Fatal Error, page 14
“I need—”
The buzzing stopped, and the rumble was gone.
The young guy’s hands raced between buttons and knobs, tweaking adjustments to the electronics.
Morris licked his lips, and spoke into his microphone. “I need proof of—”
The young guy shook his head, and leaned back in his chair. “We lost him.”
The stress counselor let out a deep breath. “Let’s hope that’s a temporary condition.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Morris’s phone rang, waking him five minutes before his alarm clock. He fumbled for the noise, and recognized Vanelli’s number. “Morris here.”
“We have another problem.”
Morris closed his eyes. “You’ve found Wilson Grantly’s body?”
“No.”
Morris opened his eyes, and exhaled. “No news is good news.”
Vanelli said, “My men were unable to locate Ficarra or the phone.”
“Your men? You waited for them to drive out of Rome to—”
“Please, Agent Morris, credit us with some intelligence. My men informed the local Polizia. They were at the phone’s last known location within minutes.”
“You’re right.” Morris grimaced. “Sorry.”
“We are all feeling the pressure, signore.”
“Yes.” Morris took a deep breath. “Any surveillance cameras near the location?”
“It’s a small provincial village. Popular with tourists. But no cameras.”
“So, Wilson could be anywhere.”
“Assuming he’s still alive.”
Morris bit his lip.
“But, that’s not the problem,” Vanelli said. “American news networks are reporting a shooting.”
Morris frowned. “What shooting?”
“Luigi Ficarra.”
“Damn.”
“As you say. It confounds our investigation, and raises the stakes.”
Morris pressed the palm of his hand on his forehead. “I don’t know how…I mean, it certainly didn’t come from the FBI.”
“Your Miss Kimball is press.”
“I told you before, she wouldn’t release anything.”
“Perhaps, but I’m sure she knows plenty of people who are.”
“What news networks? How many? We kept it under wraps this long, we might be able to quash the story.”
Vanelli sighed. “It’s out there, on the Internet. Even the BBC has it.”
“So, Enzo knows.”
“Possibly.”
“Certainly.” Morris swallowed. “We have to find Wilson Grantly.”
“Trust me, I am trying. In the meantime, I’ll leave Miss Kimball to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jess woke facing the heavy drapes across the French doors to her balcony. Light crept around the folds in the fabric. She pulled the duvet tighter. The temptation to order room service was strong. It took five minutes for her to decide that abandoning her 600-thread-count cocoon for breakfast on fine white china and silver cutlery was a fair exchange.
Minutes later she stood in the shower, hot water playing over her shoulders and the heady scent of a giant cube of lavender Marseille soap tingling in her nose.
The towels were thick, the corners embroidered with the hotel’s logo. She dried off, and sat at an antique dressing table. Morning light poured in through sheer curtains, making patterns that danced across the room. She fixed her hair, touched on light make up, and pulled on jeans and a silk top. All she needed now was breakfast.
She opened the door from her room. Her phone rang. It lay on the nightstand, forgotten as she basked in luxury. One day, it would be a call about Peter. Or Peter himself. Her skin tingled. It was a call she prayed for and longed for. What better day for news?
She reached the phone on its fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Morris. You seen the paper?”
Her shoulders sagged. “No. Just going to breakfast.”
“Don’t.”
“Why? You caught Enzo?”
He snorted. “No. Vanelli can’t even find him.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I wish. But that wasn’t why I called. You’re in the news.”
“Me?”
“That’s what I said.”
She grimaced. “Sorry.”
There was a moment’s silence. “No problem. But someone blew it. Put your name out there.”
“Someone? About what?”
“Luigi Ficarra.”
She sucked air through her teeth. “Foto Oggi?”
“No. U.S. media.”
She scowled. “It won’t have come from my magazine.”
“You’re sure about that?” Morris’s disbelief fairly oozed through the phone.
Her expression hardened. “Really.”
“It came from someone.”
Jess put her hand to her forehead. “Osborne.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Happy. My publisher just told me Osborne quit. No proof, but he was always one to spoil the party.”
Morris sighed. “Either way, you’re in the news. Visible.” He cleared his throat and rustled a newspaper. “Reporter shoots suspected blackmailer.”
She sighed. “Which newspaper?”
“A bunch.”
“Does it mention he took cyanide?”
“No.”
She sighed. “So, everyone is going to think I killed him.”
“It does say blackmailer.”
“Suspected.”
Morris blew out a long breath.
She swallowed. “What page?”
“Three.”
“He committed suicide in the end.”
“They don’t mention that.”
“It makes me look like a killer.”
“No matter what it makes you look like, he was Enzo’s brother.”
“He might not read page three in the U.S. newspapers.”
“Jess, it’s out there. Online. Searchable.”
She coughed.
“Besides, his brother didn’t turn up. Enzo’s going to be searching for him.”
“Is that why you can’t find Enzo?”
“I talked to him.” Morris took a deep breath. “He’s demanding money for Wilson.”
“Do you know it’s him? Do you have proof?”
“Don’t get interested. You’re leaving.”
“Wilson’s alive, right?”
Morris sucked air through his teeth. “Hard to say.”
“How did he make contact?”
“None of your business. I only told you so you get the point. Enzo might have disappeared, but he’s demanding money for Wilson. He’s going to be looking for his brother.”
“And I’ve been named.”
“Exactly. So get packing. Stay in your room, and I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“What?”
“Your time in Italy is over, Jess. You’re leaving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jess stuffed the last of her clothes into a suitcase she’d bought from the hotel gift shop, and rearranged the contents twice before the case would lock. She looked over the cabinets, checked the bathroom counter, and gave the closet a once-over before wheeling her case to the door.
Sunlight speared through the windows, casting patterns on the carpet. The honeyed wood of the antique furniture glowed, and the balcony begged her to sit and stay a while.
She sighed. Damn Enzo Ficarra.
Her watch read eleven o’clock. Four hours before her hastily arranged flight took off. She opened the door, dragged her case into the hall, and cursed Enzo Ficarra one more time.
The elevator dinged. She grabbed her suitcase, and ran. A hand jutted out, holding open the doors. She slowed her pace. Fingers curled around the door, gripping it tight.
Her heart thumped against her ribs. Stay in your room, Morris had said. It seemed melodramatic, but now?
She pushed her hand in her pocket, and gripped the Heizer. The elevator door buzzed. She took a deep breath. She was being stupid. It could be anyone. A stranger trying to help. An ordinary, everyday pleasantry. She approached the elevator doors.
“Down?” said a man’s voice.
She took a breath. “Yes.”
A face appeared around the door. A face with lines and wrinkles. Salt and pepper hair. Spectacles. Tanned skin. Kind blue eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief. Not Enzo Ficarra.
She stepped into the elevator.
He held his hand over the buttons. “Lobby?”
She smiled. “Please.”
The doors whirred closed, and the elevator descended.
The man grinned. “Enjoyed your stay?”
“Yeah.”
“Rome,” he said. “Never gets old.”
She nodded.
He winked. “It’s a joke.”
She tried to laugh. “Right. Yes.” She raised her eyebrows. “Very good.”
The elevator bumped to a stop. The doors opened with a ding. The man gestured for her to go first. She headed straight for the concierge desk. The man strolled out through the main entrance.
She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, relaxing her shoulders. She was worrying needlessly. There were a dozen guests in the lobby, half a dozen staff at reception, a cluster around a woman at the concierge desk, and two bellboys at the door.
She was perfectly safe. No one would do anything criminal in front of so many witnesses.
She rolled her head around, stretching the muscles in her neck. She was being ridiculous. Her imagination was working overtime. She was fine. Safety in numbers.
She took an armchair in front of an ornate fireplace. There were no flames, just an arrangement of dried flowers and herbs. She basked in the aroma, and people watched.
A young man at reception placated an unhappy customer with a strong Scottish accent. At the concierge desk, the woman did a brisk trade in pamphlets, drew circles on maps, and gestured directions to a steady stream of customers. The disgruntled Scotsman left the hotel. A couple walked in, arm-in-arm, and disappeared into the elevator.
Jess took a picture of the fireplace, and admired her handiwork on her phone.
“Miss Kimball?”
She spun around. The young man who had been on the receiving end of the Scotsman’s wrath stood behind her chair.
“I’m Santo Mola.” He smiled. “Agent Morris wants me to inform you that he is waiting.”
She looked at the front of the hotel. There were no cars parked on the forecourt.
“He’s at the rear. Quieter, he said.”
She looked the man up and down. He had been behind reception only a few minutes before. He picked up her suitcase. “I can show you the way.”
Jess stood up. “Lead on.”
Mola carried the suitcase with ease even though he looked thin and frail. They worked their way along corridors, through a loading dock, to a door labeled “Car Park.”
Mola opened the door. She glimpsed a black blur, and heard a crunch. Mola crumpled to the floor. Her suitcase tumbled sideways. She stepped back, reaching for her gun.
“Don’t move.”
Enzo Ficarra stood in the doorway, a large gun held in his outstretched hand. She saw the barrel and its rifling in painfully exquisite detail.
He jerked the gun in her direction. “Hands by your sides. Turn around.”
It was the first time she’d heard his voice. She took her hand from her pocket, and turned her back to him. He spoke English with almost no accent. Like a television news anchor.
He ripped her messenger bag off her head, scraping the strap across her ear. She jerked away from the pain. He emptied the bag’s contents on the floor, kicked her phone across the loading dock, and tossed the bag behind some boxes.
He pushed her hands behind her. She heard the buzz of a zip-tie, and felt its unforgiving nylon bind her wrists. He rammed a ball of cloth in her mouth, and wrapped tape across her face, fixing it in place. She gagged, and pushed at the cloth with her tongue.
He kept his gun on her as he pinned a note to the doorframe with a knife.
He checked the car park before jamming the gun in her back. “Out. Ford. On the right.” He shoved her through the doorway with the barrel of the gun.
She stepped over Mola, and exited the rear of the building. The Ford was close. The engine was running. The trunk was open.
Enzo dug the gun in her back. “Get inside.”
She climbed in. He pushed her head down, and slammed the trunk. She blinked. Slivers of light crept in around the corners of the lid.
She heard the driver’s door open and close. Enzo raced out of the car park.
Acceleration rolled her backwards, jamming her face against a piece of metal. He braked hard, and she slid into the back of the rear seats. Her bound hands burning on the carpet.
She levered herself around using her forehead to lift her from the trunk’s surface until she had her feet braced in one wheel arch and, her shoulder in the other. The force of the car’s acceleration and braking strained at her abdomen, but it was worth it to stop the carpet scraping on her arms.
She twisted her hips and rotated her shoulders, easing her hands toward her pocket, and the two-shot Heizer. Her weight rested on her wrists. She clenched her teeth, and shuffled more weight onto her shoulders.
Her fingertips brushed the edge of her pocket. She fumbled the fabric between her fingers, pulling it closer. The car turned a corner, stealing it from her grasp. She took a deep breath and arched her back hard, reaching her pocket. She felt the geometry of the Heizer’s patterned metal surface. She teased it closer to her palm, wrapping her fingertips around the grip. She stretched the fingers of her left hand, freeing the gun from the fabric, and pulled it into the palm of her right hand.
She breathed out, emptying her lungs and relaxing her muscles before breathing in again, and pulling the gun from her pocket.
She unwound the twist in her hips and shoulders, and stretched her back. Her joints clicked.
She squeezed the Heizer and checked that the safety was on.
She didn’t have a plan, but she was armed, and would have the element of surprise. She hoped that would be enough to get free. After that, she’d run.
She rotated her feet toward the rear of the car, and rolled on her side. She couldn’t see the gun behind her back, but she felt sure she could point it straight at anyone who released the trunk. She squeezed the gun.
If she missed, she would only have one more shot to adjust her aim. She shoved that thought to the back of her mind.
Her heart hammered in her chest. What if he had an accomplice? What if she needed more than one shot? She breathed in and out. Something was better than nothing. She had to use her advantage while she had it.
She rolled her head back, stretching her muscles. Whatever happened, she’d bring Enzo Ficarra to justice one way or another.
She settled down, listening to the rhythm of the car’s engine and brakes, the creak of the suspension, the rumble of passing trucks. The traffic thinned out. Stop and start gave way to long periods of constant speed and sweeping turns. They were out of the city.
After what she guessed to be an hour, Enzo changed down through the gears. The car slowed before bumping onto what felt like the hard shoulder. Jess rolled her shoulders and redoubled her grip on the tiny gun. Her fingers rested on the safety.
The engine stopped. She took a deep breath. The silence was shocking. No cars, nothing to echo from walls, no hubbub of life. They must have been in the middle of nowhere.
Her heartbeat picked up speed.
The car door opened. She felt the car rock as he got out. She rolled on her side, angled the gun upwards, and flipped the safety.
This was it. Showtime.
He walked around the car, his shoes crunching on leaves and branches. She held her mouth half open to silence the sound of her hard breathing. She rubbed her finger against the trigger, teasing it, feeling the weight of its pull. He walked alongside the car. She jolted as he rapped on the trunk.
She panted, and adjusted her grip. First shot, center mass. She had to be quick. The daylight would be blinding, but his silhouette would be clear. As soon as he opened the trunk. No delay. No thinking. No chance for him to see what was happening.
The sound of his steps on the undergrowth receded. She angled her head, triangulating his direction. He was walking toward the front of the car.
She swallowed. He wasn’t opening the trunk? She sweated. He was going to leave her. She rubbed her brow on the carpet. Was he going to dispose of the vehicle with her in it? A bomb, a cliff, or, maybe a fire?
Her breathing raced beyond control. The darkness pressed in on her. The cooling engine ticked through the car’s steel. Gusts of wind hissed through cracks and gaps. Birds called, long and pitiful.
Her heart banged against her ribs. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. She sniffed the air, dreading the scent of gas.
She had to find a way out. If he set fire to the car, he might stay and watch, but she would have to escape the trunk to have any hope of surviving. Even if all she could do was run, it was a chance.
She twisted her hands, wiping them, one at a time, on her sleeves as best the zip-tie would allow without letting go of the gun.
She hefted its diminutive weight. It took a 9mm round, but would it have enough power to break open the latch on the trunk? She adjusted her grip on the gun. If the first shot didn’t open it, she would have no choice but to fire the second. Her element of surprise would be gone. Enzo would return and could easily put rounds through the car’s thin skin. She breathed. Two shots? Would the latch survive two shots?
Would she?
She twisted her head. Was the latch in the center of the trunk, or to one side? It was too dark to see. She swallowed. She hadn’t noticed as he pushed her in.
She licked around her mouth. Where the hell was he? What the hell was he doing? And worse, what was he going to do?
She forced her lungs to slow their sprint. Her arms ached from pointing the gun. Her spine felt locked in its arched position. She stretched her toes, and flexed her legs. She had to focus. She had to choose. Burst out, or wait for him to appear? If she could only free her hands, she would stand a fighting chance.
