Fatal Error, page 13
“But why would he be here at all?”
“Maybe he’s a friend?”
“Was a friend.”
“We were too late, Jess. I know that. Vanelli knows that.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a civilian.” Morris frowned and swiped his palm over his face. “Vanelli doesn’t think a civilian should be involved here.”
“Well I am involved. I was involved before he was.”
“He’s not wrong. This case has turned out to be much worse than expected.”
She frowned. “You should have thought of that before you asked me to interview Wilson Grantly back at that coffee shop in Dallas.”
“I didn’t ask you to chase them down. You know I didn’t.”
“Them? You say it like you know Ficarra killed this guy.”
“I’m not blind to other possibilities, Jess, but…”
“So, arrest him.”
“We need evidence.” Morris shook his head. “So far, the only evidence we have is that he’s Luigi Ficarra’s brother. We have nothing to connect Enzo to Luigi’s crimes. Maybe we’ll get something here with the courier. But I doubt it.”
“Follow him, then. Surveillance. He’ll screw something up. They always do. And when he does, you can grab him.”
“The Italians have to follow their legal process. I can’t change their law.”
“Why not? Enzo Ficarra is not following the law.”
“They have nothing to pin on him. If they did, he’d be in custody already. You saw how fast they move when they’ve got grounds.”
“You call that nothing?” She gestured to Bruno’s apartment. “You’re just going to wait until he shoots someone in broad daylight with the cameras rolling?”
“Of course not.” Morris shook his head again. “Vanelli is pushing for approval. He might get it as early as tomorrow. Believe me, Jess, he wants Enzo just as much as we do.”
“What about Wilson Grantly?”
Morris sighed. “We want him, too, but we don’t know where he is.”
“Enzo’s got him.”
He nodded. “But where?”
“Exactly. That’s a damn good reason to follow him.”
“We want to, Jess. It’s just—”
“The law. The process. People have to get paid. Too few resources, too many crimes. Blah, blah blah.” She waved her hand to dismiss the excuses she’d heard way too many times before. “Yeah, so you said. I’ll mention it to Wilson Grantly, should I ever see him alive.”
“We should have Enzo under surveillance tomorrow.” Morris took a deep breath. “There was another man at the airport, as well.”
Jess leaned forward. “And?”
“And you don’t know this.”
“Who was it?”
“He wore a baseball cap. Kept his head down. Disabled the camera in the elevator.”
She frowned.
“He was in the elevator at the airport for a couple of hours.”
“What elevator?”
He nodded to the apartment. “The one the guy in there used.”
“What was he doing in the elevator for two hours?”
Morris rolled his eyes. “He didn’t want anyone to know he was at the airport.”
“So, it was Enzo?”
“Maybe.”
She screwed up her face. “He spent two hours in an elevator, and you can’t find any clues it was Ficarra?”
“Hundreds of people go through the elevator every day.”
She sighed.
“But he did leave us something,” Morris said. “A hubcap. From his car.”
Jess said nothing.
“Soil samples showed two possible areas.” Morris sighed. “Big areas, unfortunately. And neither are anywhere close to where Ficarra lives.”
“Which is?”
“Off limits to you. And I mean it. We need to be squeaky clean when we arrest him.” He paused. “And I don’t want him to notice you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Near here?”
“Might be.”
“Might be, what?”
“I meant he might be around Rome, or he might not.”
“Boy. You’re really making progress.”
Morris scowled. “Thank you.”
She looked at the sidewalk. “We just need to get closer to Enzo.”
“You definitely don’t need to get an inch closer to him. In fact, I’d like it if you went back to Denver and put an entire ocean and half a country between you and him.”
“I was speaking figuratively. Besides, I have my double-barreled friend.” She patted her pocket where the Heizer rested comfortably against her side.
“For emergencies.”
“What else would they be?”
“Yeah, well. Keep out of this, and you won’t have an emergency.”
She nodded. “Just tell me if you find something.”
“Like Wilson Grantly?”
“Yeah, like him, or a grave for Enzo Ficarra.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Morris sat at the small desk he had been assigned outside Vanelli’s office in the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale building. He hung up the phone, swept the papers from his desk into the top drawer, and locked it. He found his way through the maze of desks to Vanelli’s office. His door was open. Morris walked straight in.
Vanelli sat behind his desk. Two stone-faced carabinieri Morris recognized from the airport tapes stood on either side.
Vanelli cleared his throat. “We have a problem.”
Morris settled into a chair directly in front of Vanelli’s desk. “What problem?” He resisted the temptation to add, please don’t let it be Jess.
Vanelli held up a sandwich bag by its edges. Morris leaned forward, his eyes drawn to a bloody finger in the center of the plastic. The nail had turned white and the flesh was pale. Patches of skin flapped at the cut end, marble white bone glowed in the center. The whole thing floated in a splash of blood.
His skin crawled. He clenched his jaw before he asked the question to which he suspected he already knew the answer. “Whose is it?”
“DNA will confirm, but,” Vanelli passed over a photocopied piece of paper. “This tells us the owner is Wilson Grantly.”
Morris let out a deep breath. Wilson Grantly’s finger in a plastic bag wasn’t good, but at least it wasn’t Jess’s. “I can get comparison samples from his parents.”
“That isn’t the only issue.” Vanelli nodded to the paper.
Morris read. The note was addressed to him. It was short. “Wilson Grantly for a million euros. Be at your phone at six.” He blew out a long breath. “How the hell does he know my name?” He glowered at Vanelli.
Vanelli raised his eyebrows. “Your reporter friend, perhaps?”
Morris tossed the paper on the desk. “That’s ridiculous.”
Vanelli picked up the paper. “It is addressed to Agent Morris of the FBI.”
Morris clenched his teeth. “We’re all agents.”
“No one here refers to you that way.” Vanelli smiled flatly. “In case that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Some do.”
Vanelli glowered.
Morris took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think, but Jess wouldn’t spread that around. She’s got a vested interest in keeping this quiet.”
“She didn’t seem very happy at the apartment yesterday.”
“She was frustrated with our progress. She thinks we should have Ficarra under surveillance already.”
“I share her frustration, but I’m sure you’re aware how successful any prosecution would be if we didn’t follow procedure.” Vanelli leaned forward. “She’s a reporter. And a celebrity one at that. She’s only interested in her own fame.”
Morris leaned back in his chair. “She risked her life in the U.S., and again here, in the hunt for justice. I won’t even deign to answer that.”
Vanelli frowned. “Whatever that means.”
“It means, no matter what you think, she wouldn’t have revealed my name to Ficarra.”
“Perhaps there are other ways the information could have leaked out.” Vanelli sniffed. “The real problem is the demand.”
“A million euros? For Wilson Grantly?” Morris shook his head and clenched his jaw again. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. And we don’t pay ransom.”
“Neither do we.” Vanelli picked up the plastic bag. “But…”
Morris crossed his arms. “The Grantlys don’t have anything like that amount of money.”
“And your government?”
“It’s not up to me.”
“The note says we have until six o’clock tonight.”
“We should be focusing on finding Ficarra and bringing him in, not paying him off and leaving him out there to do this again.”
“We are. But we have to cover all angles in parallel, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Morris eyed the finger on Vanelli’s desk. “You going to have that analyzed?”
“Naturally.”
“And the surveillance?”
Vanelli nodded. “Approved an hour ago.”
“Good.”
“Um, hmm,” Vanelli hummed. “There is just one small problem.”
Morris cocked his head.
Vanelli’s smile was rueful. “My men can’t find him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jess walked toward her hotel, using her phone for directions. She kept to broad streets, sacrificing speed for safety. She passed under an archway into the Piazza Navona. The square wasn’t as large as she imagined, or perhaps it was the density of outdoor cafés that reduced the space. The café tables were filled, and lines of hungry diners waited patiently.
Tourists ringed street performers who variously juggled, unicycled, and painted their way into the crowd’s hearts, and particularly, their pockets.
She worked her way past the fountains, pausing at the last one to consider if she had ever seen so many statues of naked men in one place before when her phone rang. Her publisher.
“Carter?”
“How’re things, Jess?”
She frowned. “Two calls in two days? I wouldn’t get this much attention from you if I were standing in your office.”
“Now, now. I’m always interested in my star reporter.”
“You mean, you’re interested in when I’ll have publication-ready copy.”
“Oh Jess! Twist the knife, why don’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d felt today. “You’ll get it when it’s ready.”
“Actually,” he drew out the word and his tone became serious, “I’m worried about you. The last time we talked, you left me concerned about your safety. And despite your callous characterization of my motives—all lies, by the way—I still am.”
“Well, I’m still alive, if that’s what you mean.”
“I figured.” He laughed. “The dead generally don’t answer their phones.”
She realized she was staring at a man in the barest of loincloths wrestling a fish, and turned away.
She cleared her throat. “Come on, Carter. What’s on your mind?”
His voice dropped an octave. “You are okay, aren’t you Jess? My offer to get our man in Paris down to you in a few hours stands. Or I can get you a bodyguard.”
“I’m okay.”
“All you have to do is ask.”
“Really, Carter. I have the FBI and the carabinieri here to protect me, and everything is under control.”
He grunted.
Jess waited as long as she could bear for him to speak again. She gave in first. “Is there anything else?”
He took a deep breath. “There is, actually. You remember Osborne?”
“Mr. Happy?”
“Yes. The man for whom the phrase, never have so few complained about so much to so many, was invented.”
Jess laughed. Carter Pierce was good for her spirits, if nothing else. “Please don’t tell me something bad has happened to him.”
“Nothing of the sort. He must have received a better offer. Handed his notice in this morning, packed up, and left. I did consider pointing out that his contract stipulated a month’s notice, but given the circumstances…”
“You’re mean, Carter.”
“I like to think of myself as honest.”
“Then you’re honestly mean.”
He laughed and she joined in. “But you should be here. People are smiling. Laughing. They have a spring in their step.”
“Mean, mean, mean.”
“Perhaps a tiny little bit. On the plus side, stories are being written, articles are being made. Productivity is up.”
“As I said, mean, mean, mean.”
“If I could just get something from my star reporter—”
“When it’s ready, Carter. And not before.”
“Well…I’ll wait if I must.” He sniffed as if he was crying. A joke. They both laughed. “Look after yourself, Jess. And come back in one piece. Soon.”
She said her goodbyes, and terminated the call.
She liked the office. She worked there sometimes. She liked the people. Mostly. Now that Osborne was gone, she’d like it a lot more. But office life wasn’t for her. She needed to be out, doing something. Keeping herself busy helped her to cope with Peter.
She returned her phone to her pocket and kept moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At six o’clock, Morris sat facing Vanelli at his desk, a phone between them. Coiled wires snaked out of the phone to two headsets, one beside each of them. Large foam pads covered the earpieces and microphones.
On the other end of the desk, Luca Russo, a fresh-faced college-aged guy, studied a computer screen, a stack of blinking lights and electronics next to him.
Two of Vanelli’s men leaned against the back wall of the room, holsters bulging under their suits.
A woman who had introduced herself as a wellness and stress counselor relaxed in the only soft chair in the office. After Vanelli had told everyone that this was Morris’s show, she had asked him one question.
“Have you done this before?”
Morris nodded. “Twice.”
“And?”
“One saved.”
“And one lost?”
There was a long silence before she looked at Vanelli. “You two do have something in common then.”
Vanelli looked at Morris, and shrugged.
The wellness and stress counselor leaned back in her chair. “Fifty-fifty. Better than most in these situations.”
Morris took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The Italians had a weird way of dealing with stress.
The phone rang. He placed his watch on the desk in front of him. The men leaning on the rear wall turned to the computer screen. The college-aged guy started tapping keys.
Vanelli donned his headset. Morris did the same. He took a deep breath, and pressed the answer button. He listened for a moment. A high frequency buzz faded in and out in a regular rhythm. A deeper rumble persisted, stopping momentarily every few seconds.
Morris cleared his throat. “Morris.”
A mechanical, synthesized voice crackled in his ear. “Is the money ready?”
“Who is this?”
“Answer the question.”
“I need to know who I’m talking to.”
“Is the money ready?”
Lines traced their way across a map on the computer screen, ending in a yellow star fifty miles north of Rome. Vanelli nodded, and the men leaning on the rear wall left the room, closing the door silently.
“We need more time,” Morris said.
“No.”
“It’s a lot of money. It can’t be arranged in an instant.”
“You’ve had all day.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s not that easy to send another finger, but I will.”
Morris forced himself to breathe.
“Or maybe you want something bigger?” crackled the mechanical voice.
“Who am I dealing with?”
“Someone not that stupid.”
“We have to know.”
Morris waited. The high frequency buzz filled the line, the bass rumble keeping up its syncopated accompaniment.
The young guy adjusted a dial on the electronics.
Morris checked his watch. Twenty seconds. The maximum period of silence his training had recommended. He breathed out. Relaxing his muscles, calming his voice box. “How do you know my name?”
He heard clicks, and perhaps the slightest sounds of breathing through whatever electronics were distorting the man’s voice.
“How do you know my name?” he repeated.
The silence on the phone continued. He opened his mouth to speak, but the metallic voice grated back at him.
“Left or right?”
Vanelli looked at him.
Morris licked his lips. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“So, you have the money?”
“We still need more time.”
“Then choose, left or right.”
“These things—”
“Left or right!” The voice buzzed and rattled like an angry snake.
Vanelli’s finger hovered over the mute button. Morris nodded.
“He’s going to crack,” Vanelli said.
“Even if we hand over money, there’s no guarantee. And we know nothing about him.”
“You’ve got one last chance.”
Morris took a deep breath, and clicked the phone off mute.
“I need to talk to Wilson Grantly.”
“No.”
“I need to know what we are paying for.”
Heavy breathing hissed and fizzed in his ear.
Morris licked his lips. “If you can give me that, I can take it to my superiors.”
The hissing breaths continued.
Morris pushed his eyebrows together. “They might agree to your demands.”
“Take them what I gave you.”
“Just put Wilson on. I need to talk to him.”
“Piss off.”
“I need—”
“You need the money.”
“I need proof of life.”
A twisted grunt burst from the phone. The metallic voice swore. “Proof of life? Proof of life? Maybe I should send you proof of death.”
