Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  Stephen went over to homicide the next morning and spoke to the desk sergeant.

  ‘I’m looking for the memory stick with the data from Case Number 4572.’

  The desk sergeant looked up. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said, searching on his computer.

  ‘One of your lot picked it up,’ the sergeant said. ‘Checked out to the art unit yesterday.’

  ‘Who signed for it?’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll look. Pasquale Romani.’

  ‘What the hell? But that’s not the only copy is it? You’ve still got the SIM.’

  ‘We should have. But I’d need to check with the evidence room. Can’t you get the information you need from your colleague?’

  Colleague? Judas, more like.

  If the SIM had gone along with the memory stick, he would have no choice but to tackle Pasquale head on.

  ‘I’ll try that first. But let me know if you still have it or not, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course we’ll have it. Who do you think we are? The Keystone Cops?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Stephen muttered, as he fled, running down the steps and out onto the street. He punched the last number dialled on his phone.

  ‘Di Mascio,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Ask Alberti if he knows why Pasquale has gone off-piste on our case, will you?’

  ‘What the hell?’

  Stephen jogged along. ‘Pasquale checked out the memory stick containing all the evidence from McCarthy’s phone. He may have taken the SIM as well. And Homicide didn’t back up.’

  ‘Madonna.’

  A group of nervous looking men ranging in age from seventeen to seventy, and a woman in her forties, sat in a semi-circle, with the facilitator facing them. Next to him was a portable whiteboard and marker pens.

  ‘Renzo, how’s this week been for you?’

  Renzo glanced at the others and then down at his hands.

  ‘It’s got better. My wife’s agreed to give me another chance. She’s going to move up here. It’s partly for financial reasons. We were trying to run two households. And money was so tight that I went back to gambling.’

  ‘Thanks Renzo. I just want to take up your point about using debt as a reason to gamble. Anyone else had that experience?’ Three in the group raised their hands.

  The facilitator got up and picked up a pen.

  ‘What are some of the tools you have in your toolbox to overcome the negative thinking that enabled your gambling?’

  As Renzo sat there, listening to the facilitator droning on, his phone, which was on silent, lit up.

  Destroy the evidence.

  He put the phone in his pocket and got up.

  ‘Sorry, got to go,’ he muttered.

  The facilitator nodded and Renzo walked out of the room, shoulders hunched.

  Renzo pushed open the door to his one-bedroom apartment. He was greeted with suitcases in a disorderly pile.

  ‘How did it go?’ Giulia asked.

  ‘Good. They’re happy with my progress. I told them about you.’ Renzo smiled down at her.

  ‘I’m proud of what you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s for us.’

  ‘I know and I’m grateful,’ she said, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

  ‘She asleep?’ Renzo asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Out like a light. Tired from all that travelling.’

  ‘Listen,’ Renzo said. ‘Something’s come up. I’ve been called back in.’

  Giulia’s face fell. ‘But I only just got here.’

  ‘One of the guys has called in sick. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  Giulia eyed Renzo suspiciously.

  ‘What?’ he said, aggressively.

  ’Nothing,’ she said wearily. ‘I’m shattered. I just hope I’ve made the right decision.’

  Renzo turned his back on her and strode out the door.

  Elisabetta and Stephen were waiting outside Pasquale’s apartment in an unmarked car. Elisabetta was behind the wheel.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Stephen said.

  ‘He won’t be able to get far if he’s on foot.’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Tuck in behind this parked car, will you. See that van up ahead, it’s pulling up. He’s getting in. Checking the plate, now,’ Stephen said, punching in the numbers. ‘Registered to a fruit and veg wholesale company.’

  The van pulled out and drove off.

  ‘Go, go, go,’ Stephen said urgently.

  ‘Why would you need a van that size to pick up one person?’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Because there might be more on board. We’re going to have to call Alberti at home,’ Stephen said. They looked at each other.

  ‘And we need Renzo on this. Give him a call,’ Elisabetta said. The phone rang out.

  ‘Try him at home.’

  ‘Someone’s answering. I’ll put it on speaker,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Why are you calling at this time of night?’ Giulia said, crossly. ‘I’ve only just got the baby off to sleep.’

  ‘We’re so sorry to call you, Giulia. I just needed to ask Renzo a quick question. It’s Elisabetta from work.’

  ‘Ask him yourself. He left for work ten minutes ago. Or call him on his work phone,’ Giulia said, putting the phone down.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a man lied to his partner telling her that he’s got to work,’ Elisabetta said, concentrating on the road ahead.

  ‘True. But where the hell is he?’

  ’It’s Pasquale who we need to talk to first. He signed out the memory stick,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘How do we know that Alberti didn’t ask him to do it? We’d look pretty stupid if we ring him up and he tells us where to get off,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Maybe Pasquale’s gone for a night out.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that guy is a loner. If you can get him out at all, after one drink he’s looking at his watch.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And how many stag nights call for a bullet-proof vehicle to drive around in?’

  Alberti was furious. ‘What do you mean Pasquale has gone rogue? Your evidence better be watertight, di Mascio. Or else you’ll be back in uniform walking the beat.’

  They were by now, four, maybe five vehicles behind the van and back in Marconi, not far from the abandoned warehouse, that Hurst had used for cleaning up the looted antiquities.

  ‘They’re turning off,’ Stephen said.

  ‘We’ll have to follow them on foot,’ Elisabetta said. ‘They’ll see us.’

  ‘We’re not doing this on our own are we?’ Stephen said.

  ‘If we need reinforcements we’ll send for them. But for now, yes. I’d prefer it if there were three of us. When I see Renzo again…’ She broke off. ‘You ready?’

  Stephen nodded.

  ‘Let’s do it. I’ll take the loading dock at the back. You take the front entrance.’

  In amongst the shadows of the gloomy warehouse, Stephen’s eyes adjusted to the poor light. He could make out a man on his knees on the floor with his hands tied behind his back.

  Someone, he couldn’t quite see, had a gun to his head.

  ‘We told you that if you were followed this would happen,’ said a thick-set man.

  Shit. The hostage was Pasquale. It was a set up.

  He texted Elisabetta.

  Call backup. They’ve got Pasquale.

  She texted back.

  On my way.

  ‘They’ll know it was me who signed out the memory stick.’

  ‘Hand it over then.’

  Pasquale tried to wriggle his hands, but the cable ties were cutting into his wrists.

  ‘Here,’ he said indicating the pocket in his shirt.

  The thick-set thug reached in and pulled out a memory stick and two phones. He threw the memory stick on the floor and smashed it into two with his boot, crushing it with his heel as he ripped open the phones and took out the SIM chips and proceeded to destroy those.

  Stephen heard a floorboard creak behind hi
m. He swung round. Elisabetta had her fingers to her lips as she crouched down beside him.

  ‘How many?’ She whispered.

  Stephen held up three fingers, Elisabetta two, pointing to the front entrance.

  Five against their two.

  The three standing guards left two others, who were going backwards and forwards to the loading bay.

  ‘What’s in the van?’ Elisabetta mouthed.

  Stephen was about to reply, when Renzo stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘You took your time,’ Stephen said.

  Renzo grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Reckon we can take them out?’

  Renzo nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Elisabetta stepped forward and in that split second, Stephen felt the cold hard steel of a muzzle on the back of his head. He made the gesture of a loaded gun, to try to warn Elisabetta.

  ‘You couldn’t even wait for the cavalry, could you?’ Renzo said in a flat tone, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He clipped one set of cuffs round Elisabetta’s wrist and the other around Stephen’s. ‘Let’s see how inseparable you really are,’ Renzo said as he frog-marched him and Elisabetta into the area where the thug was guarding Pasquale. ‘Look what I found lurking in the shadows,’ Renzo said.

  ‘You don’t have to do this Renzo,’ Elisabetta said.

  In response he swung round and slapped her across the face.

  She was motionless, poised even as she took the blow without complaint. She tilted her head towards Stephen and as if on cue he took up where she’d started.

  ‘And there was me blaming Pasquale. I thought that he was the one protecting Hurst when it was you all along. And that white Fiat that was resprayed. That belong to you by any chance?’ Stephen said. Renzo ignored him. ‘Tony Sanzio might have died from a heart attack, but it sure didn’t help you trying to run him off the road. What did he do?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Scotland Yard,’ Renzo said.

  ‘You’re going to kill us both anyway, so you may as well hear me out. McCarthy would have got away but for you. I hold you responsible for his murder.’

  ‘We’ll kill that one first,’ Renzo said.

  But before Renzo could draw breath, Elisabetta had swung round with all her body weight and dealt Renzo a karate kick that sent him crashing to the floor.

  ‘The keys,’ Elisabetta scrabbled on the ground. As Stephen reached into Renzo’s pocket there was a shot followed by another. Pasquale lay bleeding.

  ‘Lousy shot,’ Elisabetta whispered, leaping up as soon as Stephen had unlocked the cuffs. Renzo, still concussed, lurched to his feet and reached for his gun, aiming once again at Elisabetta. She was behind a pillar as she returned fire. She moved forward slowly, covered by Stephen. He took a deep breath, then raised his pistol at arm’s length, sighted carefully along the barrel, and fired a single shot just above ground level. A short, sharp cry of pain came from the other side of the space.

  For a moment nothing happened, then Stephen ducked as another gun fired, but the shot was wild, straight into the roof. It pinged on a metal brace between the steel pillars as it fell back to earth followed by an eerie silence.

  Elisabetta signalled to Stephen. A piece of canvas strung up between two pillars was flapping near an open window. Stephen saw a shadow then just at that moment the canvas rippled and fell, and two ski-masked bandits stood back to back. They didn’t even aim, just squeezed their triggers. In an instant, the place was ablaze with star-like flashes, rat-a-tat-a-tat-ing around the vast space.

  Then in amongst the confusion there was a hiss and a loud bang as the air was filled with smoke and a team of six armed response officers ran forwards shouting.

  ‘Armed police. Put down your weapons.’

  ‘Call an ambulance. Man down. He’s bleeding out.’ Stephen shouted.

  There was the sound of running as Renzo’s accomplices, one on each side, tried to run the injured man towards the rear of the building.

  ‘Which way are they headed?’ Elisabetta said running after them.

  ‘Back entrance.’ Stephen said, right behind her.

  ‘You and you, cover the front,’ Elisabetta ordered to two of the armed officers. ‘You others, come with us.’

  ’Let’s try cutting them off,’ Stephen called.

  There was a burst of gunfire as Renzo and his team fired indiscriminately. The two armed officers returned fire. First one gangster fell, then the other, till the only one left was Renzo, dragging his injured leg towards the exit. Stephen brought him down, shooting him in the other leg as Elisabetta kicked the gun from his grasp.

  ’That’s the last time I recommend anyone for promotion,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to go down a long time for this,’ Stephen said.

  ‘You’re not so perfect either, Scotland Yard. You tell her what you did?’ Renzo said indicating Elisabetta, who was standing over him, her weapon aimed steadily at his groin.

  Stephen turned away, embarrassed.

  ‘Thought not,’ Renzo said.

  ‘That should give you time enough in prison to earn that money you owe us,’ Elisabetta said.

  Chapter 27

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  It was Stephen’s last day in the carabinieri office. He and Elisabetta had warned Alberti that as a result of the case against Hurst, they believed that the Euphronios krater displayed in the Vatican had been looted. Alberti had prevaricated, arguing that as the case hadn’t even come to trial, it was premature to approach them.

  ‘And if it’s no longer on display, what’s the problem?’ Alberti said.

  ‘Everything indicates the Vatican krater was stolen. It's evidence,’ Elisabetta had argued.

  ‘We can’t afford to get on the wrong side of the Vatican, di Mascio. You of all people should know that,’ Alberti replied. ‘And you know how slowly these things go in court.’

  Walking out of Alberti’s office, Stephen shook his head feeling slightly deflated.

  ‘That went well. Meanwhile, where have they hidden the missing krater?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Quietly spirited away to the Freeport in Geneva, along some anonymous corridor, hidden in a warehouse strongroom like hundreds of other priceless works of art, never to be seen again,’ Elisabetta said.

  Stephen’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘Hey, none of that. We did what we could. And even if Hurst never spends a day in prison, we’ll have won,’ she said.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ Stephen began.

  ’Is this to do with Renzo?’ Elisabetta asked.

  ‘Yes and no. I was desperate for evidence to bring Hurst down. And I…I’m ashamed at what I did,’ Stephen said.

  Elisabetta looked thoughtful, as though she was weighing up what to say.

  ‘You heard him. We can’t afford to get on the wrong side of the Church. If the case ever gets to court we’ll deal with it then,’ Elisabetta said, looking Stephen in the eye. ‘In the line of duty and all that.’

  She was letting him off the hook?

  ‘Come on, let’s finish up working with the artist on the St Jerome composite,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘You’re right. I’m just not used to leaving a job that’s incomplete, that’s all. And the McCarthy painting. That’s another piece of unfinished business. And so is this.’ Stephen drew out his organisational diagram.

  ‘You’re not still going on about that are you?’

  ‘I am actually.’ Stephen wrote McCarthy’s name beside the word the Guardian.

  Elisabetta raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The Guardian, metaphorically, as in God’s representative on earth and literally, of that missing painting.’

  ‘Fair enough. But Tony Sanzio wouldn’t have known about the painting,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s my interpretation of it,’ Stephen said, before closing his notebook and putting it away.

  ‘Just because you’re going back to London doesn’t me
an we’ll stop looking. The painting’s got to be out there somewhere,’ Elisabetta said.

  Alberti had laid on a buffet and some drinks. There were awkward speeches and conversation that carefully avoided any reference to one of their own in jail awaiting trial.

  ‘Thanks once again, Scotland Yard,’ Alberti had said. Stephen cringed and saw Elisabetta do the same at the very words Renzo had used when they were under siege at the warehouse.

  It was time to say goodbye. Elisabetta mimicked Alberti, patting Stephen on the shoulder. ‘So long, Scotland Yard.’

  ‘You’ll come and visit when next you’re in London, won’t you?’ Stephen had said.

  ‘I want that tour of the pubs you’ve promised me,’ Elisabetta had said, waving goodbye. Stephen turned around one last time. ‘It’s a deal.’

  A red, white and green checked tablecloth was laid over two tables joined together and set with the best china and glassware. The chairs around the table were of various sizes and styles. The mantelpiece was cluttered with Golden Wedding cards. Next to these was the family photo of great-granddad in his Cacciatori delle Alpi uniform from Garibaldi’s days and the vial of holy water blessed by the Pope. On the wall, in pride of place, was St Jerome and the Lion, the lion holding his paw aloft as the saint tended to him.

  As the family sat down to eat and they were ready to toast the couple, the eldest daughter glanced up at the painting. ‘Mamma, you kept it.’

  ‘It grows on you,’ she said. ‘I still don’t like that heavy frame.’

  Java, Indonesia

  Cara hovered outside a roadside stall selling fruit and stopped to buy a papaya juice. The seller, a man in his forties, acknowledged her with a nod.

  ‘He’s still working on it,’ he said, directing her to the internet cafe next door. ‘We’ll give you a call when it’s ready.’

  Cara walked through to the back where there were six desks with computers down one side of a lime green wall and six on the other.

  She sat down and logged on. It had been a while since she‘d sent that evidence to Tariq about Greg Palmer and his connection to organised crime. She hoped he’d passed the news along to Stephen. Normally she didn’t like cops. Sometimes they could be handy to have around. She tapped in the name of Palmer’s company, Dream Large USA.