“Hotel, which hotel.”
She unzipped her backpack, hunted through the pockets, and extracted an envelope. She opened it and removed a piece of paper. Squinting, she read the small print: “The Aqua Palace Hotel.”
After crossing the lagoon through a watery road fixed by marker piers, the motor launch turned into a narrow gap in the broad and colorful façade of buildings that fronted the lagoon and slowly made its way through the intricate maze of canals.
“A shortcut, signora,” Giuseppe said. “Is this your first time to Venice?”
She looked up at the man, who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five. “Yes,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine.
“It is a magical place, even if a bit cold today. But she will still warm your heart,” he said as he slowly moved his way past three gondoliers and their boats.
Alex stared in wonder as they motored through the canals that were the streets of Venice. The ancient buildings, their foundations built deep into the mud, rose up on either side. She watched the boatman wave at the tourists as he maneuvered the launch under a series of low stone bridges. Many of the tourists were wearing masks and colorful costumes.
“Are they always dressed like that?” she asked.
“No, signora, it is Carnevale. We are a few days from the start of Lent, when we have to atone for our sins.” A big grin crossed his face.
When they entered the Grand Canal, a million images, indelibly imprinted from her youth, flooded Alex’s head. It was all a whirl in her mind. After passing under the Rialto Bridge, Giuseppe turned into a side canal and wove between four- and five-story brick and plaster buildings that crowded the waterway. Even in her transatlantic stupor, she was mesmerized by the architecture and the total disconnect from Cleveland. The boat idled along the canal at less than walking speed as more gondolas sculled their way past.
“Giuseppe, do you ever get lost?” she asked.
“I never get lost; this is my home. I grew up here. Just a few hundred meters more.”
The boat eased around a corner and then hugged the canal wall as a barge motored past them. It was full to the gunnels with crates of fresh fruits and vegetables. Giuseppe waved at the young man helming the barge.
“I know that kid since I was a bambino. Some of us never leave the islands and the canals.”
Giuseppe allowed the boat to gently drift to a stone stoop that led up to the entry of a hotel. A small sign on the wall said “Aqua Palace.” He tossed a rope to the doorman, who secured the line to a mooring pole and took Alex’s bag from Giuseppe. The boatman then swiped her credit card and returned it. She counted out a few extra euros and handed them to him.
Giuseppe smiled at the tip and gave her a business card. “Please, signora, call anytime. I am at your service.”
With his arm to steady her, Alex stepped onto the stone stoop and, like a princess being delivered to a dream palace, felt for the first time the solid ground of Venice under her feet.
CHAPTER 4
Marika stood in the bridge with Pavelić and watched as the morning turned the black sky gray. Ahead, lights twinkled like brilliant Morse code dots and dashes from the windows of the buildings on the low strand of land stretched across the dark horizon. This barrier island, called the Lido, protected Venice and its enclosed lagoon from the direct and eternal ravages of the Adriatic Sea. She had once spent a week there with her family. Two stark and squat lighthouses flanked the narrow entry into the lagoon from the Adriatic. Beyond them, the lights of Venice still lit the low clouds that hung like a veil over the ancient city. Boris sat on a chair in the back of the bridge, his wounded arm bandaged and in a sling.
“We were lucky,” Pavelić said as he blew smoke into the dark cabin. “Risky, very risky. Your friends were stupid. They have now learned not to screw with me.” He throttled back the one still-functioning engine. “One engine always makes me uneasy.” An hour earlier, Pavelić had aimed his boat at the lighthouse from the first moment it flashed on the horizon. “I can breathe more easily now. I have a friend in the north end of the lagoon where I can get my Irena repaired. Luckily, there will be dozens of boats at the entry—they come and go all the time. After we enter the harbor, I’ll drop you at a small pier near the ferry stop. The ferries start their rounds early. One should soon come along.”
“Thank you,” Marika said. “Can’t say it wasn’t interesting.”
“Yes, it was that. Your money might be enough to get my Irena fixed. Not a very profitable trip.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem, maybe I should just kidnap you and sell you to whoever was chasing us. You must be worth a lot of money.”
She tightened her grip on the pistol in her pocket.
“Don’t worry, if I were to do something like that, the word would be out in hours—and my livelihood and my life would be worth nothing. I hope that those you are running from do not find you. They appear to be dangerous as well as stupid.”
“Yes, they are.”
As the cruiser slowed, Boris leaped to the dock and with his one good hand fended off the Irena’s bow from the tarred wood of the pier. He waved to Marika, who followed. As Pavelić backed away from the pier, Boris nimbly vaulted back into the craft.
Before Marika even reached the end of the dock, the Irena had disappeared into the morning mist.
It was good to feel the solid land of the Lido after the last several hours on the Irena. Her body still felt the rocking of the boat; her stride was like a tipsy sailor’s. At the San Nicolo vaporetto pier, a dozen people waited for the ferry to make its stop. Like Marika, they would transfer at the Sant’ Elena water-bus stop and then proceed to their destinations on one of the three main islands that make up Venice.
As Marika waited, she avoided the eyes of the commuters. She knew she was a mess. On the Irena she had tried, with limited success, to untangle the rat’s nest of her blonde hair with a small brush from her bag. She had succeeded only in shaking out some of the dried salt water. Three men, dressed in suits and ties, stood off to the side, watching her and smoking. The vaporetto was ten minutes out across the lagoon. She craved a cigarette. She’d lied to Pavelić: she did smoke. She reached into her bag and retrieved a sodden pack of Ronhills, and after squeezing out what seemed like a cup of water, she threw the pack into a litter bin.
One of the men held up his cigarette and motioned to her.
After offering her a cigarette and then lighting it, the man said in halting English, “Are you okay, signora?”
The fellow thinks I’m a tourist.
She responded in fluent Italian with a touch of Milanese. “Yes. And thank you for the cigarette—I needed this.”
“You look like you have had a tough night. Can I be of assistance?”
Italian men—even at seven in the morning. “No, I’m fine. My so-called business associates took me to a party on the Lido, then left me on the beach, in the rain. Some friends. All I need is a bath and a gun—I’ll show them.” She smiled. The frown on his face when she said gun pleased her. “Are you going to San Marco?”
“No, signora, we will transfer at Sant’ Elena. We work near the cruise ships.”
“Sì, sì. I’ve seen those cruise ships. They can be very intimidating, especially close-up,” she said, remembering her recent encounter.
“Ah, they’re just big hotels full of tourists with nothing to do. They are wrecking our city. Maybe they will have to go elsewhere, but then I’d lose my job and have to move to the mainland. I’ll worry about it later. Say—you want to have a drink tonight?”
She smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, for an Italian. “Sorry, but I’m leaving this afternoon for Milan. But I appreciate the thought, thank you.”
He pulled out a business card and slipped it inside the cellophane of his Marlboros. “You take these. I have some at work. However, if you change your mind and decide to stay in Venice, give me a call. I’ve lived here my whole life. There are many secret spots I ca
n take you to.”
She continued to smile at the man, who was easily ten years her junior—and so early in the morning.
While waiting at the Sant’ Elena stop, Marika bought a ticket from the machine for the No. 1. She took a seat in the rear of the vaporetto and for the first time relaxed.
“Tourist?” a dapper gentleman asked in Italian. “Staying on the Lido for your holiday?”
“No, Bulgarian,” she answered, also in Italian.
“Can I be of assistance?”
What is it with these men? This one is ten years older.
“Thank you for asking, but my husband is waiting for me at San Marco. He’s the jealous sort. You know those Bulgarians.”
The ferry cruised along the waterfront, making three more stops. As they approached the San Marco stop, she watched the great campanile’s tip disappear in and out of the low clouds. The dapper gentleman sat just a little too close to her the whole time. The vaporetto slowed as it approached San Marco, and she stood and waved to no one in particular. Surprisingly, one man waved back. Startled, she said, “See, there he is.”
The ferry bumped into the dock, and without waiting for the boat to tie up, passengers walked on and off. She turned to the dapper man still on the boat and, with a flamboyant flick of her wrist, saluted him and walked into Venice.
Marika crossed the open Piazza San Marco. A cold wind had followed the rain; it swirled about among the surrounding colonnades of the square. This early in the morning, only a few people wandered the piazza; their Nikons and iPhones, pointing in every direction, gave them away as tourists. The pigeons, all scrunched up and immobile, waited for the sun to crest the basilica. Heads down with heavy coats and thick scarves, the locals came and went through the narrow alleys cleaved between the buildings with their peeling walls and empty flower boxes. Marika’s coat had finally dried, but her skin itched under the heavy sweater that Pavelić had given her. The smell of the man pushed its way up through the coat’s buttons. She lit another cigarette and silently thanked the Marlboro man.
How did they know she was leaving from Pula? How did they know she was heading to Venice? Why did they risk chasing me across the Adriatic? Why didn’t they take me in Pula? That damn taxi driver must have been in with them. I should have taken care of the drunk. Luck was with me—Pavelić and his luck. I will need a lot more of it before Thursday.
She walked hastily through the city to the Campo della Fava and the Ai Reali, her hotel. When she entered, a man dressed in a tailored dark suit and tie instantly became excited and started to wave his hands about.
“What has happened to you? My dear Ms. Jurić, for the love of God, what has happened?”
CHAPTER 5
Too tired to care or even unpack, Alex had washed her face and fallen into bed. Three hours later and after a luxurious shower and a touch of makeup, she dressed in black jeans, a boldly striped gray-and-white cotton sweater, and the black leather jacket. Over-the-calf boots matched her shoulder bag, which replaced the backpack. It was a comfortable look she’d perfected as a detective—it just felt right.
She pushed open the room’s thick leaded-glass window. After having melted the morning clouds away, the sun had returned and now found its way into the canal just below her window. Inching between midday gondolas, another barge motored along, filled with stacks of plastic-wrapped bottled water and boxes of vegetables. She assumed it was destined for some restaurant or hotel. The gentleman holding the tiller in the stern looked up and smiled. “Buon pomeriggio signora, non è una giornata meravigliosa?”
She understood the first half but not the second. When he waved upward at the crisp blue sky, she got the gist of his remark.
“Sì, it is a very nice day,” she answered.
The man went back to his business, like thousands of others had over the millennia. While the islands of Venice were magical, they also needed lettuce, radishes, and bottled water. To some, it might have taken a touch of gilt off the dream, but it only made her happier. Even after the past year, she knew that life would go on, and there was no earthly reason to be upset—not now.
She crossed the hotel’s elegant lobby to the concierge desk, where a cute girl with the name tag “Sonia” stood writing something in a large ledger.
The girl closed the book as Alex approached. “What can I do to be of help, Mrs. Polonia? By the way, a pretty name.”
“Thank you,” she said, “and it is Ms. Polonia. I am divorced.” She thought how easy it was to say now.
“I am sorry.”
“Please, there is no need to be sorry. I’m not. It is not something I want to think about. But today, I would like to have a wonderful lunch for my first meal in Venice. What do you suggest?”
“Oh, there are so many. Do you want seafood, traditional pasta, beef?”
“Seafood with a view and a bottle of Soavé—does Venice have anything like that?”
Sonia smiled, then put her hand to her chin and looked at the ceiling, as if pretending for a moment to earnestly ponder Alex’s joke of a question. Then she laughed, opened the massive leather-bound binder, and leafed through the pages until she stopped, ran her finger down the column, and then turned the book toward Alex. “This should do nicely. Not too expensive but not, how you say, too cheap either. A wonderful view of the Grand Canal and one could lazily spend the whole afternoon just watching Venice drift by.”
“Sounds perfect,” Alex answered, then turned at some commotion. A few people in the lobby were holding decorated masks and wearing plumed hats. She remembered what Giuseppe said about Carnevale.
“It’s Carnevale di Venezia,” Sonia said once Alex turned to face her again. “Lent starts on Wednesday, so tomorrow is our Mardi Gras—Fat Tuesday in English, Martedì Grasso in Italian. There are parties and events late into the night, then thankfully the peace of Ash Wednesday. It is really quite fun.”
“I never knew. Will the restaurant be too crowded?”
“Never in Venice. We will take care of you. Let me show you where the restaurant is.”
Sonia extracted a map from under the counter and with a bold red pen marked Alex’s route through the city’s jigsaw-puzzle-like streets.
“Should not take ten minutes. If you get lost, just ask a shopkeeper where the Rialto Bridge is. The restaurant is just on the other side of the canal; you can see it from the bridge. I have other choices for later in the week, but this is a good place to start. The wind is cold, but this restaurant will have some protection, or you can sit inside. And Ms. Polonia, try to avoid Gypsies and men too eager to help—they are trouble. I don’t need to warn you about pickpockets. Keep your handbag closed at all times. They are very good at what they do.”
“Sonia, grazie. I think I’ll be just fine. I’m a police officer back home.”
The girl stiffened and smiled as a large man strolled through an office door directly behind the reception desk. “Ms. Polonia, I would like to introduce you to Signor Portero, our hotel’s manager.”
“Signor Portero, a pleasure. What a wonderful hotel.”
“The pleasure is ours; if you need anything, just let us know. Where is your home?”
“Cleveland, Ohio. Have you been there?”
“No, I have been to New York and Los Angeles. Is it nice?”
“I think so, but then again I grew up there. Venice has been a dream of mine since I was a child.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Ms. Polonia. Sonia will be most helpful if you need additional assistance.”
“Thank you.” Alex folded the map and slipped it into her back pocket, left out the door, crossed a small bridge over the canal she’d seen from her window, and dived into the alleys and passageways of Venice.
Alex prided herself on her sense of direction, but Venice’s layout was confusing, far different than Cleveland’s tidy grid. Somehow, five minutes after leaving the hotel, even with a map and cell phone in hand, she was lost. It wasn’t as if she were stranded alone in the wild: fru
mpy, picture-snapping tourists and well-dressed Venetians surrounded her. But the narrow streets and the lack of any familiar landmarks didn’t make things easy, the alleys provided limited views, and the narrow canals and steep bridges all began to look the same. After fifteen minutes, she was sure she had crossed the same bridge twice. She’d seen the same two men on the steep steps of the next bridge, staring down at her as she approached. Their black leather jackets and their glares reminded her of a Russian gangster she’d arrested a year earlier. Something about the men clicked: she’d first seen them in the alley when she left the hotel. They were casually smoking, trying their best to not notice her. But she’d spent fifteen years doing stakeouts and surveillance, and all this meant only one thing: they were following her. Now, why the hell are they doing that?
The two men blocked the bridge ahead. She turned and quickly wove through the crowds. She turned to the right and, through the windows of a shop selling trinkets, saw that the men had gained on her. She walked faster. The crowds and the well-lit shops thinned the farther she went from the plaza. She spun around, and her pursuers were gone.
Somewhat relieved, she turned into another alley, this one narrow and dark. At the end were the bright reflections of boats passing by and sunlight on the far side of a wide canal. She made for the light but soon found herself at a dead end. Just below her was a small dock with two mooring poles stuck in the mud. The surge from a passing vaporetto rolled up against the low stone wall that was the end of the alley. She turned to go back. The two men stood directly behind her. They both stood six inches taller than Alex and looked as hard as steel.
Her eyes never left the men. They wore black T-shirts under black leather jackets, no hats. Their haircuts were close, similar to those of the skinheads she’d busted. The men were white and looked Slavic—the same type of Eastern European that had flooded certain Cleveland neighborhoods during the past fifteen years. They were often trouble and most had criminal pasts.
One of the men pulled out a cell phone, hit a speed-dial number, listened, and said something she did not understand. He turned to the other man, said something else, then clicked it off. Continuing to stare at Alex, he slipped it back in his pocket. In one quick motion, the second man seized her arm and held it in a viselike grip.
Venice Black Page 3
