Everybody Knows

by Karen Dodd

  “You should have taken them out while you had the chance,” he said into the phone. “Both of them. I know that trail that runs along the bluff. It’s steep. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to lose their footing . . .”

  “Too risky—both at the same time. We don’t know what she might have told Moretti.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we should eliminate them.”

  “Trust me on this. It isn’t the right time.”

  With a sigh, he hung up. He couldn’t abide incompetency, and he wouldn’t tolerate his orders being questioned. Once more and he’d have to take action.

  Chapter Nine

  Nico followed Elle back along the road to ensure she wasn’t being followed—or worse—and returned to his room at the hotel in Valletta. He’d come in from taking Gabriela for her last outing when his phone rang. Roberto Pezzente.

  “I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions, Mr. Moretti.” This time, the investigator seemed more conciliatory and less confrontational as they spoke via secure video conferencing.

  “Certainly,” Nico replied.

  “Grazie. It would appear that apart from Signorina Calleja, the other victims were locals. No one significant in any way.”

  I wonder how their friends and family would feel about that, Nico thought.

  “You met with Signorina Calleja the night before she died. A neighbor said he saw a man leaving her apartment very angry. Would that have been you?”

  Nico surmised the investigator already knew the answer to that or he wouldn’t be asking. What exactly was he intimating?

  “Would you mind telling me what you were so angry about?”

  Nico made the decision not to tell Pezzente about Max. He didn’t know why— he might have actually been able to help find him— but he still wasn’t sure that he could trust him.

  “I was angry that she’d taken on the role of senior prosecutor, which I felt would put her in more danger,” Nico said.

  There was a pause where they held each other’s gaze on the screen.

  “I see. Would you happen to know what she might have been working on just before she died?”

  Why was he asking him? Pezzente could easily find that out on his own.

  “Not specifically, no.”

  Now it was Nico’s turn to ask a question although he doubted Pezzente would be forthcoming. “Have you found out any more about who was behind the bombing?” he asked.

  Surprisingly, the man appeared willing to share what he knew. Despite the pissing contest, they were supposed to be on the same side.

  “Yes, we’ve determined the type of device used to detonate the bomb in the square. It may sound complicated,” Pezzente explained before Nico could ask. “While it would have taken some time to plant the explosives without detection, the mechanism itself is actually quite simple, using something as basic as two mobile phones. The first device is a generic handset, which sends the bomb’s activation code by text. The second device has a SIM card installed. It receives the code and then detonates the bomb remotely. Such a device was planted under the waterside deck of the Cannone Square restaurant.” He paused. “It’s not the first time it has been used.”

  Nico tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

  “It appears it was the weapon of choice for two other assassinations. One in 2016. Another earlier this year. In the most recent one, this exact method was used to kill three businessmen thought to be connected to a money-laundering scheme. Word on the street is it was an execution ordered by certain individuals who control much of the private banking system.”

  Nico’s ears perked up as he recalled bits of his conversation with Elle. “Where?” But he already knew the answer.

  “Malta.”

  Bingo.

  Pezzente shared his screen, and a video clip appeared. It showed a lineup of people waiting for cabs, Ubers and the like, in front of what looked to be a hotel.

  “OK, so this is CCTV footage of around the time of the blast from the attack in Malta earlier this year. Now watch carefully.”

  Nico glued his eyes to the screen as Pezzente zoomed in on three men standing at the curb outside the hotel. A black SUV pulled up in front. One man appeared to say something to his companions, then stepped forward and opened the car door. The driver stayed in the vehicle while the men climbed in, and the car pulled away.

  “Where was this taken?” Nico asked.

  “Outside the Hilton in Saint Julian’s, Malta.” A high-end hotel known for businesspeople and conferences.

  “I gather you were able to get identities on the victims,” Nico said.

  “Eventually,” Pezzente replied. “It took some time, but Forensics managed to get DNA from scattered remains at the scene. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough for their families to give them a decent burial.”

  Just as with Ariana. Nico’s stomach turned.

  Pezzente pulled up two photos onto the screen. “These are the men in the video. On the left is—or was—a research scientist from the UK. Another was a Canadian businessman.”

  “And the third?” Nico asked.

  “A Maltese banker.”

  “Do you know why they were all together in Malta?”

  “We didn’t at the time, but after viewing the hotel’s security video, my people looked into how they were connected. As soon as we got confirmation of the victims’ identities, local investigators interviewed the families in London, Vancouver, and here in Rome.”

  “Were they able to tell you anything?”

  “Not at first. It appeared the wives knew little about their husbands’ extracurricular affairs, if you get my drift.” Pezzente winked and a sly smile crossed his face.

  Nico didn’t dignify the comment with a response.

  “But after further investigation, it appeared the Brit and the Canadian were part of a long-running money-laundering scheme. We tied the one in the UK to the pharmaceutical industry—turns out his wife was also a researcher. The one in Canada was laundering planeloads of cash in the casinos in and around the Vancouver area. Couriers brought the cash in on their persons, got on the rapid train from the airport, went into a nearby casino for forty-five minutes to an hour, then handed off the cleaned money.”

  Nothing new there. This type of activity went on all over the world. “But why assassinate them?” he asked. “Particularly if they were getting the job done.”

  Pezzente clicked off the images, and his face reappeared on-screen. “That was the problem. They were doing too good a job. Seems they had a private deal going with certain casino dealers. Essentially, they had doubled their efforts from what they were contracted to do, running enough dirty cash through the casinos that they could start skimming. In order to launder the money during such brief visits to the casinos, there was a certain percentage of loss built into the system. Whoever hired them was aware of that.”

  “But?”

  “They got greedy. By playing at specific dealers’ tables, their actual losses could be mitigated. Even after cutting the dealers in for their percentage, they were taking bigger and bigger shares off the top.”

  “What about the third guy? The banker from Malta. Which bank was he with?”

  “The biggest private bank in the country,” Pezzente replied.

  Nico had a sense of déjà vu.

  “Baldisar Bank.”

  Chapter Ten

  Since the video call with Pezzente the previous night, Nico’s mind had raced with so many unanswered questions. Frustrated, that he couldn’t do anymore until the morning, he’d got out of the same clothes he’d been wearing since his unplanned overnight stay in Gozo. When he’d emptied his pockets of loose change, he realized he still had the note Francesca had given him for safekeeping. With Lydia’s death and his subsequent meeting with Elle, he’d forgotten all about it.

  Smoothing it out, he laid it on the desk.

  Tell anyone what you know and you’ll be next.

  That it was written on the Journali
sts for Justice distinctive red-and-yellow stationery was deeply disturbing. Was it a reporter who’d gone rogue? Someone out there posing as a trusted member of the group who was anything but? Most importantly, what was it they thought Francesca knew?

  It had been late, but he’d tried to call Francesca to tell her about Lydia’s death. It would be a shock if she heard it on the news. He also needed to tell her he intended to take the note to Valletta Police Station in the morning. As someone sworn to uphold the law, he couldn’t in clear conscience not report such a threat.

  But when he’d rung Francesca’s number several times, there was no answer. He’d sent her a text asking her to call him, no matter the hour. Then within minutes, he’d collapsed into bed beside a gently snoring Gabriela.

  Now he sat watching the news about Lydia Rapa’s “accidental death.” He couldn’t believe the audacity of the police, knowing there was a witness to what had happened, and they were passing it off as an accident. One more reason to go to the police in Valletta. Or not. Were the police on Gozo covering up the cause of the MP’s death? And if so, why? Even more alarming was that Francesca hadn’t called him back. He’d dialed her again, only for it to go to voicemail. He’d been preparing to leave a message when he was told her message inbox was full. Great, now what?

  He knew the general vicinity of her apartment—close to Ariana’s—but nothing more. However, he recalled Francesca’s familiarity with the waitress at the café she’d taken him to when he’d first arrived, and so he’d headed back to the café.

  “Francesca? No, I haven’t seen her since you were here together,” the waitress told him as she wiped the dew off the tables and put out menus. Initially, she appeared reluctant to provide Francesca’s address until Nico handed her his card and hinted that he was worried about her.

  Armed with an address and directions, Nico set out. He recalled some of the side streets he’d passed when Francesca had taken him to Ariana’s apartment. Two blocks down on the right, he turned into a side alley. There were no numbers on the doors, but a woman whisking a broom back and forth in front of her doorway smiled warmly when he asked if she knew which unit was Francesca’s. Her eyes lit up, and she pointed to the door across the alley.

  The old woman watched Nico as he knocked a few times and waited patiently. No answer. He knocked again. Again, nothing. Where was she? He pulled out a pen and his business card and wrote a hasty message telling Francesca to call him as soon as possible. He began to slide it between the doorframe and the door for Francesca to find later, when the door yawned open with a creak. She had left her door open. Perhaps she’d only popped out for a moment. Maybe he ought to wait and catch her on her return. Nico looked over his shoulder as he considered whether he should enter. The lady and her broom were nowhere in sight.

  But something felt odd. With everything that had happened over the past few days, would Francesca have left her door open and vulnerable like that? A tingle started at the base of his neck and rippled all the way down his spine. He should really contact the police and wait for them before entering. Then he remembered the shambles of Ariana’s apartment and Francesca’s expression of disgust when he’d asked her if the police had done it. He slipped in the door and closed it behind him.

  The apartment was stifling. The shades were drawn, but they did little to lessen the heat. “Francesca? It’s Nico. Anybody home?”

  Out of his peripheral vision, a curtain rippled ever so slightly. Was there a sliding door behind it? Perhaps Francesca was out there. He pulled back the curtain but there was only a window. Closed.

  Hesitantly, he took a few more steps into the apartment. He really shouldn’t be in here without Francesca’s knowledge. To the left, there was a set of wooden stairs. He looked up and saw they led to a half mezzanine floor. “Francesca, are you up there? It’s Nico.” Should he go up? “I’m sorry to have come in but your door—"

  As he took a step forward, there was a whoosh of air before he felt as if a freight train had hit him from behind. In one rapid movement, he landed face first on the floor, the air punched from his chest. He tried to yell, but only a low grunt came out. Nico’s one-hundred-and-eighty-pound frame was no match for his attacker, but he was agile and hadn’t yet forgotten his amateur boxing skills from his college days. He scrambled to grab a handful of the rug just inches from his nose and tried to drag himself out from under the deadweight. Except it wasn’t a deadweight. Whoever had him pinned to the floor was very much alive and seemed laser-focused on making sure Nico wasn’t.

  Behind them, the apartment’s front door squeaked. God, no, Francesca, don’t come in. Run!

  “Sinjur?” the elderly woman he’d just seen called out. “I’ve brought muffins for Francesca. Is it all right if I—?”

  Whoever had been on top of Nico clambered off him and charged toward the open doorway. The little woman was literally lifted off her feet before landing with a sickening crack against the concrete entrance. By the time Nico had found his breath, she lay on her back in a pool of blood, twisted legs splayed across the threshold, half in, half out. Her eyes were closed, and he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

  * * *

  Despite her profusely bleeding head wound, Francesca’s muffin-bearing neighbor regained consciousness and was taken to the local hospital. Hearing the commotion, another neighbor had come to the rescue and called for an ambulance. Nico told the attending paramedics he would call the police himself and wait for their arrival. And he would, but for now he needed to use the time he had to his advantage. He determined that he’d better take as cursory a look around Francesca’s apartment as he dared and get the hell out of there. Especially if there was any likelihood of the human tank returning to finish him off.

  From the apartment’s ground floor, his gaze fell on a short flight of stairs that appeared to lead to a loft. Nico took the stairs two at a time before he pulled up short when he reached the landing. Francesca had struck him as the type who would make her bed and keep her small apartment neat and tidy. The downstairs certainly had looked that way in the short time he’d seen it before being bowled over by the fast-moving ton of bricks. Upstairs, however, was a different story. Her bed was not only unmade, but the mattress and sheets looked as if they’d been dragged off it and left to lie in a heap on the rough wooden flooring.

  He rounded the bed and pushed open the door to a tiny adjoining bathroom. Other than a sink and toilet, it contained a shower enclosure so small a grown person would have to step outside to change their mind. And yet someone had ripped the plastic shower curtain from the railing and it lay in tatters on the floor, sprinkled with shattered glass shards. The rest of what would have been a water glass sat on the edge of the sink, its jagged edges tinged with what looked like blood. Nico’s stomach dropped. Surely not…?

  Nico turned back to the bedroom area. Except for the bed, nothing else looked out of place. Francesca’s dresser drawers were closed, and when he slid a couple of them open, nothing looked amiss.

  As he pieced together the clues, Nico came to a sickening realization. The man who’d attacked him had clearly not been alone. He must have had an accomplice who took Francesca with him. Had the one who tackled him stayed behind to search her apartment and Nico interrupted him? But what would someone hope to gain by snatching Francesca? Or were they looking for something they assumed she knew about what Ariana was about to expose?

  Tell anyone what you know, and you’ll be next.

  He dropped to the edge of the exposed spring bed and ran a hand across his scalp. Someone thought Francesca possessed information they wanted. Ariana. God. Please, someone, give me a sign before it’s too late. What’s happened to Francesca and where did you send my son?

  * * *

  With Francesca gone, Nico headed straight for the police station on Archbishop Street. Although he had his doubts they’d be any more efficient than their counterparts on Gozo, he knew he had to at least make a missing person report. Instinct had told him
he could trust Francesca when he met her in person; nonetheless, something niggled at the back of his mind. Even though he understood her reticence, why hadn’t she reported the threatening note to the police? At the same time, he was hardly beyond reproach. That he’d entered Francesca’s apartment illegally could implicate him in her disappearance. Further, as an officer of the law, he should have called the police immediately after he was attacked.

  He did a quick replay in his mind: What had he touched when he was there? The door handle for starters, you idiot. And, of course, the elderly neighbor had seen him, as had those who’d come to her aid. Given that she’d been taken to hospital, the police had probably questioned her already. One way or another, it was going to come out that he was there, so there was no point delaying the inevitable.

  Nico approached the neoclassical building that said Pulizija Valletta on the front. He took a deep breath and pulled open the green wooden double doors. A woman in uniform behind the security desk asked the nature of his business.

  Nico handed her his business card. “I’d like to register a missing person.”

  “Certainly, please sign in here and I’ll find someone to assist you.”

  After receiving a visitor’s badge, possibly expedited by his title of Calabria’s special prosecutor, Nico was ushered up a flight of ancient stone stairs and into a small meeting room. Here we go again, he thought as he waited for a good-cop-bad-cop duo to arrive and take his statement. Or, more likely, interrogate him.

  The door opened and a man, not wearing a police uniform, came in carrying a bottle of water and two glasses. Not disposable cups, Nico noted. Glasses that DNA would adhere to if he were naïve enough to accept a drink of water.