by Karen Dodd
“You think Ariana was the target?” Nico asked, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk. It had happened mere minutes before he was to walk across the street to meet her for coffee. Could it have been connected to the case he’d just lost? Thinking of the individuals who could have been behind the bombing, he pushed the thought away.
Pezzente sipped his coffee. “You tell me.” He put the spoon down and looked directly at Nico. “I understand Miss Calleja kept an apartment here. And that you were a frequent visitor. You would have known her schedule and what she was working on, correct?”
“What, exactly, are you suggesting? That I was somehow involved?” Though he kept a poker face, Nico’s hackles went up. What exactly was this man insinuating? If the case hadn’t been related to terrorism—domestic or foreign—it would be Nico’s job as prosecutor to direct the investigation. By Italian law, both the police and investigators would be under his authority. This smug son of a bitch was enjoying the tables being turned.
“No, of course not,” Pezzente assured him. “But we have CCTV footage of everyone who entered and left her building, and we know you were there the night before the explosion. It would be easier for you to get ahead of this and tell me your version.”
Rather than the version you might make up, thought Nico.
Pezzente’s current boss, the new prime minister, had promised to clean up the rampant corruption after his predecessor had eluded two prison terms stemming from fourteen charges of graft and money laundering. Nico had successfully prosecuted all the cases, but still the PM did no time behind bars. After they ousted him from office, the citizens of Italy heaved a collective sigh of relief. The trouble was many of the officials tasked with carrying out the new anticorruption initiatives had themselves benefited from the country’s laissez-faire attitude toward white-collar crime. It was widely known department heads routinely awarded contracts to their friends or issued checks for bogus transactions. Nico looked at Pezzente’s shiny watch again. Was Pezzente one of these beneficiaries? On one hand, staying on the good side of the investigator might help Nico find out who was responsible for the bombing that killed Ariana. On the other, depending on what Ariana had been working on, confiding in him could undermine whatever evidence she had amassed. Not to mention that he could be putting her child in danger. Their child.
What Ariana had told Nico the previous night, had hit a nerve so deep that he’d felt something he promised her he never could—hatred. Now it was too late. If he’d done the right thing and stayed instead of storming out of the apartment that night, she wouldn’t have been at the café the next morning, no doubt hoping to smooth things over. No matter the outcome, he might have known where his son was. Instead, here he was discussing her death with the PM’s personal lackey.
With those thoughts, along with the overwhelming guilt that threatened to smother him, Nico debated how much he should tell Pezzente about his relationship with Ariana. One that was now much more complicated.
* * *
Nico waited until Roberto Pezzente had closed the main door behind him before he returned to his own office. He’d done his best to hold it together while he answered Pezzente’s questions. But by the time he finally left, Nico just wanted to go home and collapse. In his small private bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. As he reached for a towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning and his eyes looked as if he’d been on a bender the night before. All he could think about was that Ariana was gone and somewhere a little boy—his son—was without his mother.
He was packing up his computer and casework to take home when he heard a light rap at the door.
“Nico, I’m sorry to bother you,” Gina said, peaking around the door. She looked at him with red eyes.
Over the years she’d worked for Nico, she’d got to know Ariana well. While there was a difference in the two women’s ages, they’d become friends outside of work and Gina had been devastated by her death. “But there’s a woman on the telephone and she sounds frantic. Says it’s about Ariana Calleja.”
Nico groaned. He downed two aspirin with a gulp of cold coffee, suspecting any hopes of getting out of the office early—maybe even getting some sleep—were dashed. Trying to sleep would be futile, anyway. Whenever he closed his eyes, his mind could think only of Ariana and how he’d left things the night before she’d died.
“Have you reported this to the authorities?” Nico asked after he picked up the phone and listened to the woman’s rapid-fire introduction and ensuing story.
“I can’t. That’s why I’m calling you.”
Nico ran a hand over his stubble. “Miss Bruno, I’m a prosecutor.” And not a very good one, he thought as he glanced at the furled-up newspaper that still lay on the floor. “Because of the strong possibility of terrorism, I am not involved in the investigation into the bombing. I can refer you to—”
“Call me Francesca. Ariana said if something happened to her, I was to call you. Please.” Her voice rose an octave. “I know she told you about Max.”
Nico shook his head and blinked several times. He had been without sleep too long, but he was instantly on edge. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There was a long pause. When she replied, her voice had a ragged, almost hysterical edge. “Max lived with me at Ariana’s weekend home.”
His patience was down to a thin edge. “Miss Bruno, I don’t know who you are or who you think you’re speaking to, but I can assure you, I am the last person you want to be messing with right now.”
“No, please, you don’t understand. Please listen to me! Google my name. I’ve known Ariana since boarding school. I was her part-time researcher.”
“And what would that prove? Anyone could get that information. I’m assuming I can’t call you back on the mobile phone you’re using? Do yourself a favor, Miss Bruno—if that’s even your real name—and don’t call me again, or I will call the police.”
He was about to slam the handset back into its cradle when the woman cried out.
“Mr. Moretti, wait! Please don’t hang up. Ariana told me she’d sent Max away. Her office is about to make a big announcement, and she wanted him somewhere safe. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
Now she had his attention. Ariana had told him the death threats had escalated, but she said nothing about an announcement. “Do you know what that is? The announcement, I mean.”
“No. She just said that when it came out on Wednesday, everyone in Malta would know who was behind the government corruption. She was going to name names.”
But today was Wednesday, and Nico had seen nothing on the news, which he had constantly running on mute in his office. Apparently, neither had Francesca.
“Mr. Moretti, Ariana recently sent envelopes containing her investigative notes to three senior journalists who are members of Journalists for Justice. I can tell you the names of those individuals and their private mobile numbers. Please—” Her voice broke. “Someone has threatened me, I have no idea where Max is, and I don’t know who else to call.”
* * *
As she had promised, Francesca Bruno knew everything there was to know about the three journalists to whom Ariana had sent copies of her investigative notes. They were to be her “insurance policy,” she’d told Francesca. If Nico had known about Ariana’s plans, he would have tried to talk some sense into her. Like, what would possess Malta’s top prosecutor to share her investigative notes with the goddamned paparazzi?
Turning his attention back to his computer screen Nico scrolled through each of the journalists’ online profiles. Shit! The first two were Ervio De Rosa and Vincenzo Testa. When not ridiculing Nico for having lost his edge, De Rosa’s work focused on money laundering in the banking system. Testa, who was known for his brash but expertly researched exposés of the European pharmaceutical industry, was pursuing an ongoing investigation in the UK.
The last journalist Ariana had includ
ed in her inner circle was a woman. Elle Sinclair’s online profile showed she had once been a well-regarded investigative reporter with the BBC. Now, she was a freelancer. He clicked on several of the images associated with her name. Tall and slim with an angular, square face and straight blonde hair that grazed her shoulders, Sinclair’s glacial blue eyes suggested she was not a woman to be trifled with.
Nico put his head in his hands and rubbed the grit from his eyes. His first priority was to get some sleep. As worried as Francesca Bruno was, they both agreed there was nothing more they could do tonight. While he’d admonished her to report the threatening note to Maltese authorities, he understood her fear in doing so. Someone must have assumed Francesca knew sensitive information—perhaps what Ariana was about to announce. But why would they have used Journalists for Justice stationery?
He stuck his head out of his office. “Gina, I need you to book me on the first flight to Malta tomorrow. Use the influence of our office if you have to, but charge it to my personal credit card.”
She looked confused but nodded.
In the morning, on the way to the airport, he would try to find out more about Francesca Bruno. Next, he’d have Gina track down the three journalists that for some reason, Ariana had trusted with her work. Why she would go outside the prosecutor’s office with such sensitive information, he couldn’t fathom. From what Francesca had told him, it appeared she was on the brink of something big. Had she “named names” in the documents she’d sent to the investigative reporters? Would Ariana have told him the details the night before she died, if he hadn’t shoved her out of his way and stormed from her apartment?
More critically, would she have told him where she’d sent their son?
Chapter Six
May 9
The next day, Nico awoke early, his thoughts and emotions weighing on him like a thick fog. All his thoughts, whether sleeping or awake, were of Ariana. Besides the overwhelming grief, the sense of guilt over their last conversation threatened to suffocate him.
Gina had got him on the first morning flight to Malta and booked him into a bed-and-breakfast in Valletta near where Ariana’s office and apartment were situated. He needed to meet Francesca Bruno in person. Although she seemed credible on the phone, he wanted to read her for himself. So, after passing his court docket to his assistant prosecutor, he left a message for Gina to track down reporters De Rosa and Testa. He shoved some paperwork into his leather satchel and let himself out of the office, descending the stairs to the deserted street below.
The sun was trying its best to break through the gloomy predawn sky, but he could smell the impending rain. Just what investigators needed to further assault the already desolate sight of the bombed-out square. At least he wouldn’t have to look at the grim reminder for the next few days.
Nico arrived at Lamezia Terme Airport in plenty of time for his flight. After getting through security and a brief wait in the departure lounge, he buckled in for the five-hour journey, first to Sicily, then on to Malta. He sipped his espresso and picked at the airline meal. After the flight attendants had collected the meal trays and his fellow passengers prepared to sleep or watch an in-flight movie, Nico opened the Times of Malta.
His breath caught in his chest as Ariana’s almost black, almond-shaped eyes stared back at him from page two. He studied her face: the clear olive skin and what one would call an Italian nose, long and aquiline. Her smile was warm, open. Unguarded. Did their son look like her? Or more like him?
The headshot looked like it had been taken some time ago. In the article, Ariana was described as “the daughter of an Italian socialite mother and a Maltese businessman.”
Nico thought back to when he’d first met her at law school. She’d been so passionate when she’d told him of her intention to be the kind of lawyer who exposed the criminals who were ruining her beautiful country and bring them to justice. An interesting choice for a child who came from such privilege. But true to her word, she left her comfortable family home in Malta to attend law school in Milan. Her mother had already started planning her daughter’s coming-out parties, but Ariana argued that she needed to get away from everyday distractions to focus on her postgraduate degree.
Nico had other reasons for wanting to get as far away from his childhood home as possible. Geographically, Milan was twelve hundred kilometers from where he grew up near the tip of the boot of Italy. And for him, it was like being transported to another world. He’d finally broken away from his father’s business, and like a bird whose wings had been clipped, in the vast fashion and financial city he learned to fly again. But he never forgot his Calabrian roots. Back home, the pervasive but seldom talked about Mafia presence was always there beneath the surface of normal everyday life. Despite his parents’ fear of judges and prosecutors having become targets, he knew he had to at least try to make a difference. The passion he and Ariana shared for exposing and punishing corruption in their respective countries had been the basis of their first date.
After graduating with honors, the Pubblico Ministero’s Office recruited Nico, and he became their most valuable specialist in organized crime, and still was. Well, prior to his public humiliation by De Rosa and Testa, anyway. Ariana, too, had carved out a name for herself as a take-no-prisoners litigator who was on a fast track to becoming a magistrate. Her meteoric rise, one that put her on the minds of nearly half a million Maltese citizens, came after an exhaustive investigation that she and Nico had collaborated on. A kingpin in the widely feared ’Ndrangheta was purported to have run his vast organization from an underground bunker that served as his home for several years. When he was found to be the brains behind a complex operation that involved Malta, Ariana had successfully prosecuted the case. The rub? He didn’t do one day of jail time—not in either country. However, Lady Justice meted her decision in a different way, when a rival clan killed him in a car bombing. But it was like cutting off the head of the snake of a terrorist cell; there were plenty more to take his place.
While Ariana and Nico kept in touch over the years, they had moved on to just being friends. The romance fizzled after they’d both graduated, and particularly when Ariana had to return to Malta after the tragic death of both her parents. When she returned to Milan to pack up her things, she was noticeably different. While Nico tried to be supportive, she was distant and refused to discuss her parents’ deaths. He had hoped that as she dealt with her grief, they would pick up their relationship where they left off. At one point, he’d even hinted at marriage, but Ariana didn’t see it the same way.
“I’m already married,” she’d replied. “To my job. I have no time for a full-time relationship.”
And yet, she had a child. Although Malta is the only country in Europe to forbid abortion, she could have had it done elsewhere or given him up for adoption. But she didn’t.
Ariana had been notoriously private about her life outside of work, but she always made time to get together whenever she was in Italy. Respecting her preference for staying out of the public eye when she was in Tropea, Nico often went to her apartment for home-cooked meals, as he had the night before she died. On those occasions, they spent many a late night drinking too much wine and debating if they’d ever see their respective countries released from the grip of criminal syndicates.
It was during one of those evenings that Nico broached the subject of Ariana’s personal life. The only concession to having a life outside of being a prosecutor was her purchase of a summer home on the tiny island of Gozo, a twenty-five-minute ferry ride from the mainland of Malta. He knew she’d purchased the property under an assumed name. He found it ironic that she’d used Malta’s laissez-faire rules about property purchases to her own advantage. After receiving multiple death threats, she commuted from Valletta to Gozo every weekend and often spent the long hot summer months on the historic island. With its Neolithic Ġgantija temple ruins, rural hiking paths, beaches and scuba-diving sites, Nico thought Gozo sounded like paradise. But she nev
er invited him to visit. He’d put it down to her strict sense of privacy, but now he knew the real reason. But she’d let Francesca Bruno into her confidence, as well as whoever she’d entrusted with taking Max somewhere safe. And yet, not the boy’s own father?
* * *
It was mid-afternoon by the time Nico’s taxi pulled up to Great Siege Square in front of Valletta’s Law Courts. It was with some shock that the first thing Nico observed was a shrine to Maltese journalist Daphne Caruana Galizia. The investigative journalist and native of Malta had been assassinated in a car bombing on October 16, 2017. Another fearless woman crusader who had been one of Ariana’s role models. Perhaps, Nico thought, she had been the reason Ariana had taken the three journalists into her confidence. Two years later, Galizia’s family was still seeking justice for her murder.
His chest tightened as the grief rolled over him again in waves. It hadn’t occurred to him, as he looked out his office window the day after the bombing, that there would be no closure. No place to visit her grave and lay flowers. To talk to her and tell her how much he loved her. In fact, he thought, there were no remains of Ariana to repatriate to her native country or with which to honor her in Tropea.
Francesca had said she’d meet him at his hotel. Unable to take him farther in the pedestrian-only zone, his driver had circled the location on a city map and pointed him in the general direction of his accommodation. Once he’d gathered his bearings, Nico ambled down Strait Street, the town’s principal thoroughfare, and turned at Saint Lucia, the side street marked on the map. Two blocks down, he saw the green canopy of the inn’s entrance.
A woman greeted Nico warmly as he entered the cozy foyer. It turned out she owned the four-hundred-year-old establishment, and was all too happy to show Nico up to his room personally. As this trip wasn’t on Tropea’s taxpayers’ dime, he appreciated the inexpensive cost of the small but well-appointed room. A tiny Juliet balcony with French doors overlooked a verdant garden. With a modest bathroom and a small desk-cum-makeup table, he had all the amenities he required for what he hoped would be a brief stay.
