Fatal Error, page 4
She threw off the duvet, pried herself from Morpheus’s grip, and staggered into the bathroom, turning the shower to maximum. The water was hot in an instant. She stepped into the water, letting the heat erase the last vestiges of her travels.
She’d made a deal with Morris. Partial inclusion, partial exclusion. A two-way proposition. A trade of restrictions for options, and she wasn’t going to waste any time. But first, she breathed in the shower’s steam, she had to eat and rearrange her plans.
The thought of breakfast pushed her out of the shower, and into the few clothes she’d bought hastily at the JFK airport. A discrete sign on the dressing table advertised the menu for the hotel’s terrace on the second floor. She was in the elevator in minutes.
The terrace didn’t disappoint. A forty-foot expanse of rustic flagstones edged with a low stone wall and hedge. The terrace was filled with small round tables and large leather chairs. White tablecloths swayed in the breeze, pinned down by silver bowls of flowers. A handful of guests were crowded at one end of the terrace. She took a table at the opposite end.
A waiter arrived, his crystal white shirt and golden tan straight from the cover of GQ. She skipped the cooked food, and ordered coffee and pastries. She grinned. Apart from anything else, a light breakfast opened up the possibility of mid-morning coffee.
She admired the view. The hotel towered above her, its ornate façade a mix of pillars, arches, and wrought-iron balconies. Old, small paned windows reflected the deep blue of the sky above.
The terrace looked out over a square below. The buildings around the edge matched her hotel for age and stone. In the middle, a fountain sprayed water in a pond. The pond formed the center of a roundabout, busy with tiny cars and mopeds that seemed to take traffic patterns as a suggestion, not a rule.
The sidewalks were filled with walkers. The variety of Italian life was staggering. The colors, the faces, the pace. Businessmen strolled casually past spiky-haired punks. Girls in high heels threaded between cars, their pace undiminished by the traffic jams that appeared and cleared as if for public entertainment. Cafés marked their territory with brightly colored awnings loosely covering tables and chairs that were strewn across the sidewalks. People converged for arm-waving conversations, and drank coffee with patterns in the froth, the tap-tap of china on china marking their progress.
Jess pressed her lips together. Progress. She needed progress, but she had practically nothing to go on. Morris had the videos from the airport. They were, by far, the best potential leads they had. If they could locate Enzo, they could trace him to his car, and from there the location of Wilson Grantly. It sounded easy, but real life was a long way from cop shows on television. She texted Morris that she would meet him at the carabinieri headquarters. A moment later, he replied with a K. Jess snorted a laugh. Not even an OK? Morris wasn’t one to waste words.
Her waiter returned with her coffee and a plate with several fruit and cream-filled pastries. She took a bite of a cornetto, and licked the confection from her lips. The strawberries had been soaked in something faintly alcoholic. Flakes of crust floated down to her plate. She rotated the pastry, catching the cream that oozed out.
A chorus of car horns from the square drew her attention, but she returned to finish the crumbly sticky bliss in her hand first. She wiped her fingers on a napkin that felt softer than the bed sheets in her apartment, and leaned back. She could get used to this.
Her waiter swept by, scooping up her plate without a word. She nursed the last of her cappuccino, and snapped pictures of the square with her phone. The images from the day before appeared in the viewer. She bit her lip. She had sent them to Vanelli, but had forgotten to send them to Morris. She collected them together, and sent them off.
She flipped through a stack of brochures on a stand by her table. There was no shortage of sights that begged for attention; vineyards on heartbreakingly beautiful hillsides, farmhouses nestled in olive gardens, and buildings and ruins that stretched back beyond the Romans. She flipped over pictures of the Pantheon, the Colosseum, St. Peter’s, and the Vatican. There was the Forum, the Galleria Borghese, the Capitoline, Piazza Navona, plazas, and basilicas galore.
“Ti piace,” said a voice.
She looked up. Her waiter held out a new cappuccino, chocolate powder melting into the foam. His crisp white shirt fitted tight to his torso and his bulging biceps. He gestured to the cup. “You like?”
She took a breath. “Please.” She cleared a space among the brochures.
He put down the steaming cup, and tapped a picture. “Deciding where to go?” His English was far better than her Italian.
“Just looking,” she said.
“You Catholic?”
She shook her head.
“Then skip the Vatican. Do the Colosseum first.”
She picked up the brochure.
“Not your thing?”
“No, no. It’s good. Really. Just that I’m here on business.”
He grimaced. “Sorry to hear it.”
“There are worse places to have to work. The history is fascinating.”
He nodded. “Well, that’s pretty much all there is here.” He shrugged. “You know. Old things.”
She gave him a look of mock indignation.
His eyes went wide. “No, no, no. I wasn’t…I didn’t—”
She laughed. “I’m joking.”
He let out a long sigh, and combed back his blonde curls. “Sorry. The hotel doesn’t like it if we don’t keep the guests happy.”
She picked up her cappuccino. “Just keep the coffee coming.”
“Right.” He smiled.
He pointed to the Colosseum brochure. “It’s not that far.”
She shrugged. “I have to work.”
“What do you do?”
“Er…”
He eased back a half step. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy.”
She shrugged. “I work for a magazine.”
His eyebrows inched upwards. “Which one?”
“Better if I don’t say.”
He frowned and shifted his weight between his feet. “American?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Interesting.”
She sipped her coffee. “I need a taxi.”
“Where to?”
“Er…”
He shrugged. “I can order a taxi, but they have to know where you’re going.”
She studied his square jaw and bright blue eyes. Italian families could be large, but what were the chances he was somehow connected to the Ficarras? She was being paranoid. “The carabinieri headquarters.”
His eyes widened. “Ah.”
She rolled her eyes. “I work for a magazine, don’t forget.”
“Well…you can take a taxi. Three kilometers. Fifteen Euros.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
He shifted his weight. “Or…”
She frowned. “Or what?”
He took a deep breath. “I, er…I live that way. I could…I have a bike. I could drop you off.”
Jess looked him up and down. He was tall and tan. The idea of darting through the streets of Rome on a moped appealed. Doing it with a bona fide Italian doubly so.
She smiled. “If it’s no trouble—”
“No trouble. I finish in thirty minutes. Meet you in the car park.” He left without waiting for a reply.
Jess finished her coffee, went back to her room to collect her bag, and reached the car park five minutes early.
Calling it a car park was ambitious. A couple of cars stood in one corner, but bikes occupied the majority of the space. There were mopeds in a jarring array of colors, dirt bikes that lived up to their name, and a selection of big powerful machines. The bikes clumped together by type as if some social order was in play.
She toyed with her phone, browsing the images from the airport. Most were blurred, but a few were pin sharp. She lingered over one with the mystery man’s head turned toward her. A three-quarter shot. He was behind the car’s window and reflections masked one side of his face. “Who are you?” she muttered.
“Romeo Pausini,” said a voice.
She spun around. Her waiter stood behind her, two full-face helmets in his hands.
She shrugged. “Sorry. Talking to myself.”
He laughed and handed her a helmet.
She bit her lip. “But really? Romeo?”
He frowned. “Yes, really. Why?”
“I, um…” She glanced at his sparkling blue eyes, his broad smile, and his bulging muscles. “No reason.”
“Well, one Shakespearian quote, and I’ll dump you off the back of the bike.” He winked, and gestured to the helmet.
She put it on, pulling the strap tight, grateful to hide her blushing face behind its Plexiglas.
He donned his helmet, and spoke. She saw his mouth moving, and heard muffled sounds. She put a cupped hand to the side of her head. He moved her hand, and pressed a button on the side of her helmet. She heard a buzzing, and a female voice said, “Connected.”
Romeo’s voice reverberated in her ears. “Bluetooth.”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “Didn’t used to wear them, but now it’s law. So…”
She smiled. “Right!”
He winced, and tapped the side of his helmet. “Microphones,” he said. “You can speak normally.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He pointed to a bike, one of the largest in the section biker-protocol reserved for big bikes. Her heart did a flip as her brain raced back over the idea that riding through Rome with him would be exciting. “That’s yours?”
He threw his leg over the bike, and reversed it off the stand. “You don’t like?”
“No, it’s, um, very nice. I, er, imagined something smaller. Much smaller.”
He looked at her. “A moped?”
She nodded.
He laughed. “You’ve got the wrong waiter for one of those.”
“Right.”
“So?” His voice cooed in her ears.
She took a deep breath, and slipped onto the back of the bike. There were two small handholds behind her that made her feel she was leaning back.
“You can hold on if you want,” he said.
“I am.”
“To me.”
“Er…”
“It’s expected. Normal. On a bike.”
She took a deep breath, and leaned forward, easing her arms around his chest, and intertwining her fingers. The engine barked into life. She jolted, squeezing his chest harder.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it easy.”
“Don’t have to. Not on my part.”
He eased the bike out of the tight confines of the parking area, and joined a line of slow traffic moving around the pond in the center of the square. She kept her feet on the footrests, and her arms locked around his chest. A gap opened up on their right. Romeo leaned the bike. There was a roar, and she found herself crushing his chest to hold on. She pushed herself forward, balancing her weight against the acceleration, and relaxing her vise-like grip on his ribs.
On the left, she glimpsed the dome of St. Peter’s between buildings before they raced across a bridge. She checked the speedometer. She did a double take at the speedometer before she realized the indicated hundred was in kilometers per hour. She didn’t know the conversion to miles per hour, but judging by the rate they were passing cars, it must have been the limit inside the city.
He slowed, and took a sharp left. She squeezed him tight as the bike leaned over. The speedo needle raced back up the dial as Romeo righted the bike.
She saw a small card taped in the middle of the handlebars. It flapped in the wind. She saw the word Foto, and a vaguely familiar emblem. She eased one hand from her grip on Romeo, and held the card still.
“Foto Oggi,” he said.
“The magazine?”
“Yeeeah.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Being a waiter isn’t exactly a recipe for wealth. I give them a call from time to time. If we have a big name in the hotel, you know?”
“You’re a tipster?”
“Just…you know, it’s not a big thing. We hardly ever have anyone important.”
“Thanks.”
“I meant, you know, in the papers.”
“Right.”
Romeo weaved left and right to pass a taxi. “You’re not going to tell the hotel, are you?”
She frowned. “Fear not.”
He sighed with relief. “Thanks.”
“Who do you know at Foto Oggi?”
“My landlord. He’s the cover editor. That’s how I started.”
Romeo took a left into a narrow street, a line of bikes down one side. He crept along until he found a gap, parked the bike on its stand, and killed the engine.
Jess recognized the building from the day before, the carabinieri headquarters. She climbed off the back of the bike. “You know him okay?”
Romeo flipped up his face visor. “My landlord? He pays me when I phone in tips.”
She removed her helmet, and fluffed her hair. “You think he’d do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I need to find someone.”
He frowned. “You’ve heard of the Internet, right?”
She brought up the picture from the car park, and held her phone out. “Him.”
Romeo peered at the picture. “You…like him?”
“I just want to find him.”
“You think he works at Foto Oggi?”
“No. I think they’ll have an image recognition database of every photo they’ve ever taken.”
“Um…”
“Trust me, they will. I work for Taboo Magazine. Foto Oggi is at the sensational end of the tabloid pool. It’s their business.”
Romeo frowned. “And Taboo doesn’t have one of those?”
She shook her head. “Only for the U.S.”
“Why would Foto Oggi have this man’s picture? Is he famous?”
Jess hesitated. “I’m not sure. But he could be. He might have attended a film premiere or been in a crowd at a sports event. Lots of possibilities. I want to check.”
Romeo shrugged, and pulled a phone from his pocket.
Jess put her hand on the phone. “In person?”
“Just email him the picture.”
She shook her head. “Rather not.”
Romeo rolled his eyes, and pushed down his visor. “Better get back on.”
She leapt on the bike, rammed the helmet on her head, and tightened the chinstrap as they roared away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On a rich wood pew with the patina of centuries, Enzo Ficarra and his family occupied the front row of his church. His two children sat silently on his left, and his wife, Elena, on his right. His cousin’s family stood around the font for the christening of their baby boy.
The priest’s voice reverberated from ancient stone walls. Behind him, the morning sun illuminated stained glass windows, throwing colorful patterns on the flagstone floor.
Enzo sat bolt upright without touching the back of the pew. His two sons did the same. He eyed them approvingly as the priest finished the service. They remained seated, hands at their sides, and their eyes watching the father as he passed down the aisle. The congregation followed, moving as one as he stepped out of the church door.
Enzo guided his two children from the church. Elena held his arm. They followed the crowd through the centuries-old graveyard surrounding the building to the iron gate that led out to the parking area. They took pictures of the baby, and exchanged handshakes and small talk with friends and family.
His grandfather admonished Enzo for Luigi’s absence. Enzo made excuses. The pressure of work. Business abroad.
The old man grunted, clearly not convinced. He made a fuss of his great-grandchildren, producing two chocolate bars with a sleight of hand trick that Enzo remembered from when he was a child.
But he wasn’t a child, and he had business to attend to.
The crowd thinned. The newly christened boy was strapped into a car seat, and the family drove away. Enzo ushered his own children to his BMW. Elena took the passenger seat beside him, shaking her hair out of its bun as he drove.
The roads wound by. Mostly narrow. Mostly edged by thick hedges. They climbed a few hundred feet to the broad hilltop of their villa. The electric gate opened as they approached, and the car’s tires crunched on the gravel.
He parked in the garage. The kids were out and running to the house before he had turned off the engine.
He leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek.
Elena smiled. “You seem preoccupied this morning?”
He nuzzled her neck a moment. “Business.”
“Today?”
He smiled. “Sometimes business doesn’t take a day off.”
He unlocked the side door into their villa and the kids raced to their rooms, eager to exchange their formal wear for swim gear and an afternoon in the sun.
He followed his wife up the stairs to their suite. She slipped out of her dress and into a bikini.
He stood, admiring the view.
Elena drew a sheer wrap around her slim waist. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
He frowned.
“If there’s a problem.”
“Business. I promise.”
She squeezed his biceps. “But is there a problem?”
He wrapped his arm around her waist. “No.”
She pouched her lips into a mock pout. “Anything I should worry about?”
“No.”
“Be aware of?”
“Nothing.” He patted her behind. “I have to go away for a few days. But then I’ll be taking some time off. Be around the house more. Spend time with the kids.”
Elena kissed him as if her mind was already somewhere else. “That’ll be nice.”
He tightened his grip on her waist, and kissed her back. “And you.”
She giggled, and slipped out of his arms. “Well, I’ll wait until then.”
He sighed. “I have to leave this afternoon.”
