to the left and to the right at the bottom of the small hill ahead, right where the narrow trail began. He had no choice but to risk it.
The narrow path at the bottom had yellow tape across the entrance, but no officer in sight. He fired up the scooter and gave it a small rev, sounding like a handful of pebbles in a tin can. He chose the road to the left, toward the road he’d taken here. It was also the road the carabinieri had just screamed in on, but it was the only way he knew to get back to Lecco.