Fatal Error, page 12
This was always the point in any investigation when she would suit up and run for miles. Run until she pushed every confounding thought from her mind and allowed a solution to rise up from her subconscious. But running along Rome’s congested streets was impossible.
She joined the major flow of pedestrians, pushed along with the crowd. Veering around street sellers, stopping at crossings. Stretching for amber lights before they turned red. She passed shops, and offices, and cafés, and no clear plan emerged.
The air and the exercise cleared her mind enough to think.
That Enzo had an accomplice was no surprise. Likewise, that he was prepared to destroy the evidence of their operation, and had an escape route prepared.
Vanelli’s ridiculous MRAP had been the wrong thinking. He and his men had been armed to the teeth for a major battle. But they should have been prepared for Enzo Ficarra, a cunning, squirming, greasy weasel.
She crossed a road, pushed by the throng of pedestrians surrounding her.
Yesterday morning, it would have been far-fetched to suggest the police block off the train lines before raiding an old warehouse where a luggage thief might or might not have ditched two suitcases. Today, the plan seemed perfectly plausible.
She blew out a long breath. First rule of Enzo Ficarra? He was not predictable. He was not governed by normal morality. He was depraved and fearless.
He needed to learn that Jess Kimball wasn’t predictable, either.
She put her hand in her pocket. The immaculately machined finish of the Heizer felt comforting. Only two shots. At barely four inches long, those two shots would be fired at an uncomfortably close range. Close enough to look him straight in the eyes. She shuddered.
The gun was for emergencies. Surely, all of the law enforcement on this case could deal with Enzo Ficarra and she wouldn’t be forced to do so.
The crowds changed from office workers to casually dressed, camera-toting tourists. She followed a group down a narrow cobblestone street. Waiters patrolled outdoor cafés, waving at her to join them as if she were a long lost friend. She smiled, and walked on.
She rounded a corner and followed a sign to the Piazza di Trevi. Crowds of tourists ringed a broad semicircular pool. The pool fronted a curved three-story façade. At the base of the façade, rivulets of water ran down, over, and between, all manner of mythical beasts. Behind them, three niches held gods, with yet more water tumbling over them.
She crossed the square, holding her phone high, snapping pictures above the heads of the assembled crowd. At the fountain’s edge, tourists turned their backs on the pool, and threw money over their shoulders.
She slipped the phone into her pocket and climbed a fire escape on the opposite side of the square to get above the crowds for a better shot of the fountain. As she pulled out her phone, it rang. The number was local. She didn’t recognize it. “Hello?”
“Miss Kimball, it’s Romeo.”
She took a deep breath. “I, er…”
“I hope I didn’t offend you this morning?”
“No, no. I was just thinking.” She ran her hand through her hair and squeezed her eyes shut behind the sunglasses, and prayed he wasn’t thinking of asking her on a date. “Sorry. I have a lot going on.”
Romeo cleared his throat. “Foto Oggi called. They’ve found your man.”
Jess’s eyes snapped open. “They have?”
“Apparently.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Who is he?”
“They’re not telling.”
Jess sighed. “Let me guess…”
“They want to accompany you when—”
“They want in on the story.”
Romeo made a kind of strangled groan. “You could say that.”
“Did they say that?”
He made the strangled noise again. “Yes.”
She held her breath. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing! I took you there, introduced you to my landlord, and that was it. Haven’t seen or spoken to him any more until just a few moments ago.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” he said. “What’s so special about this person?”
“I can’t say.” She chewed the inside of her lower lip.
Romeo laughed. “So he’s an ex-lover or he owes you money?”
“Closer with the second guess. And it might not be safe, so I’ll go alone.”
He grunted. “If it’s not safe, you’re not going on your own.”
Jess took a deep breath. “I’ll be taking the police.”
“Polizia?”
“Exactly. Now what’s the address?”
“Where are you?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I’ll take you.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The hotel won’t like it if I get the customers into danger.”
“The hotel?”
“All right. I won’t like it if you get into danger. You’re…you’re…you know. You’re nice.” He sighed. Such drama. She grinned and imagined the crinkles around his liquid brown eyes. “I mean, you’re American, but—”
“Oh, thanks.”
“See? Now I have to meet you to say sorry. So, where are you?”
She gave up. “Piazza di Trevi. But I still need the address. For the police.”
“Okay, I’ll text it. Just wait there.” He paused. She heard the smile in his voice when he said, “Throw a coin in the fountain or something.”
“Why?”
“It’s supposed to guarantee a return trip to the city.”
“Guarantee?”
“Yeah, well, probably doesn’t include airfare.”
She laughed despite her best intentions not to. “Just get here. Quick.”
Romeo hung up. A moment later, her phone dinged with his text message. She forwarded the message to Morris, with a note to explain it might be the address for the courier who had picked up the Grantlys’ luggage at the airport.
Morris texted back. “Thank you. WE WILL HANDLE THIS.”
She sent a smiley, stuffed her phone in her pocket, and waited for the roar of Romeo’s motorbike.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Enzo closed the door to Bruno’s apartment, pulled down his baseball cap, and descended the narrow staircase. His Beretta was still hot, but he tucked it deep inside his jacket pocket before opening the faded yellow door that led to the street.
Bruno had been a good man. In three years, he hadn’t let Enzo down once. But this was different. The events at the airport could only be the work of the carabinieri. The raid on his office was definitely the ROS, and if the ROS were involved, Bruno was a liability. There was only one option to ensure his silence, and Enzo had taken it.
He turned left, and walked steadily down the residential street. He reached an intersection, and waited in the crowds for the lights to change before crossing the road. He felt good. Bruno had been the last link to his business in the U.S. except for Wilson Grantly. And Grantly would be done soon enough.
As he walked on, several cars raced past. Dark blue gazzellas with white roofs. Carabinieri. He stepped into a bus shelter, and watched them disappear on the route he had traveled from Bruno’s apartment. His instincts told him to keep moving. But he needed to know.
He walked back to the intersection. The gazzellas were parked around the faded yellow door, and two carabinieri were standing guard. A couple was seated in the back of one of the gazzellas. The carabinieri must have entered the building.
Enzo’s heart rate increased. How had the carabinieri responded so quickly? Had someone heard something? Seen something? He surveyed the street. Had one in the growing crowd of bystanders informed the police? He moved into a store entrance while keeping a clear view across the street.
The carabinieri at the door were waving people on. He took a deep breath. If an informant waited in the crowd, none came forward. But how else could carabinieri have arrived so soon?
The door opened, and a man in a dark suit walked out. He leaned into a gazzella and spoke to the people in the back. Enzo watched intently. Two people, long hair and short. A man and a woman. Bruno’s neighbors, perhaps?
He shifted his weight. The man saw something and the woman pushed him to report it? Or the woman was the witness, and he had encouraged her to talk to the carabinieri? Enzo gripped his Beretta inside his pocket. Whatever the course of events, he might have to deal with them both.
The man in the suit went back into the building. The couple followed before he could get a good look at them.
He watched and waited. Minutes passed.
The faded yellow door opened, and the couple walked out. The female first. The man holding her elbow. She leaned on the building wall, her face blanched, and her hand on her chest as she struggled to breathe. She was slim, but he knew she had stamina. And courage. She’d been the one at the airport. She’d chased the courier through the car park, and made the ROS run for their money. He clenched his jaw. Now she was here, with the ROS, at Bruno’s apartment.
Three motorbikes roared down the street, bounced onto the sidewalk, riders dismounting in one swift movement.
Enzo clenched his teeth. Paparazzi. Just what he needed. They must have been listening to the police channels as such leeches normally did. They dispersed into the gradually thinning crowd, cameras clicking.
The woman let go of the wall, and stretched. She was recovering from the mess in Bruno’s bedroom. Enzo grunted. He didn’t blame her. Even with the silencer, the close range shot had almost taken Bruno’s head off.
The woman walked back to the gazzella. The man was talking to her, but she seemed to be ignoring him. She waved her hand. From her wide-open mouth, he guessed she was angry.
Enzo breathed deep. First the airport, and now here? She was no longer an oddity. She was part of the Grantly affair. Perhaps even the reason the Grantlys and their money had not arrived.
He clenched his fist around the grip of his Beretta. She’d arrived from New York City on Flight 12, the Grantlys’ plane. The plane on which his brother was also to have been a passenger. Perhaps she knew something about Luigi’s disappearance. Perhaps she’d been involved there, too.
And if she was, if she’d done something to stop Luigi?
He frowned and narrowed his eyes to pinpoints.
He would deal with her.
He would teach her not to thwart his business, too.
She would learn.
Very, very slowly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Enzo watched as more police cars arrived. A crime scene van parked close to the growing line of flashing blue lights. He found a trattoria, and took a tiny table with a view of the scene. He ordered ravioli and the house red without looking at the menu.
The man and the woman remained by one of the cars, frowning, scowling, and engaged in earnest discussion.
An ambulance backed up to the yellow door. Flashguns went wild. The paparazzi were as giddy as football fans at a tournament. The carabinieri pushed them back.
The paparazzi rounded on the woman. The man did his best to dissuade them. The last of the reporters to leave scribbled in a notebook before moving on.
The waiter returned with his glass of wine. Enzo took a mouthful, as he watched the reporter stuff his notebook in a backpack, and stand by a motorbike, his arms crossed, waiting for his photographer.
Enzo dropped twenty euros on the table, and left before his pasta arrived. He donned sunglasses and crossed the street. Smiling, he approached the reporter. “Salve.”
The reporter shrugged.
Enzo pointed to the waiting ambulance. “What’s going on?”
“Someone died.”
Enzo waved to the line of police vehicles. “Is all this usual?”
“Only if you get shot.”
Enzo raised his eyebrows. “Ah.”
The reporter called to his photographer, who waved and ignored him.
“You’re not interested?” Enzo said.
The reporter looked at him. “He’s not a Hollywood star.”
“Wasn’t a star before he died, you mean?”
“He was bankrupt. Once owned a winery in Tuscany, I guess.” The reporter nodded to the woman. “Not like her.”
Enzo glanced at her. “She’s a Hollywood star?”
The reporter screwed up his face. “Would I be standing here if she was?”
“You just said—”
“She’s an American.”
“Oh.”
Enzo turned his back to the woman. “What’s an American doing here?”
The reporter shrugged.
“You must have some idea?”
He shrugged again.
“I thought you guys knew everything.”
The reporter laughed. “The guy she’s with is FBI.”
Enzo pushed his eyebrows down. “FBI? In Roma?”
“Yeah, well. Yanks? They’re everywhere these days.”
Enzo nodded toward the ambulance. “You think this is one of theirs?”
The reporter shook his head.
“But FBI?”
“Maybe he was an informant.”
“And he got shot?”
The reporter scowled. “Who said he got shot?”
Enzo gave him a flat smile. “You did.”
His scowl evaporated. “Oh.”
Enzo glanced at the American woman. “She’s kind of nice.”
The reporter groaned. “Is that what all this is about?”
“All what?”
“You. Asking questions. If you want her name, all you have to do is ask.”
Enzo frowned. “You have it?”
“I’m a reporter, I know everything. Remember?” He waved at the woman. “Jess something or other.”
“And him?”
The reporter sneered. “Who are you after, her or him?”
“No, I just—”
The man grunted. “Morris. The carabinieri call him Special Agent Morris.” The man laughed. “Special Agent? Can you believe it?”
Enzo laughed with him. “Americans. They all think they’re Hollywood stars.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Enzo walked away from the reporter and the police, his pace measured, and his head down.
He had not expected the FBI, and it was an additional complexity. They were obviously working with the ROS. He frowned, how was the woman involved? She’d been at the airport chasing Bruno, only to be chased herself by the ROS. It didn’t make sense.
He turned a street corner. Were the FBI arrogant enough to simply invade another country and act as if they still had all their powers? Perhaps they weren’t FBI at all? Perhaps they were CIA faking a cover? The CIA certainly weren’t above such operations.
Then again, the woman had been shaken by the appearance of Bruno’s body. Surely not the response of a trained agent, FBI or CIA.
Had the Americans found Bruno? Passed the information to the ROS? Would that explain why they were left in the car when the Polizia entered Bruno’s apartment? Or had the ROS brought the FBI in on the operation? He shook his head. It was an unpleasant thought. It would mean Bruno wasn’t the last loose end he would have to tie up.
He took the steps down into a metro station. The ROS and the FBI? Things were getting uncomfortable. He’d been careful coming here. Checking for a tail, doubling back, using different routes, but now he’d have to reconsider his options.
He pulled a ticket from his pocket, and passed through the turnstiles and down to the platform. A sign said the train was due in seven minutes.
He’d hoped to be at the very same spot an hour earlier, and his plan in much better shape. He put his hands in his pockets. He’d been lucky, dealing with Bruno moments before the law arrived. And not just the Polizia but the ROS and the FBI. And the woman.
The FBI would be an additional challenge. He bit his lip. There again, they might be an opportunity. To close down his operation for a while, maybe even a year or two, he needed money.
He grinned. Yes, the presence of the FBI could be a very good thing because Wilson was still alive. The Americans insisted their government would pay no ransom for hostages, but that was a lie. He knew from experience.
And the Americans always had plenty of money.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jess breathed deeply, and let go of the wall.
The terrible image of the man’s head, cleaved open, swam in and out of her mind. The apartment was small, squalid, and liberally splashed with the late tenant’s blood and gray matter and, well, other body fluids. She’d seen corpses before, but this one was viciously slaughtered.
Morris tapped her arm. “You okay?”
She nodded.
“You shouldn’t even be here.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”
“Maybe not today. But we were tracking him down.” Morris sighed. “We’d have gotten here.”
“I guess.”
“We were too late anyway.”
She scowled. “I passed the information to you as soon as I received it.”
“I know.” He shook his head. “It was a regret, not a complaint.”
She breathed out through her nose. “We missed him by minutes.” She looked up and down the crowded street. “He might even be nearby.”
“He’s gone.” Morris shook his head. “He wouldn’t stay here after the swarm of law enforcement showed up.”
She looked back at the first floor apartment window. “You’ll get something from this that will help with Wilson Grantly, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Crime techs?”
“You saw them. They’re working on it.”
“What about cameras on this block?” She looked up and down the street. “There must be something?”
“Probably, but not inside the building. But even if we see him walking in the street, who’s to say the body wasn’t already like that when he arrived?”
