by Karen Dodd
“I assume you’ll be returning to your job in Calabria, yes?” The one that had been the “good cop” smirked.
“Yes, more than likely,” Nico said through a clenched jaw.
But Nico had every intention of staying in Malta. Yes, the island was small, and the police could easily check the ferries and flights from the mainland, meaning he wouldn’t be able to remain below their radar for long. But he still had a short window of time, and he planned to make the most of it.
Chapter Eight
Nico kept checking his rearview mirror as he drove away from the harbor, traveling back along the stretch of the road that had claimed Lydia’s life. He still couldn’t figure out how he came to be right behind Lydia’s car when she’d left The Fishing Eagle before him. He was lost in that thought when he saw the sign for the animal shelter and realized he’d forgotten all about the little dog. She’d been so helpless, limping away from the burning wreck, and yet still determined to look out for Lydia as he held her. . . Screw it, she wasn’t his problem; somebody would adopt her. Finding out who was responsible for Ariana’s murder, and where Max might be were top of mind and he didn’t need a four-legged tag-along getting in his way.
Dammit! His conscience wouldn’t let him leave her there, especially in that he may have been responsible for her mistress’s murder. He had almost passed the exit when he swerved the car to the left and, a few meters down a gravel road, found himself in front of the SPCA.
“She’s all ready for you.” A young woman pushed a prescription bottle across the counter after Nico signed the paperwork releasing Gabriela into his care. “She needs to have the cast and stitches removed in ten days. In the meantime, give her two of these tablets a day to prevent infection, and she should be as good as new.”
After he’d made a donation for the dog’s treatment and medication, he waited while the attendant slipped into the back to retrieve her. In a moment, she came out holding Gabriela and handed her to him. “She’ll be a bit dopey for another hour or two, so it’s best if you keep her quiet for the rest of the evening.”
The woman must have noticed Nico’s stunned expression. He felt like she’d just handed him a baby that he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with.
“Do you have her lead?” she asked.
Nico shook his head.
“Food?”
He gave her a blank look, feeling completely pathetic.
She put her hand up. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, she had a bag of sample-sized tinned and dry dog food, a collapsible rubber dish and some bottled water. “This should tide you over until you can get to the shops tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He knew nothing about Lydia’s personal life. What if her family came looking for her dog? He wrote out his contact information and received the woman’s assurance that the shelter would provide it should someone come looking for Gabriela and want her back.
“She seems to like you.” The woman smiled as she watched the little dog lick Nico’s neck.
Once outside, Nico bunched up his jacket on the front seat of the car and gently placed the dog in the center. Before he had re-entered the highway, she had curled up, as best she could with her hind leg sticking out, and was fast asleep.
* * *
Until he could contact Sinclair again and rearrange their meeting, Nico needed to find a place to stay on Gozo, hopefully one that allowed dogs. A little further along the highway from the animal shelter, he saw a sign for a historic inn, and confident that he wasn’t being followed, he left the highway and ventured up the long driveway. The building would have originally been the ruins of an ancient castle and, like so many buildings in both Italy and Malta, it had been repurposed into an inn. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why tourists chose to stay in the characterless high-rise hotels when they could sleep in the same spot in which history had been made. He parked the car and went inside, Gabriela in his arms, immediately basking in the warmth of the crackling fireplace that blazed in the corner of the exposed brick lounge. A woman sat behind a single desk that served as the reception area.
She didn’t seem the least bit curious that he had no luggage and offered him a complimentary toiletry kit, as well as a dog biscuit for Gabriela, who was stirring.
“Many prefer not to travel back across our roads at night,” she said. She took back Nico’s guest registration form. “Ah, you’re from Calabria. First time on Gozo?”
“It is, I’ve come to . . . I’m here to do a little sightseeing.”
She smiled and handed him a heavy, old-fashioned brass key. “You have time to take a nice hot shower if you like before we start serving dinner, but you’re welcome to take a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers to your room. A little something to tide you over.”
Music to Nico’s ears. His teeth felt furry, and he hadn’t eaten since he’d shared pastries with Francesca in Valletta. He’d meant to stop at a restaurant on the drive along Gozo’s coast, but got distracted as he’d debated how best to contact Elle Sinclair. After his experience at the local police station, he couldn’t be sure how much he should trust the authorities. Two women were already dead; he’d be damned if he’d be responsible for another. However, he desperately needed to find out what Ariana had sent to the journalist. And although Max was safe for now—or so he hoped— Nico needed to find him, and quickly.
Despite the late hour, he pulled his mobile from its charger and made the call. Again, she answered immediately.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” he said.
“No, not at all, Mr. Moretti. Where are you?”
“I’m at an inn here on Gozo,” he said, sufficiently vague.
“We must meet. Are you familiar with Yandex?”
Nico’s ears perked up at the mention of the secure internet browser, lesser known and more private than the commonly used Tor. He’d become familiar with this technology while working a covert investigation last year. “Yes,” he replied.
“Good, I’ll send you a message where to meet tomorrow. Check online in about ten minutes and confirm to me you got it.” Elle paused. “And, Mr. Moretti, please don’t consider contacting me either by phone, text or a regular internet connection again. Do you understand?”
Her friendly tone of earlier had changed to one of absolute authority. The journalist wasn’t stupid; she could do the math. Two women she knew well were already dead. That didn’t bode well for her.
After hanging up, he opened his computer bag and lifted Gabriela from the bed to the floor. Although a little clumsy at first, once he’d put down a bowl of the food the shelter had given him she bumped and scraped her way across the carpet, oblivious to her cast, and happily tucked in.
Nico absently nibbled on some cheese and crackers. What a colossal loser he was. First, he turned his back on Ariana’s plea to help her drive the last nail in the coffin of those she’d tried in vain to prosecute— which potentially was the catalyst for her murder. Then, he gets Lydia Rapa killed and ends up with her dog. Perhaps De Rosa and Testa were right; the tiger had lost his edge.
* * *
After a quick breakfast and a hobble outside for Gabriela the following morning, Nico bade the inn’s proprietor goodbye. He and Elle Sinclair had agreed via encrypted message to meet on the ferry returning to the mainland. From studying Elle’s byline and social media, he knew what she looked like. He was going to leave the dog in the car but, thinking she’d make a great foil, he scooped her up and brought her on deck.
As they’d agreed, Nico took his seat next to a lifeboat on the ferry’s starboard side. The wooden bench was tucked away by itself, where they wouldn’t be easily observed without their knowledge. He sipped on the coffee he’d picked up at the terminal and waited.
Within minutes, a tall, blonde woman walked past him and stood at the railing as if admiring the view. He was admiring her long, tanned legs before she turned toward him. “What a sweet little dog,” she said. �
��What’s her name?”
“Gabriela,” Nico replied.
“My friend Lydia has one just like her.” She gestured to the space beside him. “May I?”
“Of course,” Nico said, scooting over a little on the bench.
There they sat, side by side. He waited for her to take the lead.
“Would you like a piece of the paper?” Elle asked, offering a section of the island’s daily newspaper.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know if you follow football, but Malta has made it into the World Cup. There’s an article on page three.”
Nico casually turned to the page. There was a small manilla envelope taped to the page above the fold. In pen, she’d written, Read this in your car for further instructions. He looked out to sea, glancing over at Elle at the same time.
She had bent down and was ruffling Gabriela’s neck. “Well, I must go. It was nice talking with you.” Then she vanished around the corner of the ship.
Nico waited until the announcement came over the loudspeaker for passengers to return to their vehicles. He had been one of the first on board, meaning he’d disembark last, which gave him time to read Elle’s message in the car.
It’s imperative that you ensure you aren’t being followed. Meet me at Dingli Cliffs. I will wait until quarter to the hour, and if you’re not there, I’ll assume you’re being followed and will leave.
They threatened Ariana multiple times prior to her death. Lydia Rapa was the whistleblower, and I believe I know who may have killed her, or at least who ordered it.
Now we’re getting somewhere. He waited impatiently to drive off the ferry.
* * *
Scanning the light traffic behind him and doubling back twice, Nico was certain he hadn’t been followed to the cliffs at Dingli. As there were no other vehicles in the parking lot, he assumed he’d arrived before Sinclair. He parked his rental car in a small turnout overlooking the sea, and while he waited, he let the dog out to do her business. A few minutes later, a blue Fiat drove in and Elle Sinclair parked beside him. Nico turned on the ignition and rolled down all the windows so the dog had fresh air, then followed Elle toward a weathered sign at the entrance to the trailhead. It promised an easy walk via Buskett Gardens, which was supposed to come out in the village of Dingli.
It would seem though, Elle had other ideas as she took the alternate trail that hugged the side of the cliff. Though he wasn’t afraid of heights, Nico found it difficult not to be distracted by the sheer drops of the route she’d chosen. They stood side by side, the spectacular view of the Mediterranean stretching out before them. As breathtaking as it was, he was anxious to find out what she knew.
“How long did you know Ariana for?” he asked.
“Gosh,” she said as she looked over the expanse of water. “We met at a charity fundraiser in London. That must have been what…?” She counted on her fingers. “Eight, ten years ago?”
So, she would have known about Max, Nico thought. Yet she hadn’t mentioned him. “Did you know Lydia Rapa?” he asked.
“I never met her in person, but I spoke to her on the phone when Ariana asked me to interview her. Lydia agreed if I guaranteed her complete anonymity, which of course I did.” They walked on. “As you’re no doubt aware, she was a member of Malta’s government. Two weeks before Ariana was assassinated, someone leaked a report that members of Lydia’s party, and several top government officials, were threatening Ariana. The report named names, payments, and to whom—everything. It was quite damning.”
“Lydia was the whistleblower, then,” Nico said, “but why would she turn against her own party?”
“She and Ariana were once fierce adversaries. As you can imagine, they came from opposite ends of the political spectrum.” Elle touched Nico’s elbow, steering him left on the trail. He hoped she hadn’t heard him exhale with relief as it took them away from the cliff’s edge for a bit. “But Lydia was seeing the cracks in her party: the dishonesty, the corruption. Kickbacks were routine to certain MP’s family members.
“But,” Elle continued, “when Ariana bought her home on Gozo and both women took the ferry back and forth every weekend, they developed a friendship. Ariana had been working on so many cases of corruption, it was hard to keep track. In addition to a pay-to-play passport scheme— I’m sure you’ve heard about it…”
Nico nodded.
“Well, the passport scheme was bringing all kinds of rich people into the country from outside the EU. Russians, Iranians, members of countries run by dictators—some very unsavory characters. Ariana alleged Malta’s largest private bank was money-laundering for several of them. It was a mess.”
So far, everything matched with what Francesca had told him. “Rumors to that effect have been circulating for years,” he said, frustrated that this was all information he knew already. “I understand Ariana sent copies of her investigative notes to you before she died.”
Elle looked surprised. “Did she tell you that?”
Nico wasn’t sure why, but at this point he wasn’t sure he wanted to name Francesca as his source. He also chose not to ask about the other two journalists for now. He nodded his head. “She didn’t tell me what was in her notes,” he said. “But she did tell me that her office was about to announce something significant the day after the bombing. Do you know what it was?”
Elle pointed to an exposed tree root before he tripped over it. “Not specifically, no. However, six months ago, things took an interesting turn.”
“How so?” Could this finally be the lead he needed?
“Malta’s finance minister was in Amsterdam on government business when Ariana got a tip that the minister had been photographed in a rather compromising position with someone who wasn’t his wife. She was going to use it to drive one more nail into the corrupt government’s coffin.” Elle stopped at a small lookout and pointed out a massive white-domed cathedral that gleamed in the distance.
“Beautiful,” Nico said, admiring it. “And did she? Use it for her investigation?”
“She did. But that turned out to be the least of the story.”
Nico turned to look at her, intrigued.
“After extricating himself from the liaison in question, the minister was later caught on video meeting two men, one a known gun-for-hire. A long-angled camera lens caught them shaking hands and the man accompanying the minister passing over a thick envelope, no doubt filled with cash.”
“Do you know who the individuals were taking the money?”
Elle shook her head. “In Ariana’s notes, she made reference to Alesandru Baldisar. Current president of the decades-old, family-run Baldisar Bank. But honestly, it could have been anyone. There are so many players in Malta’s lucrative underground economy it’s hard to tell one from the other.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Nico said as he and Elle sat on a bench on a small outcrop at the base of the cliffs. A faint breeze wrinkled the otherwise serene sea. “Lydia Rapa was cooperating with the European Central Bank’s investigation into her party’s organized threats against Ariana.”
“That, and she was also the source that provided the details of what the British banking authorities needed to nail Baldisar Bank in the UK.”
“That’s where you come in,” Nico said.
“Correct. Two years ago, the bank opened an office in London. Under the ‘passporting regulations,’ the UK granted them permission to operate there, but they were not permitted to open accounts for UK residents.
“As part of Ariana’s investigation, she discovered Malta’s anti-money-laundering agency was about to come down on the bank for their lack of regulations and controls. I picked it up from the UK end and worked the story while Ariana pieced together her case.”
The steely blue eyes Nico had first seen on Elle Sinclair’s bio during the flight over to Malta were no less penetrating in person. He imagined the woman would be like a pit bull once she got her teeth into something. Or someone.
; “Anyway, I happened to be at a society wedding at an estate in Kent—as a guest, not a reporter,” she added. “And who should be there but Mr. and Mrs. Alesandru Baldisar. I tried to keep a casual eye out for him in particular, but I lost him in the crowd of guests.
“Later in the evening, I needed to use the loo. The outside portable ones they’d brought in for the wedding were all occupied, so one of the catering staff directed me to a lavatory in the main floor of the house—I later found out that was strictly verboten. However, on my way to the toilet, I passed by what looked like a study. The door was partially open, and I saw Baldisar engaged in a heated discussion with someone.”
“What did you do?”
“What any self-respecting reporter would do,” Elle said with a smirk. “I ducked around the corner and listened.”
“Did you hear what the other person said?”
“No, but he had an accent—Eastern European, I think, maybe Russian—I’m not sure. He was angry about something. I don’t know what exactly, but I know it had to do with Baldisar’s bank.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he said if Baldisar didn’t cooperate, he would go to the authorities and tell the FCA—Britain’s Financial Conduct Agency—everything about what was going on, and they would shut the bank down in both countries.”
Nico squinted into the sun. “Were you able to see what the other man looked like?”
“Well, I might have.” Elle turned to look at him. “Except that a bloody butler came along and gave me a right dressing-down. Said I had no business being in there and promptly closed the door to the study and escorted me out. Still having to pee, I might add.”
* * *
Once again, it had proven useful to have the chief of Gozo’s police force on his payroll. Upon being told of Nico Moretti’s presence on the island, he’d had the Italian prosecutor followed, which in turn led him to Elle Sinclair. He’d never heard of the damned woman, but it had been brought to his attention that as a journalist with the UK press, she was nearly as lethal as the Calleja woman. What the hell was she doing in his territory and why was she meeting with Moretti?
