Everybody Knows

by Karen Dodd

  “Did Max ever stay with her at her apartment here in Valletta?”

  “Absolutely not. For security reasons, even her mailing address was a post office box. Very few people knew she had a son.”

  “So you have no idea where he could be?” Nico asked.

  Elle looked as frustrated as Nico felt. “It doesn’t make any sense that she wouldn’t have at least told me.” She drew in her breath and fixed him with her glacial stare. “Unless . . .”

  “Unless?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? That Francesca Bruno woman must be involved. You said she told you she and Ariana had been friends since boarding school.” Elle gave a sniff of disdain. “Personally, I find that suspect, given that I never heard Ariana speak of her.”

  Nico’s heart sank. Was it possible Francesca could have staged her disappearance to look like an abduction? And then gone to be with Max wherever she’d taken him before Ariana died?

  It appeared Elle was thinking the same thing. She closed her notebook. “All right, I’ll put off returning to the UK until we find out what that bloody woman did with Max.”

  * * *

  Nico left Elle at the café, relieved she had decided to stay on in Malta. He was conflicted about his feelings for her. Ariana’s death had left such a cavernous hole in his heart. Was he transferring his feelings to Elle? Like Ariana, she was formidable. And she seemed to love Max. Could something grow between them over time? He pushed the thought from his mind.

  Elle said she had some errands to run and then planned to return to her hotel to work on the next installment of her exposé on Heritage Pharma. While chatting over breakfast, she admitted to Nico that she had some regrets about leaving her newspaper to go freelance.

  “I left the BBC because I refused to abide by their personal safety requirements,” she’d said. “But to be honest, I sometimes miss it.”

  That hardly surprised Nico, but it was the first time he’d observed any sense of apprehension in this otherwise steely woman. He wondered if she had a lover, or a close circle of friends in the UK. Someone she might let her guard down with and show her softer side to.

  * * *

  There was still no news from the police about Francesca Bruno’s disappearance. However, Inspector Mifsud had told Nico that Mrs. Cilia—the elderly woman who’d been hurt during the attack at Francesca’s apartment—had been treated and released from the hospital. It was a long shot, but Nico hoped she might shed some light on the comings and goings at Francesca’s apartment in the day or two leading up to her disappearance. And whether she had ever seen Max in Francesca’s presence.

  But instead of Signora Cilia, a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties answered the door.

  “Excuse me,” he said, offering his card. “I’m Nicoló Moretti. I’m a friend of Francesca Bruno. Is Signora Cilia in?”

  The woman smiled warmly upon hearing Francesca’s name, and she opened the door wide. “Yes, yes, come in. Please follow me.”

  Nico followed her down a short hallway and into a small but well-kept living room. Signora Cilia was sitting in a reclining chair, reading. “Sinjur Moretti has come to see you,” the younger woman said.

  The signora pushed the throw from her lap and began to struggle out of her chair.

  “Please don’t get up.” Nico advanced toward her quickly, offering his hand. “I apologize for popping in unannounced, but I didn’t know how to reach you by phone.”

  The elderly woman took Nico’s hand in hers. They were cool and dry to the touch, her fingers gnarled from arthritis. But her eyes, bracketed by decades of lines, burned bright, her expression warm and animated. “I’m so glad you came, sinjur. Please, sit down. Esme, dear, put the kettle on for tea. There are biscuits in the tin above the stove.”

  “Is Esme your daughter?” Nico asked when she had left to make tea.

  “Oh my!” the elderly woman laughed, and her hand flew to her cheek. “You flatter an old woman. No, she is my granddaughter. My daughter—her mother—unfortunately passed some years back. Esme lives with me. I don’t know how I would manage without her.” She pointed to the bandage still covering a part of her head. “Especially now.”

  “Yes, I came by to see how you’re feeling.”

  “How kind of you, but it takes a lot more than a bump on the head to keep me down. Soon I will be as right as rain.”

  Esme arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, milk, sugar and lemon slices. She laid the tray on the coffee table. “Sinjur, is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “No, thank you. This spread looks wonderful. But please, won’t you join us?” Nico hoped he didn’t appear disingenuous. He had come to check on Signora Cilia’s health, but now that he knew Esme lived with her grandmother right across the lane from Francesca’s apartment, he was eager to talk to her as well.

  Esme looked to her grandmother.

  “Yes, bring your tea from the kitchen, dear, and join us. Perhaps you could answer some questions for Sinjur Moretti.” She winked at Nico. “At nearly eighty, my memory is not as sharp as it once was. Anything we can do to help find dear Francesca. I was shocked when the police told me she’d gone missing.”

  “I was wondering if you might have seen anything unusual in the days prior to Francesca’s disappearance,” Nico said when Esme returned.

  “I didn’t.” Signora Cilia turned to her granddaughter. “Did you, Esme?”

  She shook her head. “Not before, no. But afterward, I thought it odd when that man came to the door asking about Francesca.”

  “What man, dear?” Signora Cilia asked before Nico could.

  “You were still in the hospital, Nanna. I thought I’d told you.” She turned to Nico. “A man came to the door and asked if I had a key for Francesca’s apartment.”

  “Was it the police?” Nico asked.

  “No, he said he was a friend of Francesca’s and she was expecting him. He was to stay a few days and he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t there. He thought perhaps he could wait inside for her to return.”

  “My God, child, you didn’t give him the key, did you?”

  “Of course not, Nanna. I’d never do that. But I did give him her mobile number when he asked for it.” Her brow furrowed. “Since then, I’ve been thinking, if he was that close a friend, he would have already had her number.”

  Nico agreed. “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “Swarthy, about five ten. And now that I think of it, he would have been much older than Francesca. Not one of her peers, or a boyfriend, if you know what I mean.”

  Nico’s brain was racing on fast-forward. “Esme, do you think you could give an accurate description to the police?”

  She hesitated a moment, looking to her grandmother for approval.

  “Pupa, tell Sinjur Moretti. Could you give enough of a likeness?”

  “Yes, I believe I could.”

  * * *

  Nico left Signora Cilia with the promise that either he or the police would be in touch with her shortly. Esme said she had to do a few errands but would be back within the hour.

  On the walk back to his hotel, he called and left a message for Mifsud. Like Signora Cilia’s granddaughter, Nico highly suspected that the man she’d described was no friend of Francesca’s. But if he had anything to do with her disappearance, why would he have gone to her neighbor requesting a spare key? Why not break in like before?

  The answer to his question came via a return call from Mifsud. After Nico told him what the young woman had related to him, the detective promised to send a sketch artist around to Signora Cilia’s residence that afternoon.

  “It’s a pity he didn’t go into Miss Bruno’s apartment, legally or otherwise.” Mifsud said before hanging up. “After your attack, and her disappearance, we installed a silent alarm inside her apartment. It would have activated our surveillance camera, and we’d have caught him on video. Possibly, he would have stayed there long enough for us to capture him.�
��

  Nico’s opinion of Valletta’s police department, and Mifsud in particular, went up a notch. As he hung up, he couldn’t help wishing Signora Cilia’s granddaughter had gone against her better judgment and given the swarthy man the key. At least they’d finally have something to go on.

  As he continued his walk back to the hotel, he placed several more calls, including one to his office.

  “I hate to say this, boss,” Sergio said, “but I’m not sure how much longer I can keep making excuses for why you haven’t returned from Malta.”

  Nico felt guilty for putting his second-in-command in such a position, but he cared more about finding Max and Francesca than he did about returning to Tropea. While the timing wasn’t ideal, if need be, he’d put in for vacation time. “Leave it with me, Sergio. I’ll see how quickly I can tie things up here, or let the brass know if I’m going to take some personal time.” Nico put his phone in his pocket as he entered the back lane that was a shortcut to his accommodation. He’d just gone a few steps in when he heard someone call his name.

  “Nico Moretti?” a male voice said from behind him.

  Startled, Nico turned to see who it was. A man he didn’t recognize stood at the entrance to the laneway.

  “Yes, what can I do for— ”

  The words had barely left his lips when a second man darted out from behind a green industrial garbage bin. It happened so fast. Nico felt a rough push from behind, sending him right into the fist of the first man. Someone kicked his feet out from under him. There he lay, with the breath knocked out of him, facedown on the rough cobblestones. He tried to look up to get a better look at his attacker, but before he could gather his wits, two pairs of steel-toed boots pummeled his lower back and sides.

  “We’ve had enough of the likes of you, Mr. Moretti,” one of them said. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home where you came from.”

  What was he talking about? Nico was trying to make sense of what was happening, but he felt like his head was about to explode. A wave of nausea started in his belly and threatened to make its way up his throat.

  The pummeling continued, each kick landed with more force. He tried to roll out of the way, but his feeble effort was met with more blows from the other side.

  “Please, I don’t—” Another hit.

  When he thought he was about to black out, a fist grabbed his hair, lifting his head from the pavement.

  “This is a warning. Next time, we won’t be so gentle,” one of them said.

  Nico felt the hot breath in his ear as whoever was kneeling close to him let out a guffaw. He felt a sharp twinge in his neck as it was ratcheted sideways.

  A door banged open. “Hey! What are you doing?” someone shouted.

  Nico was vaguely aware of a long white apron and a set of feet standing in an open doorway just down the alley from where he lay. “Get away from him before I call the police!”

  Whichever of his attackers had a death grip on his hair released him, and he heard the unmistakable crunch of his nose as his face met the pavement.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Elle gasped when she entered the hospital room. “Jesus, Nico, what the hell happened? You look awful.”

  Nico turned his head and the pain shot up his neck and into his skull so fast he thought his head would explode. Elle winced.

  “It appears . . . two rather large men mistook me . . . for a punching bag in an alley near my hotel.” It hurt to breathe and his voice had a nasal quality to it. Judging from the tightness he felt in his nose, he assumed it was broken. He lifted his hand, which was attached to an IV, to touch his face. Well, there goes my good looks, he thought sardonically. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I called the hotel, and the proprietors told me the police found a receipt from there in your pocket and called them to ask if they knew your next of kin.”

  Nico couldn’t remember anything except praying he wouldn’t die alone in a squalid back alley. Then, as the pain intensified, he prayed he would.

  As Elle pulled a chair closer to the side of his bed, the door swung open and an amiable-looking man in a white coat entered. “Sinjur Moretti, I’m Dr. Camilleri. How are you feeling?”

  Probably as bad as I look, Nico thought. Maybe worse. “I’ve been better.”

  Elle made to get up. “Would you like me to leave?”

  “I’m fine if Sinjur Moretti is.” Nico indicated that Elle should stay. Then he wished he hadn’t moved his head. The pain brought tears to his eyes.

  The doctor flipped through some pages on his clipboard. “We’ve got the results of your X-rays. I’m sure it will come as no surprise that you have a broken nose. And a couple of lacerations on your face that required stitching. You also have two cracked ribs. You took quite a beating to your lower back and torso, causing a lot of soft-tissue damage.”

  No shit, Sherlock. Nico could have sworn a fully loaded bus had used his body as a parking spot. He hurt in places he didn’t even know he had.

  “Although your right kidney is swollen, it doesn’t look like there’s any serious damage.”

  Nico raised his eyebrows. Even that hurt.

  “As in, it hasn’t ruptured,” the doctor explained. “We see this type of injury quite commonly in athletes. Even after abdominal blunt force trauma, you should fully recover with conservative management alone. That means staying in the hospital while we monitor your output.” He looked at Elle. “Are you family?”

  “Yes,” Nico replied before Elle could answer.

  “Then you won’t mind me speaking frankly. You have a catheter.” He pointed toward the side of the bed. Nico didn’t dare move his head to look, but he assumed a bag containing his most personal bodily fluids hung over the side. It was more than he felt comfortable sharing with Elle at this stage in their professional relationship.

  “There is quite a bit of blood in your urine. That’s normal and should start clearing in the next few days to a week.”

  A week! Nico didn’t have a damned week. Francesca and Max might not either.

  As if reading his mind, Dr. Camilleri continued. “If there is no infection or complications, I could release you within the week, but I must warn you, recovery can take as long as a month. And you will need to be very moderate in your activities or exercise for possibly six or eight months.”

  He flipped the pages of his clipboard closed. “Now, if you have no further questions, I believe the police are outside and wish to speak with you.” He addressed Elle as he left. “The best thing you could do for him is to make sure he doesn’t overdo it. Rest and obeying orders will get him out of here faster.”

  No sooner had the door swung closed than it opened again. Nico was disappointed to see an officious-looking, middle-aged man in plainclothes rather than Inspector Mifsud walk into the room. Without introducing himself, the man looked at Elle. “And you would be?”

  This time, before Nico could speak for her, she catapulted from her chair and gave the cop an obvious once-over. Standing directly in his personal space, she towered over him by at least four inches. “And you would be?”

  “Sergeant Panetta.” He looked over at Nico. “Inspector Mifsud asked that I see you until he can return to Valletta. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He took a couple of steps back from Elle. “In private.”

  Mifsud had been here in Valletta when Nico called him minutes before he was attacked in the alley. How long ago was that? How long had he been in the hospital?

  “Do you have a card?” Elle asked, as if reading Nico’s mind.

  The officer reached into his pocket and handed his card not to Elle, but to Nico. “As I said, I need to question you in private.”

  “Nico, I’m going to run,” Elle said. “I have a few things to check out.” She flicked the card, making no secret that the officer might be one of them. “I’ll be back this evening. Let the nurses know if you’d like me to bring you anything.”

>   She pushed past Panetta, then turned around and addressed him. “By the way, Dr. Camilleri has given strict orders for Mr. Moretti to rest. I’ll be asking a nurse to make sure that you don’t keep him too long.” With that, she yanked open the door and charged out of the room.

  * * *

  When Elle returned to the hospital later that evening, she seemed wired. By dinnertime, Nico was running on nothing more than painkillers and some watered-down, nondescript soup. Elle, on the other hand, seemed to have energy to burn.

  Half-heartedly, Elle asked if she could remove any of the lids of the rest of the foul-smelling hospital food, to which Nico declined. Judging by her look of relief, he suspected tending to sick people wasn’t her strong suit. Seemingly eager to share where she’d spent her day after leaving the hospital, she shoved the meal tray to one side of the table and made room for her laptop. “How was your interview with Sergeant Numbnuts?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. Apparently, he was sending someone around to question the restaurant worker who, fortunately for me, came out for a smoke while I was being attacked.” Based on what Francesca had told him about the lack of follow up by the police following Ariana’s murder, Nico doubted it would provide anything fruitful. “Other than that, I guess we wait until Inspector Mifsud returns.” Somewhere in his room at the hotel was Mifsud’s card, but Nico had no idea where it was, or even if it would have the inspector’s direct mobile on it.

  Elle was so focused on something on her computer that Nico doubted she was even aware he’d answered her question about Panetta.

  “Look at this.” Elle spun her laptop to face Nico. With the aid of some extra pillows, he could sit up in bed for short periods of time. However, the pain was telling him that time was closing in. While he envied Elle’s frenetic energy, he considered suggesting she switch to decaf.

  She pointed to the computer screen. “In what appears to be a colossal public-relations move—no doubt a thinly veiled effort to win back the support of Valletta’s citizens—the local police have just announced that two people have been taken into custody in connection with Ariana’s murder.”