Everybody Knows

by Karen Dodd

  After depositing the water and glasses on the table between them, the man held out his hand and smiled. “I’m Inspector Mifsud. I understand you’d like to report a missing person.”

  A detective inspector, on a first interview for a missing person? Now, Nico was certain his title had upped the ante. Mifsud gestured for him to be seated, then took a seat across from him. He removed a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket, then placed Nico’s business card on the table in front of him. “It’s a pleasure to have you in our midst, Sinjur Moretti. Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of our most prominent prosecutor, Ariana Calleja. I followed a number of the joint cases you worked together.”

  Well, that didn’t take long. That’s why they’d sent in the big guns. “Thank you.”

  “I understand you wish to report a missing person. How long has he or she has been missing?”

  “It’s a woman by the name of Francesca Bruno.” Shit, what date had they met at the café? “It was Friday. I’m sorry, I can’t remember the date.”

  Mifsud looked at his watch. “So that was May tenth. And you haven’t seen or spoken to her since?”

  “No.”

  “With due respect, sinjur, then how do you know she is missing? Were you due to meet her?”

  Nico swallowed hard. Madonna! “Because I . . . I called on her and she wasn’t at home.”

  “You mean you phoned her, and she didn’t answer?” The detective’s pen was poised for Nico’s answer.

  “Well, I did that, too. But no, I went around to her apartment.” God, he could do with a drink. The water sat on the table. It would taste so good right now.

  “I see.” The detective smiled. “Perhaps she had just gone out.”

  “She wasn’t at home, but her door was open.” That wasn’t completely true, but it was close enough. “And I went in.”

  Inspector Mifsud’s pen stopped moving, and he looked up.

  “Without her being there?” The officer reached for the jug of water and offered Nico a glass.

  Here goes nothing, Nico thought. “I, uh . . . I had just gone partway into the apartment when I was attacked.”

  “By someone already inside?”

  What the hell—having his prints and saliva on a glass of water couldn’t be any worse than the incriminating fingerprints they’d find at Francesca’s apartment. Nico accepted the glass and took a large gulp of cold water.

  He thought back to the gentle ripple of the curtain inside the apartment right before someone had flattened him like an ant. “Yes, I’m assuming my attacker was already inside. But I suppose he could have come in behind me.” He fished in his pocket and produced the note Francesca had found slipped under the door of her apartment. He put it on the table between them.

  The formerly relaxed atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension. The detective sat back in his chair. “Where did you get this?”

  “Francesca Bruno gave it to me the first and last time I saw her.”

  Mifsud frowned, then rose from his chair and made for the door, taking the note with him. “Wait here.”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, the inspector returned to the room with a fresh pitcher of water. He offered to refill Nico’s glass and when he shook his head, he resumed his seat across the table and opened his notebook.

  “Mr. Moretti, as I consider you to be the victim of an assault, and possibly a witness to Miss Bruno’s disappearance, I have not offered you a solicitor. And there is no need to record this interview. However, I’m sure you understand the importance of telling me everything you can. Are we clear?”

  Abundantly, Nico thought, resisting the urge to squirm under Mifsud’s gaze. “Si. Yes, sir,” he replied.

  “Good. Now can you please tell me how long the note you gave me has been in your possession?”

  Nico cleared his throat. “As I mentioned, Miss Bruno gave it to me when I met her for the first time on Friday, May tenth. It was the day after I arrived in Malta.”

  “And you met with her for what reason?”

  “To see what more she could tell me about the last days before Ariana Calleja’s death. Miss Bruno was Ariana’s close friend and personal assistant. “

  “And you didn’t see her again after that?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you go to her apartment this morning?”

  Where should he start? “I couldn’t reach her by phone after my return from Gozo. I needed to tell her about Lydia Rapa, who Miss Bruno had referred me to.”

  Mifsud stopped writing and looked up from his notebook. “The MP that died in the automobile accident?”

  “Yes. Miss Bruno thought she could give me information that might be important in Ariana’s assassination.” Nico paused. “But what happened to Lydia wasn’t an accident.”

  The inspector gave Nico a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I witnessed it happen. Someone deliberately ran her off the road.”

  Mifsud wrote something in his notebook and then put down his pen. “That’s a substantial claim, Mr. Moretti. Did you tell this to the Gozo police?”

  Nico nodded and proceeded to explain everything that had happened, including the interview, a.k.a. interrogation they subjected him to.

  * * *

  An hour of intense questioning later, the inspector put away his notebook. He’d given the note threatening Francesca to an officer to put in an evidence bag, but Nico knew there was little likelihood of it providing any clues to her disappearance. He’d been on the verge of telling Mifsud about Max, but given the shoddy way the police had handled the investigation into Ariana’s death—or not handled it—he didn’t know if he should trust him. While still polite, it was obvious the deference with which Mifsud had initially treated him had turned to something more. Skepticism? Nico wondered as he gathered his things and followed the inspector down the corridor and into the elevator.

  “I’ve already dispatched a forensics team to Miss Bruno’s residence,” Mifsud said. He paused, as if weighing what he was about to say next. “Mr. Moretti, I understand your desire to protect your own culpability, but as an officer of the law, well . . .”

  Nico finished the detective’s sentence in his head. I should have contacted the police immediately, and he was well within his rights to report me to my superiors.

  The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Mifsud stepped aside for Nico to exit. “I’m assuming you plan to remain in Malta for the time being?”

  In other words, don’t leave town.

  Nico removed his visitor’s badge and deposited it in the basket at reception. “You have my card, Inspector. I’ll be at your disposal.”

  Chapter Eleven

  With nothing more he could do regarding Francesca’s disappearance, Nico returned to his hotel to catch up on some emails. At the top of his inbox was Gina’s email advising him she still could not reach either Ervio De Rosa or Vincenzo Testa and she was needed on an urgent case. The burning question on his mind was why neither reporter had come forward after Ariana’s murder. Given their mutual investigative interests into corruption, Nico assumed they would be obsessed with discovering who might have ordered her assassination. And possibly wondering if they’d be next. Perhaps that would explain their unavailability.

  With Gina otherwise tied up, Nico resumed the search for the journalists. At last count, they had eight mobile numbers between them. So, it was with some surprise when Nico’s second call hit pay dirt. Sort of. A woman answered the phone. After he asked to speak to Ervio De Rosa, she replied in rapid Italian that he had the correct number, but she didn’t know where he was or when he’d be back. The more Nico peppered the woman with questions, the more agitated she got, until she hung up on him. But not before he heard children screaming in the background. The journalist had a family. Was that why he’d disappeared? To keep them safe.

  After several more fruitless dials, Nico gave up and called the editor of the newspaper both
men worked for. Another abrupt conversation ensued, during which the editor said he’d have to check Nico’s credentials before giving him any information and then hung up. Stronzo! He couldn’t have done that by doing a quick Google search while he was on the damned phone? Frustrated, Nico shoved his mobile in his pocket and headed down to the front desk.

  He’d been well into his extended time with the police when Nico realized he’d left Gabriela in his room, and Inspector Mifsud had permitted him to call the hotel. A housekeeper had already cleaned up the poor thing’s accident and had taken her to the reception desk where she’d remained ever since. Nico found her curled up in her new bed—a leftover from the innkeeper’s beloved late labrador, Monty. He inquired if he might take her for a walk and couldn’t explain his disappointment when told she’d just returned from one. The canine didn’t even open an eye at the sound of his voice.

  With no dog to walk and still needing to kill time in the slim hope he’d receive a callback from the wretched newspaper editor, Nico walked up the road that led to the main square. This time, when he arrived at Daphne Galizia’s shrine, it looked slightly disheveled. As Francesca had said: the street sweepers had torn it down the previous night—at the behest of the government—only to have the residents rise in arms and resurrect it again. Only in Malta.

  When his mobile rang, no caller ID came up on the display. Nico gazed at the framed photograph at the center of Galizia’s shrine as he took the call.

  “Ciao, Nicoló Moretti speaking.”

  “Signore Moretti? Ciao. This is Vincenzo Testa. I believe you’ve tried to get in touch with me. Several times.”

  “Ah, Signore Testa, thank you for calling me back.”

  The journalist’s tone was warm and apologetic. “I’m sorry I can only speak a minute or two. I’m about to board a flight. My editor said this is about Ariana.”

  “It is.” Nico spoke quickly. “I understand that before her death she sent you a copy of her investigative files.” He still couldn’t wrap his head around Ariana sharing her prosecutorial notes with journalists. Albeit ones with impressive credentials.

  Testa said nothing. If it weren’t for Nico hearing various flight announcements in the background, he would have thought he’d lost the call. “Signore Testa, are you still there?”

  Testa finally spoke. “How do you know that?”

  “She sent copies to you, Ervio De Rosa and one other journalist. I’ve tried to reach De Rosa, but the woman I spoke to wouldn’t tell me his whereabouts.”

  “I asked you how you know that?” Testa’s tone was now frosty. “And who might the other journalist be?”

  Was he really not aware the other journalist was Elle Sinclair, or was he testing Nico?

  “Look, I have to go,” Testa said. “They’re announcing last boarding for my flight. I’ll try to call you when I get to my destination.”

  Before Nico could protest, Testa hung up. Merda.

  He stood gazing at the photograph of Daphne Galizia, her face illuminated by candles. Again, he saw Ariana’s face staring back at him. Pleading him to do something.

  * * *

  When the editor no longer accepted his calls, and Testa hadn’t called back as promised, Nico called his second-in-command.

  “There were flight departures being announced while I spoke with him,” Nico told Sergio on the phone. “Find out what flight he boarded.” If they could nail it down to one or two strong possibilities, Nico’s prosecutorial authority allowed him to pull the passenger manifests from the airlines. In the meantime, he attempted several calls to Ervio De Rosa’s other numbers, each time reaching voicemail. Which, as Nico’s assistant had said, was still full. With each dead-end, his frustration mounted.

  Even though Nico was undoubtedly under scrutiny by Valletta’s police, he was legally free to return to Calabria, though doing so would be ill-advised. Inspector Mifsud had been appropriately deferential at the start of the interview. However, his tone changed dramatically after Nico admitted to entering Francesca’s apartment illegally as well as the threatening note he hadn’t reported. Regardless, returning home wasn’t an option until he found her. Dead or alive. Meanwhile, all Nico could think about was a five-year-old little boy somewhere in a strange place without his mother. Nico prayed Max hadn’t seen the news about her death. Why couldn’t you have told me, Ariana? Even if you didn’t want to be with me, I could have kept him safe.

  It had occurred to Nico several times that the subject of Max had been noticeably absent from his conversation with Elle at Dingli Cliffs. He assumed if she had known about him, she would have said something. Then again, perhaps she was wondering the same thing about him. Somehow, he’d have to figure out a way of finding out. If only he could ask Francesca about her.

  * * *

  Nico sat in the passenger seat as Elle maneuvered the rental car out of Valletta’s city limits and headed toward the ancient walled city of Mdina. Admiring the scenery as they drove through the picturesque countryside, he pondered how best to question her about the other two reporters. And Max. She’d had ample opportunity to bring them up in conversation, but she hadn’t.

  “Do you know if Ariana sent her files to any members of Journalists for Justice other than yourself?” He hoped he sounded casual.

  Elle shook her head without taking her eyes off the road. “Not that I’m aware of, but I suppose it’s possible. We all pledge to carry on each other’s work if anything were to happen to one of us. Why do you ask?”

  He hesitated. It was unethical, if not illegal, for a prosecutor to share information with journalists, no matter how highly regarded they might be. So why had Ariana done so? But he didn’t want to risk offending Elle. “Do you have specific names of others who are members of Journalists for Justice?” he asked.

  “You mean is there a formal list somewhere?” She shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, but I know there’s a lot of us working on these corruption stories worldwide.” She took her eyes off the road briefly and looked over at Nico. “Do you know who Ariana might have sent her notes to?”

  Nico scratched his head. “Not for sure, but Ervio De Rosa or Vincenzo Testa come to mind. Do you know either of them?”

  “Not personally. We don’t travel in the same circles, but I certainly admire their work.” This time, she looked over at him, her expression relaxed. “Is there something you’d like to ask me, Nico? I get the feeling you’re on a fishing expedition.”

  He felt his face flush. “No, not at all. Like you said, you knew of their work and I thought one of them might have contacted you after Ariana’s murder, that’s all.”

  “Well, they might have tried to, but as you know, I left London for Gozo immediately after I learned of her death.”

  If she’d been to Gozo in the past, maybe she knew about Max after all.

  “Back at Dingli Cliffs you asked me if I knew what Ariana was working on before her death. As I said, she was juggling several investigations at once and all had significant implications for those alleged to be involved. As you undoubtedly know, Ariana never did anything half-way.

  Nico nodded, remembering back to his heated discussions with her.

  “As I mentioned,” Elle said, breaking into Nico’s thoughts, “I was working a story about Baldisar Bank in the UK while Ariana investigated in Malta. We discovered the bank was in bed with a pharmaceutical company, Heritage Pharmaceuticals, that had a revolutionary new drug that could inhibit cancer cells.” She paused as she swerved around a slow-moving truck carrying farm equipment.

  Nico surreptitiously fastened his seat belt. “I thought that Britain’s FCA didn’t permit the bank to sign up UK accounts. Did that only apply to individuals and not corporations?”

  “No, that very much applied to corporations. But the Heritage Group is registered in Malta and they own Heritage Pharmaceuticals. That loophole made it possible for them to do business with Baldisar Bank. They were one of the bank’s most lucrative clients.”

  A ve
hicle tried unsuccessfully to merge into their lane. Elle sped up to prevent it from cutting in. Nico was grateful the Maltese drove on the left side of the road, and it wasn’t the passenger’s side that would take the brunt of a side-on collision. Elle seemed oblivious to the rude hand gesture from the driver she’d just cut off.

  “That is,” she continued, “until someone in the university’s lab discovered that some of their research that had been applauded in the medical journals had been falsified.”

  “That couldn’t have been good,” Nico agreed, “but it wasn’t the bank’s fault. They’d have no liability.”

  “Except that it wasn’t just the bank backing the pharmaceutical company, but several of Alesandru Baldisar’s shell companies were heavily invested too. If it got out that the research was in question, he would stand to lose millions. And the losses the bank would suffer could have gone into the billions.”

  Nico let out a low whistle. “What happened to the person who had the inside information?”

  Elle took her eyes off the road and looked over at him long enough to make him clutch the edges of his seat. “He was blown up in a car bombing. In Saint Julian’s, if I recall.”

  Nico thought back to his video call with Pezzente. The three businessmen were killed by the same type of remote device that had killed Ariana. Pezzente had said one victim had worked for a pharmaceutical company. But that they were killed for skimming from a money-laundering scheme. Mulling over that apparent discrepancy, and nervous that Elle would take her eyes off the road again, he remained silent for the rest of the drive.

  * * *

  Once they had parked the car and walked into Mdina’s historic city center, Nico suggested they get a bite to eat. He hoped some food would steady his nerves, which still jangled from her driving. Not to mention his unease about how her story differed quite significantly from Pezzente’s.