by Karen Dodd
“So let me get this straight,” Nico said on the phone to Mifsud from his hospital bed. “Her name wasn’t on the manifest?” Could something have happened to her on the way to the airport? “Did you have someone double-check it?”
“Of course.” Mifsud sounded indignant. He may not have said “I told you so,” but the sentiment was evident in his promise to look into it further and keep Nico posted.
Gingerly, Nico swung his legs over the side of the bed and let out a massive sigh. Elle Sinclair was officially missing person number three. And the last thing he intended to do was languish in bed waiting on someone to find her.
He gritted his teeth as he packed the last of his belongings into a hospital-issue plastic bag. A nurse had alerted his attending physician when she discovered her patient had unhooked himself from his IV and was almost fully dressed.
“Sinjur Moretti, I must caution you, it’s too early to leave the hospital,” Dr. Camilleri said when he burst in. “While your injuries are healing well, you have a long way to go. You need to rest at least until the end of the week, and then ongoing therapy after that.”
“I appreciate your advice, Doctor, but I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.”
“I will refuse to sign your release papers.”
Nico shoved his laptop into the bag and pulled the drawstring closed. “Well, that’s certainly your prerogative, but it isn’t going to change anything.”
“You at least need to come back for outpatient physiotherapy!” was all Nico heard as the door swung closed behind him.
* * *
Nico managed to snag a taxi from the hospital to Valletta’s central square. While he’d thought it quaint that no cars were allowed on the main street, now he cursed to himself as he hobbled back to his hotel on foot. When he finally made it in the door, the proprietor looked up. Judging by the shocked expression on her face, Nico assumed he must have looked like the walking dead. She’d insisted on sending a tray up to his room and while he appreciated it, he had little appetite. Instead, he reached for a glass of water and knocked back a couple of painkillers.
“Shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?” Sergio asked when Nico called. “We expected you to be on sick time for at least another two weeks.”
“Yes, well, that’s another story. Right now, I need you to get me everything you can on Special Investigator Roberto Pezzente. And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about Francesca Bruno.”
That could prove more challenging as Bruno was a Maltese citizen, but if anyone could get the lowdown on her, it would be Sergio. “This is top priority. Pass off anything you’re working on that’s urgent to Ferraro. I’ve already given him the heads-up.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”
“Sooner,” Nico snapped and hung up.
Since the drive back from Mdina, he couldn’t get Elle’s comment about Francesca out of his mind. There was no doubt Francesca had been devastated when she’d pleaded with him that day at Ariana’s apartment, to find her killer. But now he was seriously beginning to contemplate the possibility that she had staged her own kidnapping and had actually been the one to have taken Max away before Ariana was murdered.
* * *
He’d dozed off when Sergio’s call came in. “I’ve sent you my summary findings by email. I’m leaving the office shortly for my little girl’s birthday party, but if you have any questions after you’ve read it, I’ll make myself available.”
“Thank you, Sergio. I appreciate it.” As Nico hung up the phone and booted up his laptop, he thought of his own son, who he hadn’t even met. He berated himself for not knowing Sergio’s daughter’s name or how old she was turning. It was something he needed to change when he eventually got back home.
As he read through the confidential dossier, it became abundantly clear that the Pezzente family’s wealth could easily account for the flashy Rolex watch and the vintage Maserati the special investigator apparently drove. But those appeared to be his only concessions to being anything other than a paid government employee—albeit it one who, until recently, had been in the exclusive employ of the Italian government. Pezzente lived in a working-class section of Vibo Valentia, where he owned a modest apartment and lived alone—no wife, no kids. Not even a steady girlfriend, according to the report.
Nico scrolled through the attachment, scanning its contents. A lengthy entry that dated back almost ten years was followed by a more recent one. After reading them thoroughly—twice—he sat in shocked silence, struggling to digest the implications.
It would seem the current administration had chosen Roberto Pezzente as the new PM’s most trusted assistant for a good reason.
The dossier outlined how, as a young investigator, Roberto Pezzente had earned his chops rousting several Mafia bosses out of bunkers buried in multiple locations beneath small towns in Rosarno, Calabria. Some had built elaborate underground homes where they could live for years, surfacing only in the dead of night to order executions or plan elaborate operations in a handful of countries, including Malta. By 2010, Pezzente and his team were responsible for two of the largest busts ever made on Italian soil. One involved laundering 8.5 million euros buried in the form of three hundred tons of chocolate. The other involved several tons of cocaine hidden in wholesale flower orders on the way to the Netherlands.
The busts put Pezzente on a career trajectory that read like the who’s who of criminal investigations. In short, it brought him the kind of attention that the Mafia could no longer tolerate. They decided to teach him a lesson. Eight years ago, he lost not only the wife who had been his childhood sweetheart, but twin nine-year-old daughters who looked like mini-clones of their stunningly beautiful mother. The investigator’s family had been killed, in cold blood, in front of him. But first, he’d had to watch while his wife was raped and brutally beaten. Mercifully, the bastards who did it shielded Pezzente’s children from witnessing the horrific scene, but eventually they, too, were paraded out in front of him. Each child died by a single bullet to the head.
After a leave of absence, followed by an unblemished record of criminal investigations, Pezzente’s tenacity put him squarely in the sights of the soon-to-be prime minister.
When Italy’s former prime minister was ousted, his successor made it widely known that he would be the one to finally take on the rampant corruption that trickled down from the top. That meant attempting to rein in the infamous ’Ndrangheta—the Mafia clan who also happened to be the ones responsible for the killing of Pezzente’s family.
Roberto Pezzente was the first major hire of the new administration. The PM’s office couldn’t have recruited anyone better than a man who would have the strongest of reasons for bringing the criminals responsible for the deep-seated corruption to justice. A reason that was likely predicated by a long-simmering, all-consuming desire for revenge. A top member of the prime minister’s inner circle, Pezzente was known as il Toro. The Bull.
Nico scrolled through the files on his computer for the photograph of the man who it seemed fairly certain was Pezzente receiving an envelope of money.
He sat back and stared at the images until they were indelibly etched on his brain. Was it possible that The Bull had turned?
Nico’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. He grunted his greeting.
“I hesitate to ask you this,” Inspector Mifsud said to him down the line. “But we have a possible lead regarding the disappearance of Sinjorina Bruno.”
Though the pain thrummed through his body, Nico was instantly alert.
“I can’t discuss it over the phone,” Mifsud said, “but do you feel up to—”
Nico interrupted. “What time should I be ready?”
Chapter Eighteen
“How are you feeling?” Mifsud asked as Nico gingerly lowered himself into the passenger seat of the unmarked police vehicle. He winced as he did up his seat belt. And thought about his bruised kidney.
&nb
sp; “Not like running a marathon, that’s for sure. But I’m doing better, thank you.”
Mifsud looked at him with a raised eyebrow, then pulled out into traffic.
“So here’s what we know,” he said. “A confidential informant has told us that in the past few days, there’s been people coming and going at a disused vineyard in Ta Qali. It’s about ten minutes from here.”
Like Tropea, Nico thought, in Valletta, nothing is very far from anything. “Do you think it’s a credible tip?”
The inspector shook his head. “One can never be sure, but we can’t afford to ignore it. He recognized the vehicle of one of the men he saw entering the property. Then, after watching it for a day or two, he saw a woman being driven in by another man, and neither of them came out again.”
“Did the woman fit Francesca’s description?” Nico asked.
“We showed him her photograph, but he couldn’t say with any certainty. Just that it was unusual to see people coming or going from the property.”
Puzzled, Nico looked over at Mifsud. “I know. It’s tenuous at best. Though he won’t admit to it, we’re fairly certain our informant has been using the property.”
“You mean living there?”
Mifsud laughed. “Not exactly. I suspect if we did a flyover, we’d see a sizeable marijuana crop in among the old grapevines. I don’t know why we don’t just legalize the damned stuff, it’s not as if—.” He tapped the communications feed in his ear. “Excuse me.”
Mifsud listened, then punched a button on the dash. “There’s been a positive sighting. It could be Sinjorina Bruno.”
Sirens wailed and lights flashed, transforming the unmarked car into an official police vehicle. The previously mild-mannered inspector floored the gas, and they sped down the highway, flying past signs so fast they all melded into a blur. By Nico’s estimation, they’d gone about twelve kilometers when Mifsud turned onto a gravel road. Without decreasing speed, he expertly swerved around potholes and ruts in the road. The car flew momentarily as it hit a mammoth bump, then bottomed out in a hollow on the other side. Nico clenched his teeth and hung on to the hand rest each time, trying to minimize the pain to his ribs.
“Sorry,” Mifsud said. Nico just nodded and hoped they were close to their destination.
A dilapidated wooden structure came into view, which Nico thought might have been a barn or possibly a farmhouse in better days. Mifsud killed the siren and came to a screeching halt on a makeshift driveway. Judging by the flattened weeds and bushes, someone had used the access recently.
Mifsud pulled his firearm from its holster and opened the car door. “Stay in the car until backup arrives. They have our location.”
No worries, pal. I think the siren and lights might have tipped off the bad guys, anyway. They were probably long gone by now, but if Francesca was there . . . Nico gazed out past the vast fields of overgrown hay, a sea of golden waves rippling in the gentle breeze. Beyond that was a solid row of trees, likely built to protect the vineyard from more robust winds. The dense cypress hedge would make a great hiding place for anyone who might have gotten that far before he and Mifsud had arrived, like the circus coming to town.
He watched the inspector creep along one edge of the building, his back snugged up to what was left of the sun-bleached wooden wall, firearm held in both hands. Then he disappeared out of sight. Nico strained to hear if sirens were approaching. Nothing.
Then he heard it. The unmistakable sound of gunshot.
Nico launched himself from the car, running—as best he could with two cracked ribs—in the direction he’d last seen Mifsud. He could smell the cordite in the air, but everything was eerily quiet as he mimicked what he’d seen Mifsud do. Crouched low, he hugged the wall, sliding along it. He was all too aware that the difference was he had no weapon and his right side throbbed with pain.
He advanced slowly, inch by inch. What was he going to do when he got to the end? If he stuck his head out, it was entirely possible that whoever had just shot Mifsud would pick him off in an instant. One more step forward and he’d run out of wall. With an enormous inhale, he forced himself to dart his head out and look around the corner. Mifsud lay facedown on the trampled grass. Dead? Or just injured? He’d been hit either way, and having heard only one shot, that meant whoever shot him was close by. He darted his head back in and exhaled as quietly as he could.
Nico’s pulse thrummed in his ears as he debated whether he should expose himself by going to check on the downed cop or hope backup might arrive within the minutes Mifsud had promised. Instinct told him he only had seconds to decide. As his pulse reached deafening proportions, he squatted low to the ground and half waddled, half crawled to the inspector.
The instant he reached Mifsud’s side, he knew he’d made a fatal mistake. A tall dark figure stepped from a doorless entrance mere feet away from where Nico remained frozen on the ground, a gun pointed directly at him.
The man stepped out from the shadows. “Don’t even think about it.” The eyes were hard, his expression devoid of emotion, but the voice said otherwise. This was someone teetering on the edge. Someone Nico was sure would make good on his threat.
He slowly stood up and put his hands in the air. The pain shot down his side. “I’m not armed.”
“Take off your jacket and throw it toward me. Then put your hands up and turn all the way around.”
Nico did as he was told. As he turned his back on the armed man, his scalp prickling with sweat, he prayed he’d remain alive long enough to circle back around. Any second, he expected to feel the heat of a bullet smash into his spine. He prayed it would be his head and that it would be over quickly.
Instead, something whizzed past Nico’s shoulder at breakneck speed. The bullet hit the gunman square in the middle of his forehead. At least that’s where Nico thought it hit. It was hard to tell. His face had become a bloody pulp before he pitched backward and fell to the ground.
“Put your hands up!” Cops in full sniper gear converged on the scene like a colony of hornets. Nico whirled around. All guns were pointed in his direction.
“That means you,” one cop bellowed. “Put your hands in the air. Now!”
While one cop checked the man they’d just shot, another kneeled at Mifsud’s side with a hand to his neck. “He has a pulse, get an ambulance!”
* * *
Nico paced the floor outside Inspector Mifsud’s hospital room. Dr. Camilleri, the same surgeon who had cobbled Nico back together, came out into the hallway.
“He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’ve removed the bullet. Fortunately, there was no damage to any vital organs. Now our biggest factor is the risk of infection.”
“Can I see him?”
“You may, but only for a few minutes.”
Nico shook the doctor’s hand. “I promise, I will only look in on him. No questions.”
“You should be worried about yourself, too. You left the hospital far too soon,” Camilleri said. Nico didn’t reply. “There’s a room off the doctors’ lounge you can use if you need to rest. I will have a nurse wake you when he comes around.”
* * *
Nico had popped another pain pill and was in a deep sleep when he was awoken by a repeated nudge to his shoulder. Irritated, he pulled the thin blanket around him.
“Sinjur, Dr. Camilleri asked me to awaken you. The inspector is conscious now.”
Nico opened his eyes and blearily remembered where he was.
Guns. Those eyes. Mifsud shot. Lots of blood.
Instantly awake, Nico pulled back the cover, dragged himself off the cot and limped down the hall to Mifsud’s room.
Dr. Camilleri was there, along with a nurse who was monitoring the inspector’s vital signs. “Five minutes with him, that’s all. And if I see him becoming agitated, you stop. Are we clear?”
“Completely,” Nico said, and the doctor stepped back to allow him access to Mifsud’s bed. He had taken it upon himself to learn the inspector’s first name, Mi
kel, and what family he might have. His wife and three children were en route to the hospital. His face was pale, his eyes closed. He reached out and touched his forearm. “Mikel, it’s Nico Moretti. How are you feeling, my friend?”
No response.
“Your wife is on her way. She should be here soon.”
Nico thought he saw Mifsud’s eyelids flutter, but he suspected it was fruitless to try to get anything from him for now. And he had promised the doctor. He gently patted the detective’s hand. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling stronger. In the meantime, focus on getting well and seeing those beautiful little girls of yours.”
As Nico pulled his hand away, Mifsud grasped it. Weakly, but he held on to it. “Sinclair,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry, your colleagues are doing everything to find her,” Nico assured him. “You just get well.”
“No, no.” Mifsud’s voice was hoarse, and he became more and more agitated. The nurse who had been watching the monitor looked at the doctor over her shoulder.
Dr. Camilleri stepped forward. “That’s enough for now.”
“She has him,” Mifsud said, barely above a whisper.
Nico put his arm out to hold the doctor back. “Please,” he whispered to him, “one more minute.”
The doctor backed off.
“Mikel, do you mean Francesca?” Nico held his breath. “Who is she?”
“Doctor, his blood pressure is going off the charts,” the nurse reported.
Camilleri moved forward and pushed Nico out of the way. “That’s enough, Sinjur Moretti. You need to leave. Now.”
* * *
After being banished from Mifsud’s room, Nico pulled out his mobile phone. What did Mifsud mean? Who was “she”? Could he mean Francesca? And where was Elle? There were still so many questions, and Nico felt like he was no closer to the answers. But there was something he could do.
