by Karen Dodd
He thanked her, making a mental note to try them himself when he got back to the mainland. In the meantime, he rehearsed how best to approach Lydia Rapa. Once on the ferry, passengers were required to leave their vehicles and go up to the passenger deck. With a photo he had downloaded to his phone, he hoped finding the politician wouldn’t be too difficult.
It helped that Francesca had told him she almost always traveled with her dog, a white shih tzu.
Sure enough, upon arriving on deck, Nico saw a woman who resembled the one in the photo, accompanied by a little mop-faced dog. Wearing little or no makeup, and with mousy blond hair tied back, the woman had an air of not being particularly concerned with her appearance. Rapa was pouring water into a collapsible rubber bowl and the dog wasted no time in lapping it up.
Nico reached down to pet it. “And what’s your name?” he asked as he ruffled its ears.
Its mistress smiled at Nico. “Her name is Gabriela.”
He smiled back. “She’s sweet.”
“Do you have one of your own?”
OK, get on with it, Nico thought. Otherwise, you’re going to look like a disingenuous schmuck. “Nico Moretti,” he said, handing her his card. “You must be Ms. Rapa.”
The smile vanished. She ignored his business card. Instead, she tightened the dog’s leash and reached to pick up the water bowl. Nico was sure that in a heartbeat she would be gone.
“Please, I wish you no harm. I’m a friend of Ariana Calleja. I simply want to talk to you.”
If it were possible, the woman turned a whiter shade of pale. Her eyes darted to either side, and then behind her. “We mustn’t talk here. Meet me on the other side,” she whispered. “A bar called The Fishing Eagle. I’ll wait for you there.”
Before Nico could respond, she scooped up the dog and disappeared down the stairs that led to the car deck. He resisted the urge to follow. Clearly, he had spooked her.
* * *
One could only describe The Fishing Eagle as dingy. It looked more likely to be a watering hole for the locals rather than the island’s multitude of sun-seeking tourists. It took a few seconds for Nico’s eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the interior darkness. He looked around, observing a handful of patrons, but no Lydia. Perhaps he had arrived before her.
“What can I get for you?” a man asked without looking up from wiping the bar.
“Lydia Rapa?”
He looked up with a scowl. “Who’s asking?”
“Nico Moretti. She’s expecting me.”
There was no mistaking the once over the bartender gave Nico as he tilted his head toward a partly open door. “Through there,” he said, then went back to cleaning the pitted countertop.
Nico made his way toward the back of the bar and through a set of wooden double doors painted the same azure as the harbor beyond. Outside, the view was stunning. In the shadow of an imposing cathedral perched several meters above, the bar’s rough stone deck with a single iron bench sat high above the boats of the marina below. And on the bench sat Lydia Rapa and Gabriela.
“May I?” Nico asked, rounding the bench.
Lydia nodded. The dog wedged itself between them like a mini sentry.
“I can’t stay long. What do you want?” Lydia demanded.
Where to start? He had so many questions, but he sensed her skittishness. “I understand you knew Ariana Calleja. Could you tell me a little bit about her?”
“How did you know her?” she said.
OK, this is how it’s going to go. “We met in law school, and we’ve worked together on several cases. I’m —”
“I know who you are, Mr. Moretti. What exactly is it you want to know?”
A friendly bunch they are here on Gozo. Nico tried changing tack. “I wondered if you might have any clues into her death.” And did you know she had a son?
“Why would I? It was a shock to me as it was to everyone else.” Her tone was abrupt.
Jesus, this woman seems made of stone, Nico thought as he considered his next question. He was only going to get one shot at this.
“I understand you were supportive of her work and investigations.” He paused. “And that you might have been the one to leak a report regarding alleged corruption inside your government.”
Rapa whirled to face him, startling the dog who leaped to the ground. “Where did you hear that?” Her knuckles were white as they clutched Gabriela’s leash, even though the pint-sized canine didn’t look to be going anywhere.
“Someone Ariana trusted,” he replied. “A woman by the name of Francesca. Do you know her?”
Lydia let go of the leash and put a hand on the seat of the bench as if to steady herself. She breathed out slowly. “Yes, I know Francesca. She sometimes came with Ariana to see Gabriela. To play with . . .” She halted.
“To play with Ariana’s son?” Nico ventured.
“You know about Max?”
Not until recently.
“Do you know where the boy is? Is he safe?” The urgency of the woman’s words startled him. When he looked over, her expression had softened into concern, bordering on maternal.
“I don’t know. That’s one of many things I’m trying to find out. Do you know what Ariana was working on before she—”
Nico could practically feel the tension emanating off her as she clutched her handbag to her chest just as her phone pinged. She glanced at the screen, then jumped up from the bench. “I’m sorry, I must go. Give me your card. I’ll be in touch.”
She took his card and reached into her handbag, searching for something. She fished out a small spiral-bound notebook, scribbled something down before ripping out the sheet of paper and handing it to him. “This person might be able to help you. Tell her I sent you. She lives in the UK, but I heard she came here following Ariana’s death.” She picked up her handbag. “I really must go. Good luck.”
Rather than going back in through the blue doors of the bar, Lydia and the dog disappeared around the side of the building and down a set of stairs, presumably to where she had parked her car below. Nico leaned over the railing and just moments later, saw a green Audi speeding away up the hill.
Annoyed, he walked back to the bench, the Maltese sunshine warming his skin, and focused his attention on the note. The name Lydia had written was Elle Sinclair, the British journalist and one of Ariana’s three most trusted confidantes. And a phone number. And Lydia had said Elle was “here.”
* * *
While the Malta police didn’t seem to bother about drinking and driving, using a mobile phone, even hands-free, was strictly prohibited. But Nico desperately wanted to speak with Elle Sinclair, so as soon as he had cleared the city limits of Mġarr Harbour and was on the two-lane coastal road heading north, he dialed the number Lydia had given him. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the journalist answered on the first ring.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, “you don’t know me, but my name is Nico Moretti. I’m a prosecutor in Calabria… and a friend of Ariana Calleja. I was given your number by Lydia Rapa. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Oh, thank you for calling, Mr. Moretti.” She sounded relieved. “It’s devastating,” she said with a perfect English Oxford accent. I came to Gozo the minute I heard of Ariana’s death.”
“It is,” Nico agreed. “I’m here on the island as well. Is it possible for us to meet?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t know why I thought there would be something I could do by coming to Gozo. It didn’t even happen here, did it? And the Maltese police are useless.”
There were so many questions Nico wanted to ask her, but he preferred to do it in person. “Do you have time today?” he asked, hopefully.
“Actually, I was preparing to catch the ferry back to the mainland this afternoon. I need to file a story at our office in Valletta. There really doesn’t seem to be much I can do here.”
Nico felt the same way. He’d only come to meet with Lydia Rapa and as she was less than forthcoming, he couldn’t af
ford to waste valuable time just hanging around waiting for her to contact him again. As she’d given him Sinclair’s contact information, she must have thought Sinclair could be helpful.
“I’m also ready to go back,” he said. “What ferry are you planning to catch? I can meet you there.”
He was so intent on trying to take a mental note of where and when to meet Elle that he didn’t notice the vehicle behind him, practically glued to his rear bumper.
“I can make the three o’clock,” Sinclair said. “Does that work for you?”
Nico heard the roar of an engine as he looked into his rearview mirror. A white van pulled out from behind and into the oncoming lane. And I thought we Italians were aggressive. He dropped back, letting the driver pass.
He’d have to kill a few hours but what Sinclair was suggesting would work. “Yes, I can make that. Where shall—”
Without signaling, the speeding van swerved back into Nico’s lane between him and the car in front. Staying at the speed limit, he watched it roar up behind the next car. They were on a straight stretch and he could see both vehicles approach a curve in the potholed road, guarded only by a low stone wall. His heart beat faster, and he was only vaguely aware that Sinclair was still speaking. He watched in shock as the van bashed into the back of the vehicle ahead of it and pushed it careening across the oncoming lane. Toward the cliff’s edge. As Nico raised his foot to brake, it crashed through the wall and over the edge. The pursuing car kept going and disappeared around the next bend.
Nico jammed on his brakes. He looked both ahead and behind him before making a U-turn so fast that his tires squealed, laying rubber on the pavement. After doubling back, he pulled off the road where he’d seen the car crash through the wall and down the hill toward the sea. As he ran from his vehicle, he heard Sinclair’s voice over the car’s hands-free mobile phone speaker. “Hello, hello? Mr. Moretti, are you still there?”
He smelled it before he saw it. Grabbing a handful of scrubby tree branches for support, he looked down at the raging fireball. He let go of the branch and half ran, half slid toward the burning wreck. But as he got closer, the intensity of the heat drove him back. He wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve and tried from another angle, but it was impossible. Sliding a few feet to another shelf on the cliff’s side, he dug his feet into the rubble for purchase and pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in 112— grazie a Dio, there was only one digit difference between the Italian and the Maltese emergency services number. When the dispatcher came on the line asking whether he needed fire, ambulance or police, he shouted, “All of them. There’s been a car wreck! Get here as quickly as you—”
An explosion rocked the ground and flames shot higher. The azure sky had turned to a thick, oily curtain of opaque black. Nico strained his ears, praying he’d hear sirens soon. But, wait . . . That wasn’t sirens. An almost inaudible mewling sounded again. Is that a child’s cry? Oh dear Lord, please not a child!
Something moved in the long grass near the wreck where the fire hadn’t yet singed. Nico stared at the spot, hoping to see it again. Seconds passed. Nothing. Then, from the thicket of grass, a small white animal emerged, dragging one of its hind legs. It cried again and pulled itself another few inches before stopping. It lay pitifully in the grass, keeling over on its side, whimpering.
Nico’s heart plummeted. It was Gabriela, Lydia Rapa’s little dog. How was that possible? Lydia had at least a five-minute head start when she’d left the bar before him. She must have stopped for something.
The next movements were automatic, running over to the animal and lifting her up and out of harms’ way. He tried to move closer to the burning car, but the heat was too intense. Was Lydia still inside? There was another explosion, and he jumped back, Gabriela cried in his arms, as if she too was trying to see if Lydia was okay. But there was nothing either of them could do.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Nico was aware of encroaching sirens. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting on the ground with the dog in his arms, having moved a safe distance from the inferno. Gabriela opened her eyes, gave a sad little whimper and licked his hand.
He heard shouting from above. But he just sat there, in shock.
“Sinjur, are you all right? We need to move you and your dog away from here.”
Nico wasn’t sure if the man who appeared beside him was a paramedic or a fireman.
“It’s . . . she’s not mine,” he stammered. “She belongs to the woman in the car.”
But the man didn’t hear. “Please, sir, you must come with me.”
Together they moved up the hill to the myriad of emergency vehicles parked on the road. He was ushered over to an ambulance, as another first-responder held out his arms for Gabriela. “Can I take your dog while we look at your injuries?”
‘I keep telling you, she’s not my dog.’ Nico said, while a medic applied something to some scratches and minor lacerations on his arms and hands. Behind him, in the treatment part of the ambulance, someone was splinting little Gabriela’s broken leg. All he could think about was that Lydia must have perished in her car. She couldn’t possibly have survived the crash and the explosion. Yet, somehow, her dog had. The emergency responders surmised she must have been thrown from an open window before the car landed and caught fire.
“If you’re sure you don’t need to go to the hospital,” the EMT continued, “there’s a vet on the way back into town. If you’d like, we can drop your dog off for you while you go to the police station. You should be able to pick her up after your interview.”
“I told you, it’s not my dog.” Nico wanted to scream. “The woman in the car was her owner. Lydia Rapa.”
“Well, we can take her to the pound, then. They’ll have a vet who will fix her leg.”
The pound.
“What happens to her then?” Nico asked.
“If she’s lucky, someone will adopt her.”
Otherwise? He was afraid to ask.
“If you feel you’re all right to drive your car, sir, we will follow you to the station where someone will take your statement.”
* * *
As Nico drove back toward Mġarr Harbour with a police car following behind, he thought about Elle Sinclair. He remembered her frantically calling his name as he ran from his vehicle toward the crash. Was it mere coincidence that Lydia Rapa had been run off the road right after meeting with him? He didn’t believe in coincidences; by planning to meet with Sinclair, could he be putting her in danger? If Lydia was targeted, the last thing he wanted was for the journalist to be next.
Calling Sinclair again, even hands-free, was a calculated risk. He’d taken a chance the first time he contacted her and was about to do it again with the police right behind him.
He hit Redial. Again, Elle answered on the first ring. “Mr. Moretti. What happened? I thought I heard an explosion. Are you all right?”
“Listen carefully,” he said. “I only have a minute. Lydia Rapa is dead.”
“Oh my God! How?”
“About an hour ago. Someone ran her off the road, right in front of me. I’m on the way to the police station to give my witness statement.”
“I’ll come and meet you there and then we can go to the ferry. Poor Lydia, I—”
“No, I want you to stay put. I have to assume whoever killed her will be watching me and I don’t want to lead them to you.” Nico couldn’t know with certainty that whoever had killed Lydia hadn’t come back for him, only to have been foiled by the emergency vehicles arriving.
“When will I hear from you?”
“I’ll contact you as soon as I can.” He was approaching the city limits and conscious of the police car behind him, he needed to get off the phone. “Wait until the news of her death comes out in the media. Otherwise, don’t say a word to anyone.” He didn’t want to alarm the woman, but better safe than sorry. “For now, I advise you to stay off the roads, and if you have to go out, keep to public places.” With that, he disconn
ected the call.
* * *
In the hour and a half he’d spent inside the Mġarr police station on Coast Road, the warmth of the sun had cooled and a slight breeze had whispered in from the sea. The night air was fresh and a sweet relief from the stuffy confines of the interview room.
At first, the two officers responsible for taking his statement had seemed congenial enough. While professional in their questions, they asked several times about his well-being and offered to get him water or coffee, both of which Nico declined. He gave them everything he knew about the car that had run Lydia off the road, which wasn’t much. It had all happened so fast that without a license-plate number, he doubted much of his witness statement would be helpful.
About forty-five minutes into the interview, however, it occurred to him he had become a bit like a frog in water; the police had been turning up the heat so gradually, that he hadn’t noticed the interview become an interrogation.
“How do you know Lydia Rapa and why were you following her?” one of them had asked.
“I had just met her on the ferry, and I wasn’t following her. As you well know, there’s only one road leading away from the harbor.” As he felt the tables turn, he decided not to tell them he and Lydia had met at The Fishing Eagle before the car crash. Although, he suspected it would only be a matter of time before they realized there was a time discrepancy between when the ferry had docked and when she’d been run off the road with him behind her.
It also depended on whether the bartender who’d seen Nico go out back to meet Lydia was a friend or foe. If it was the latter, it could have been him who tipped off the killer.
Porca miseria! Nico wanted to scream. For God’s sake! “I’ve already told you, I came to Valletta following the murder of Ariana Calleja.”
“Why would you come to Valletta?” the other officer enquired. “You don’t have jurisdiction in Malta.”
Because your idioti on the mainland aren’t doing their damned job. Nico bit his tongue. After going round and round, and Nico making a point of looking at his watch ever more frequently, he was told he was free to go but to leave his contact information in the event they had further questions.
