by Karen Dodd
Nico sat bolt upright, then winced at the pain. PR stunt or not, at least the authorities finally seemed to be taking her assassination seriously. “Are they holding them at the Valletta police station?” That must be what was holding Mifsud up.
“Not exactly, no,” Elle said with a smirk. She tapped a key, and a video started playing. She turned up the sound.
Nico watched closely at what appeared to be a police raid on a bar as it unfolded on-screen. The background was dark except for a few bobbing lights. Flashlights? There were some loud pops like gunfire and the night air lit up. The camera then focused on the front of the building. Seconds later, the doors flew open and people swarmed out into the street like locusts. Police lights illuminated the sky and Nico heard sirens in the background. With the extra light, he could now make out the building clearly.
He leaned forward and squinted. It couldn’t be. “Can you back it up a few seconds?” Elle pressed Pause, slid the red bar at the bottom, then pressed the arrow for play. Nico knew this place. It was a well-known bar frequented mostly by commercial fishermen down by the Port of Tropea. “This is in Calabria, not Malta. I don’t understand—”
Elle raised her hand. “Wait, it gets better.” She clicked on another link and a second video came up.
Against his better judgment, Nico sat bolt upright and pulled Elle’s laptop closer. He pushed the searing pain to the back of his mind. Caught in the lights of the marina’s main dock, a stocky man hastily untied the bow and stern lines of a launch before jumping on board. A second man was at the helm. He turned to look over his shoulder, presumably to make sure they were untied before gunning the engine and taking off into the dark. Something about him seemed familiar to Nico, but it was too fast and the video too grainy to make out either of the men’s faces.
“It’s been all over the news,” Elle said. “‘Calabrians behind Ariana Calleja’s assassination. Malta exonerated of any ties to her death,’” she quoted. “It goes on—do you want me to read more?”
Nico leaned back and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Nico. I know this isn’t what you wanted. Sadly, it looks like the two thugs they’ve apprehended are Italians. And things aren’t looking too good for your new prime minister either. The one that was voted in on a vehement anticorruption platform, I might add.”
Nico sensed Elle’s body as she sat on the side of his bed. His eyelids felt like lead, but he willed them to open.
“From everything I’m getting from my media sources, neither of the arrested men are purported to be that bright.” Elle picked absently at some lint on the hospital blanket. “In my opinion, the two thugs that police rounded up at the bar might have detonated the bomb, but they most certainly weren’t the masterminds behind it. I think they were working for someone. The question is who.
“I don’t believe in coincidences. I think it’s highly likely that someone involved in that police raid paid them to take care of Ariana.”
* * *
After an endless night of listening to hospital alarms and nurses waking him to take his vitals, the only thing Nico wanted to see less than another hospital breakfast was Sergeant Panetta. But in he strode, a cup of takeout coffee in hand.
“I thought you might like something other than hospital swill,” he said, depositing the coffee on the table beside Nico’s bed. “My wife said the only thing that’s worse here are the mushy peas.”
“Your wife is in the hospital?”
Panetta shook his head. “She works here. She’s a nurse on another floor. I was hoping she could quit,” he said, rubbing the stubble of his beard. “But after the birth of our third child, that has proven to be impossible.”
For some reason, that added a touch of humanity to the man Nico had otherwise disliked at first glance. The cost of living was much higher in Malta than in Nico’s native Italy. Feeding three children on a police officer’s salary would be a challenge. On the other hand, Nico thought as he inhaled the pungent aroma of dark-roasted coffee, it could also mean the sergeant might be on the take.
“Thank you,” Nico said. “Any word from Inspector Mifsud?”
Panetta shook his head. “I haven’t checked in with my office yet. I came straight here.”
Just to bring me coffee?
“As you are aware, the alley where you were attacked is only minutes away from your hotel. Who knew where you were staying?”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“With the attack so close, your assailants would have had to have known you were staying at the hotel.”
Nico considered that for a moment. “Unless I was followed.” He instantly wished he hadn’t said that.
“Unless you were followed,” Panetta agreed. “Where did you say you were coming from?”
I didn’t. “I was out doing some errands. You know, the usual things: the pharmacy, the newsstand . . .”
Panetta consulted his notebook. “Your journalist friend, Sinjorina Sinclair. She knew where you were staying, correct?”
He’d checked up on Elle. “Well, yes, but so did several others I’ve met since arriving in Valletta.”
“That’s a good place to start.” Panetta clicked his pen. “Can you give me a list of names?”
Nico went through everyone he’d met since arriving in Malta. “The hotel staff, obviously.” There was the waitress at the café, but he didn’t remember telling her where he was staying. Now he felt foolish; he couldn’t think of anyone else.
“What about Miss Bruno? I understand she met you at your hotel the day you arrived from Tropea.”
How the hell did Panetta know that? He remembered Francesca’s warning against using names until they got outside. He’d thought it ridiculous at the time. But someone knew they met. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so cooperative with the sergeant for now. “Well, as she has disappeared under suspicious circumstances, I would rather doubt she had anything to do with my attack. Have the police made any progress in their search for her?”
The officer didn’t look up from his notebook. “Not that I’m aware of, but possibly Inspector Mifsud can shed more light on that. So there’s no one else you can think of who knew where you were staying?”
Nico was racking his brain for anyone he might have forgotten when the door opened, and Elle burst in. She pulled up short on seeing Panetta, and the pair eyed each other like startled cats.
“Sinjorina Sinclair.” He gestured to the chair beside Nico’s bed. “Please come in. We were just speaking of you.”
She ignored the invitation to sit. “Really? And why would that be?”
“I understand you’ll be leaving us to go back to London.”
What? Elle had told Nico she’d put off her plans for now.
“I hope it’s nothing I’ve done to chase you away from our beautiful city.” Sergeant Panetta smiled. It didn’t suit him.
When Nico looked at Elle, her cheeks were pink and her eyes had turned a steely glint.
“Sergeant . . . what did you say your name was?”
Nico suspected that Elle never forgot a name, and she was just yanking the officer’s chain. Trying to make him feel less important than a flea on a dog.
“Panetta.”
“Yes, well, Sergeant Panetta, you overestimate your influence. I’m well acquainted with your captain and I can assure you, if you had done anything to upset me, he’d be the first to know.”
The blow sat between them like a sheet of ice. Nico suspected the first one to skate across it would be the loser.
* * *
“Miserable man,” Elle said to Nico when Panetta was barely out of earshot.
“Do you really know his captain?”
“Yes, of course.” Elle winked and gave him a sly grin. “Though I only met him once at a police ball I attended with Ariana.”
“Ariana attended police functions here in Valletta?” That surprised him.
“Oh, yes. She never missed the opportunity to stick it to them. She wa
s often quoted in articles about all the criminal activities that the upper echelon of the police maintained they had no knowledge of.”
“And she was still invited?”
“Of course not, but when did that ever stop Ariana?”
Good point, Nico thought. And no doubt one of the many traits that might have got her killed. “So, what’s this about you leaving to go back to London? I thought you’d changed your mind for now.” There it was again—a feeling he couldn’t describe—but he wanted her to stay.
Elle didn’t make eye contact as she fussed with something in her bag. “You’re going to be laid up for a while, even when you’re released from the hospital. And there’s nothing further I can do here. Now that the thugs who carried out the bombing are in custody, I need to get back and tap my sources for what’s going to happen with Baldisar and Heritage Pharma. Their stock price has hit the floor and I’m sure it will drop even further.
“I ran into Dr. Camilleri in the hall,” Elle continued. “He expects you to be released by the end of the week but advises against travel for at least two weeks. So, with you here in Malta and your relationship with the local police inspector, I feel comfortable the investigation will go on without me.”
It wasn’t lost on Nico that she had said nothing about Francesca, but what about Max? He remembered the light in her eyes when she talked about his visit to London. It was the only time he’d seen any hint of a soft center to this hard-nut journalist. “When will you leave?”
“Today, on the four-o’clock flight. But I’ll keep you posted.” She picked up her bag. Then, seemingly unsure of what to do, she leaned over and grasped Nico’s hand. He thought she was about to kiss him when Dr. Camilleri walked in.
“I can come back,” he said with a smile.
“No need,” Elle said. “I was just leaving. Take good care of him.” She blew Nico a kiss. “I’ll call you when I get back to London.”
Chapter Sixteen
Even though Nico’s physiotherapy session was brief, his entire body ached. Frustrated, he wondered if he’d ever regain his strength. He felt like one enormously tender bruise, inside and out. Feeling miserable, he tried to distract himself from the fact that the time was nearing seven o’clock. Another half hour and Elle’s plane should land at Heathrow.
Surer than ever that he’d been run over by a bus, he collapsed into the chair beside his hospital bed and tried to recall the notes he’d left taped to the wall in his room at the hotel. He wondered if it would be a huge imposition to call and ask if the young man who’d brought him the butcher paper and markers could bring his notes to the hospital.
He was mulling that over when Inspector Mifsud walked through the door. At last. Hopefully, that meant he didn’t have to deal with Panetta again. He still wasn’t sure if he trusted him. But before he could ask the inspector about Francesca, the look on his face caused a chill to run up Nico’s spine.
Mifsud slowly and purposefully closed the door behind him. He turned to face Nico. “Sinjur Moretti, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Oh, dear God, please, no. Max? Elle?
“There has been an incident on St. Nicholas Street.”
The street name sounded familiar, but Nico couldn’t put his finger on it.
“I’m sorry to inform you that we found the body of Esme Agius two blocks from her home a few hours ago.”
Signora Cilia’s granddaughter. Nico was stunned. “What?”
Mifsud indicated the side of the bed. “May I?” Nico nodded, and the inspector sat down opposite him.
“They found her with her throat slit in a laneway near her home. Unlike the men who attacked you, this was professional. They knew exactly what they were doing.”
Madonna . . . Nico had led the killer right to her by going to visit the old woman. Signora Cilia . . . ? He was afraid to ask. “And Esme’s grandmother?”
“She was the one who reported her granddaughter missing,” Mifsud replied. “As you can imagine, she is extremely distraught.”
Nico couldn’t imagine. The old woman’s grown daughter had died young, and now her granddaughter had been taken from her.
“As you’re aware, someone came to Sinjura Cilia’s door asking for a spare key to Francesca Bruno’s residence. After you’d been in her apartment and Sinjorina Bruno had disappeared.” Mifsud checked something in a spiral-bound notebook before continuing. “That would make it the eleventh of May.”
“We think whoever killed Sinjorina Agius did so because they knew she could identify at least one of them—the one that went to her door asking for a key.”
“That makes no sense,” Nico replied. “She didn’t give him a key, and while I agree it was odd, he could have simply broken into Francesca’s apartment. Obviously he didn’t, or he would have activated the surveillance camera.”
Mifsud dropped his eyes to the notebook in his lap. He closed it, then looked at Nico. At that moment, the man looked more like a puppy who’d just wet the floor than he did a police Inspector.
“I’m afraid that’s where we have discovered a bit of a problem. It would appear that he did break into Miss Bruno’s apartment.”
“I don’t understand. Then why would he have gone looking for a key?”
“He broke in sometime after that.”
“But you said there was a silent alarm—”
“Something tripped the alarm, but it appears to have been . . .” With a pained expression, he cleared his throat. “It appears that no one in the station observed that there had been a break-in.”
The potential killer was right there. Valletta Police could have caught him red-handed, and no one noticed an alarm being activated? A mounting sense of rage crawled its way up Nico’s spine and tightened across his already bruised body. He clenched his fists in his lap. Words he knew he’d soon regret spewed forth.
“What kind of police department are you running? Not only could you have caught him in Francesca’s apartment, but he might have led us to her.” Nico gulped for air. “Not to mention the fact that Esme Agius would be alive today. Figlio di puttana! Son of a bitch!”
Inspector Mifsud sat with his head down, absorbing the tirade in silence. When Nico had exhausted himself, Mifsud placed his notebook on the bed beside him. He caught Nico’s angry glare and held it.
“Sinjur Moretti, I don’t expect this to provide much comfort, or for you to even believe me. You are correct on all counts and it is something I deeply regret.” He steepled his hands together as if in prayer. “But I give you my personal assurance that the matter of Sinjorina Agius’s murder, and the disappearance of Sinjorina Bruno will be my top priority—my only priority from this moment.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe you. Why should I?” Nico knew he was pushing his luck, given his own transgression in not reporting Francesca’s disappearance sooner. “What assurance can you give me that the morons—your colleagues whom you have the audacity to call police professionals—won’t screw up again out of gross incompetency? You at least have the footage of whoever triggered the alarm, correct?” Nico hoped these idiots at least knew how to press record, let alone the brains to put out an all-points bulletin. How hard could it be to find someone they’d captured dead to rights on camera?
Mifsud stood and cleared his throat again. “The surveillance footage is missing. It’s been erased from our main computer. We have a technician trying to recover it as we speak.”
Santo cazzo Madre di Cristo! “You call yourselves a police force?” Nico railed. “How can anyone be this incompetent?”
Mifsud’s expression turned grave. “The oversight of the silent alarm being set off in Miss Bruno’s apartment wasn’t caused by incompetency.”
“Oh, really? What would you call it, then?”
“Corruption. I’m ashamed to tell you that the team member who was tasked with monitoring Miss Bruno’s apartment deliberately didn’t report that someone had broken in and tripped the alarm. Not to me, nor my superiors.”
Like that was supposed to make him feel better? It reinforced what Nico and so many others knew: Malta was rife with corruption. As Elle had said, it was no surprise it extended to the capital city’s police force.
“However,” Mifsud continued, “the officer in question has been removed from his duties and is being held pending charges. His wife, who works here at this hospital, has also been suspended until the authorities can determine if she had knowledge of his connections to organized crime.”
“Wait. Officer Panetta?”
“I’m afraid so. We have linked him to the two men police arrested in your jurisdiction of Tropea. He appears to have been the one who tipped off whoever killed Miss Agius and attacked you in the laneway. Now, we need to determine who they were working for.”
Livid, Nico was about to tear another strip off the inspector when his mobile phone vibrated on the bedside table. He had set an alarm for the approximate time Elle would land at Heathrow, wanting to check that she arrived safely. Or maybe he just wanted to hear her voice.
Still glaring at Mifsud, he snatched the phone off the table and stopped the alarm. Then he hit speed dial. Three rings, four. On the fifth it went to voicemail. “Elle, call me the minute you get in,” he said. “No matter the hour. It’s urgent.” He was about to hang up, then put the phone back to his ear. “And, be careful.”
Chapter Seventeen
By 9 p.m., an hour and a half after Elle’s plane landed in London, she’d still not called Nico back. He was starting to get worried. When he’d raised his concerns with Inspector Mifsud, he’d requested a police officer meet her at the arrival gate—“assuming she actually boarded the flight,” he’d cautioned. When no one resembling Elle’s description was spotted, he had her paged numerous times. And still nothing.
