Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

McCarthy felt a sharp pain in his arm, like a sting. He tried to brush it off. A wasp, perhaps? Whatever it was he would attend to it later. He didn’t want to let it spoil the moment.

  As he tripped over the top step, he dropped his suitcases. On and on he tumbled, rolling down the steep steps until he came to rest almost at the intersection with Via Cavour.

  The ambulance, heralded by its klaxon-like siren, drew up and two paramedics ran towards the small crowd who had gathered around. Stephen ran towards them. Had he got there too late? As he got closer, Stephen saw that McCarthy had his eyes open and appeared to be breathing. When he saw Stephen, he reached out to take his hand and clasped it.

  ‘I lied to you, I felt bad about that,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Don’t be. In the line of duty and all that. I got my own back,’ McCarthy said, squeezing Stephen’s hand.

  ‘I didn’t fall for it,’ Stephen said. ‘Sure, it would be great to go home to Ireland for the summer. But I imagined you there in the winter, pining for galleries, restaurants and the anonymity of the city.’ The life was seeping out of McCarthy, Stephen could see, but he was desperate to keep him alive, to find out who had driven him out of his home in such a hurry.

  ‘This is my fault. I failed you…’ Stephen said, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘No. You saved me. And Bruno.’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘I couldn’t even do that.’

  McCarthy looked up.

  ‘He’s gone?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘He was living on borrowed time,’ McCarthy said. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  McCarthy’s forgiveness brought a lump to his throat.

  ‘I wish I’d known you were going away. I’d have come to say goodbye.’

  ‘I wanted to go back home. But he said he’d find me there if I did.’

  ‘Who, Michael? Joe Russo?’ Just then McCarthy’s eyes cleared momentarily, and he pulled himself up to rest on one elbow, and in a voice sounding years younger, the voice he must have used saying mass, he pronounced.

  ‘Find good understanding in the sight of God and man.’ From the dusty recesses of his schooldays, Stephen recognised the saying from the Book of Proverbs.

  Then McCarthy relaxed back to the ground, whispering ‘I wanted you to have something to remember me by.’

  Stephen looked at McCarthy’s eyes as they clouded over again.

  ‘Don’t leave me. Tell me what it is,’ Stephen said urgently.

  McCarthy struggled to breathe. ’I left it at your office.’ In the halfway house between life and death, McCarthy held the palm of his left hand aloft and with his right mimed picking up an imaginary pen.

  That note that he thought was some circular and had left in his in-tray for later was from McCarthy?

  ‘You are that man,’ he breathed, the punchline of the phrase Stephen recalled from Proverbs. In the short time they had known each other, McCarthy had seemed secretive and pre-occupied. Now he sought good understanding.

  The ambulance crew were running now, a stretcher and drips at the ready. But before they could manoeuvre their way through the crowd, Stephen felt McCarthy’s grip loosen, and his hand fall away. The daily rhythm of Rome began to stir again. He stood back as the medics busied themselves, just another onlooker. He called Elisabetta.

  ‘McCarthy’s dead,’ Stephen said. ‘Murdered in broad daylight. His killer will be long gone.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Someone must have seen something,’ Elisabetta said.

  For the next twenty-four hours, conspiracy theories would be flying from bar to restaurant about the priest’s dramatic death, Stephen reflected. Then they would go back to their usual topics—railing against the government, moaning about immigration and the cost of living. How hard it is to be a good man in evil times, he heard himself say, not knowing if it was himself or McCarthy he was thinking of.

  Chapter 24

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  Stephen was at the wheel as he and Elisabetta drove through the thinning traffic. The clock on the dashboard read 10.00 p.m. As he pulled up outside Elisabetta’s apartment, she turned to him.

  ‘I’m making pasta. Want some?’

  What else did he have to do? Go home to an empty flat to eat a takeaway pizza and mourn the loss of his friend? McCarthy’s murder was so raw that he couldn’t bear to deal with it yet.

  McCarthy’s note was a sad confession. As they’d thought, he’d been forced out of the job he loved at the Vatican Museums because he suspected that the Euphronios krater, acquired by Robert Hurst, who he’d employed, was most likely looted. Hurst never could provide a paper trail. The board was so besotted with the krater that they were willing to overlook Hurst's shortcomings and took his word that it had been owned by a wealthy collector.

  “Hurst came to my home for a meeting, He must have spotted and photographed Vatican property in my apartment. Three days later the Vatican police arrived with a search warrant, seized the artworks and presented me with my letter of dismissal.”

  McCarthy was murdered before they’d had a chance to take a sworn statement from him and even this written confession to Stephen wouldn’t stand up in court. Despite it being a frustrating day, he and Elisabetta were confident they had enough evidence to bring a case against Hurst for looting, even without McCarthy. But they were still some way off pinning any financial crimes against him.

  ‘I can knock out a bowl of spaghetti in the time it would take you to drive home,’ Elisabetta continued.

  ‘Sorry, was thinking about today. You had me at pasta.’

  ‘Come on,’ Elisabetta said. ‘I’ll make a start if you can grab the wine. There’s a late-night grocer back there. We passed it on the way. You might just catch them.’

  Stephen parked up and headed off on foot towards the shops. As he did so, his phone rang. It was Tariq. ‘Steve, Cara’s been in touch.’ He paused. ‘It’s you she wants.’

  Stephen felt a jolt through his body. What did he mean? She still had the power to unsettle him, even after all this time. Tariq wasn’t making any sense.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I get this parcel in the post, and it contains a memory stick and a snarky note:

  Do us a favour. Give this to the Old Bill, will you?

  P.S. Bet that window in your office is as dirty as the day I left.

  ‘No-one does pithy, quite like Cara, do they? Where was it sent from?’

  ‘Indonesia.’

  ‘Can you download the contents of the memory stick and send them through?’

  ‘Already done that. I’ve sent the instructions to open the file by separate cover.’

  Stephen groaned.

  ‘It’s been a while since we did this.’ Tariq chuckled.

  ‘I’m on another job right now,’ Stephen said, as he passed two bottles of red wine across the counter of the grocery shop. ‘Be on to it late tonight or first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tariq said, a note of disappointment in his voice before hanging up.

  As Stephen finished paying and grabbed his purchases, the shop assistant grinned at him. ‘Working, eh? Have a good night,’ he said.

  Stephen nodded sheepishly at the innuendo. But there was no denying he was having dinner a deux with a colleague, at her invitation. As he walked back to Elisabetta’s his mind was churning. Whatever Cara had uncovered, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. He was in danger of spreading himself too thinly. He still had to crack the Hurst case.

  He looked at his watch. He’d been gone ten minutes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as Elisabetta opened the door. ‘It was busy.’

  ‘No problem, I just have to throw in the pasta,’ she said, deftly chopping a shallot and parsley, then zesting a lemon.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ Stephen said.

  ‘Open the wine, will you,’ Elisabetta said, eyes shining, as she passed Stephen the corkscrew.

  ‘Watch me make a hash of this,’ he s
aid, flipping open the knife and cutting the thin metal seal covering the cork. He managed to pull it off without cutting his finger as he usually did. The cork came out easily.

  ‘Once you’ve done that, you can grate the parmesan,’ she said, passing over a wedge of cheese.

  She drained the pasta and tossed it with the vegetables and brought it to the table.

  ‘Linguine con limone, I hope you like it.’ Stephen poured two glasses of ruby coloured wine from the bottle of Velletri. They clinked glasses.

  ‘Saluti,’ they both said at once.

  ‘It’s a novelty having someone to eat with,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Cooking for one sucks. I always make too much and end up eating it for days on end,’ Elisabetta said. ‘I still haven’t got used to the single life.’ She reached out her hand across the table. He reciprocated. Theirs was a companionable silence.

  He wanted to ask her how long it had been and what had happened, but thought better of it. Why bring up painful memories?

  ‘Did you always want to be a cop?’

  ‘I wanted to be an investigative journalist.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘My uncle got killed by the mafia for doing exactly that. He was following up on a story about art theft. He got lured into a trap.’

  Stephen recalled Elisabetta’s reaction when he’d played the tape of Geppo Corri and she’d pinpointed his accent.

  ‘In Naples?’

  ‘The same housing estate where you met Corri.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Stephen began.

  ‘I know I don’t. But I trust you.’

  You wouldn’t if you knew what I’d done.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There was a showdown. Because he was the one who went in armed with nothing more than pen and paper and a passion for the truth, he got killed, while the cops fired back and got away,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It sounded so trite.

  Elisabetta’s eyes misted up.

  ‘So yes, I’m the cop secretly hoping to avenge the death of her beloved zio who was killed by the mob. Think you can handle it?’

  Yes, he could handle it, Stephen thought, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. She was single and now he supposed, so was he.

  ‘We had the mafia in Ireland too when I was growing up. Or a version of it. As well as Irish nationalism. And because it’s a small place and everyone knows your business, before even you do, it’s easy to get up the nose of the wrong sort. A prominent political activist warned me off. He didn’t want me being a police officer in his patch. So I left.’ He held Elisabetta’s gaze as she instinctively reached for his hand once again. He gave it back. ‘I know I won’t be driving home, but we might regret this.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Elisabetta got up to make espresso and Stephen walked around the apartment and into the kitchen. She touched him on the shoulder. He wanted to pull her towards him. He took her hand in his and then let it go.

  ‘It’s not that I’m not tempted. But,’ he said gazing into her eyes. ‘Ginny and I aren’t good right now. And I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to fix it.’

  ‘No, it isn’t that.’

  What was it then? Stephen shook his head, grabbed his coffee and downed it in one go.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ll leave the keys with you. You can pick me up in the morning,’ he said as he made his way to the door. ‘Goodnight.’ The cool night air refreshed him as he started walking home, reflecting on what Elisabetta had said. He wished he’d told her the truth.

  Stephen had gone barely another fifty metres before his phone rang.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have confronted you like that,’ Elisabetta said.

  He heard the clack of boots on pavement and turned around. She was walking towards him, arms outstretched. Stephen fell into her spontaneous embrace. There was a warmth between them, an understanding he hadn’t felt before. As Elisabetta let go of him, her fingers brushed his. He reached for her hand.

  ‘I’ll walk with you for a bit,’ she said.

  ‘Then I’ll feel obliged to do the same. We could be doing this all night,’ Stephen said, his face a broad smile.

  ‘Won’t you tell me what happened to you?’

  Elisabetta had been the first to let down her guard. She trusted him. Now she was asking him to reciprocate.

  ‘Some time ago I was forced to make a split-second decision. And I worry I got it wrong.’

  Elisabetta nodded. ‘And it keeps you awake at night, wondering what you’d have done differently if you knew then what you know now?’

  Finally, he’d found someone who knew what that felt like. No one he’d met in civilian life had ever been put in that situation. Here he was with an ally, a friend, someone at last who understood.

  ‘I had the chance to protect Cara, my environmentalist … friend—to do the right thing. In the few seconds I had, all I could think about was that if I went with her, we’d always be fugitives, two wanted people on the run.’

  ‘Like Bonny and Clyde?’

  ‘Except that we’d been set up. If I'd run, they would have used that as an admission of guilt, and let the real culprits get away scot free. I put her on a plane and gave her money to flee. I thought the best thing for me to do would be to stay behind and fight to prove Cara’s innocence, even though I knew she had a bounty on her head and they’d go after her. Now every tabloid calls her an eco-terrorist.’

  ‘Your girlfriend knew about this?’

  ‘That’s the crazy part. Ginny was there. She was the other reason I chose to stay.’

  They walked along in an easy silence as Stephen felt the weight of the past two years lifting from his shoulders. ‘When it was all over, I came up against the oil company. They’d spent a fortune on a PR campaign to discredit her. There was an independent inquiry into the refinery explosion. It proved that the protestors didn’t cause the accident, but the PR company disputed the findings. They carried on putting out stories naming Cara. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. It was trial by tabloid. I feel so damn guilty I didn’t do right by her.’

  Elisabetta stopped and faced Stephen.

  ‘You did everything you could. You’re a good man, Stephen Connor. Never forget that.’

  They stood there for a few moments, neither wanting to be the first to leave.

  ‘It’s late,’ Stephen said. ‘And we’ve got one hell of a day ahead of us. Thanks for listening.’

  Elisabetta patted his arm.

  ‘You’re right. See you tomorrow,’ she said and walked away.

  It was one o’clock in the morning by the time Stephen managed to work through the files Tariq had sent him, most of which were about Greg Palmer and his tangled network of companies. One line Cara had highlighted leapt up off the page. Palmer had set up an office in the USA, bankrolled by a company controlled by none other than Boston gangster, Joe Russo.

  Tariq, he saw was still online.

  ‘I knew you’d still be up,’ Stephen said.

  ‘You took your time.’

  Where the hell did she get this stuff?’

  ‘I like to think she learned from the best,’ Tariq said, proudly.

  ‘Don’t tell me any more. The truth is I think she learned her trade from the eco-warrior cult she was holed up with Down Under.’

  ‘Can you use it?’ Tariq asked.

  Stephen leaned back on his chair. Palmer funded by the proceeds of organised crime. He could certainly tip the FBI off. It would be up to them to carry out their own investigation.

  ‘Just taking all this in Tariq.’

  ‘No hurry. I thought you’d like it. You’ll keep her name out of it won’t you?’

  ‘She’s clever enough to have made sure nothing can be traced back,’ Stephen said.

  ‘That’s a relief. I was worried they’d go after her,’ Tariq said.

  ‘I know I was the one who played devi
l’s advocate when the Australian police found her stuff. And I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get your hopes up again and the trail run cold, that was all.’

  ‘I’m not cleaning that office window until she comes back. I keep looking at the screen grab you took of her at the disaster relief site. Always looking out in case someone recognises her.’ Tariq sighed. ‘Please, Steve, find a way of shutting down Palmer. He’s the one who forced her to live like this. He’s kept up the hate stories, spreading lies, accusing her of terrorism. She’s not safe until that man is behind bars.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can. Now can I get some sleep? I’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

  'Yes, sorry. Bye mate.’

  Once Tariq hung up, Stephen’s mind was racing. He looked at the clock again. It was four o’clock when he turned out the light.

  The alarm went off at seven. He stumbled out of bed and groggily made his way into the kitchen, running the cold-water tap. He filled a glass, opened a tube of soluble vitamin tablets and dropped one into the water, eyes fixed on the effervescence.

  Stephen had been going over the Hurst evidence all morning. With the nighthawks’ testimony, they’d been able to understand how the looting operated and were able to name a number of key players in the chain. Geppo Corri had identified Russo senior as the American who had paid a visit to their looting site, but they still needed proof that Hurst wasn’t operating alone.

  Stephen took out his mind map drawing with the list of nicknames Tony Sanzio had given to his various associates. Only this time he drew it as a hierarchy, starting with the bottom rung. At the bottom of the food chain were the Nighthawks (Geppo Corri and nephew). He drew an arrow up and wrote the Fixer (Tony Sanzio). As the middleman, Sanzio was uniquely placed. He got the nighthawks to do his bidding but reported to the next person up in the chain of command.

  Tony had that person as the Great Gatsby. And then it came to him.

  He called out to Elisabetta. ‘What do you know about the Great Gatsby?’

  ‘Is this another crossword clue?’ Elisabetta said, crossly. ‘If so, you aren’t busy enough.’